The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2

by Maegan Beaumont

  The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. “What did you just say?”

  “Mason—your brother. He always talked about how…” Dunn cleared the dust from his throat. “Normal you were. Removed from all this shit. I think he’d be pretty disappointed to know you finally let your dad get ahold of you.”

  “Mason can’t be disappointed,” he heard himself say. “Because he’s dead.”

  Something close to sadness slipped across Dunn’s face before he was able to brush it off. “I know. I’m sorry,” he said to the empty seat in front of him.

  “Why?” he said, his tone a bit too harsh. “Are you the one who killed him?”

  Now Dunn’s head snapped around, aimed in his direction, pinning him with a hard look. “No.”

  Ben forced himself to relax, slumping his shoulders into the seat. “Then you have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, smiling. “How did you know him?”

  Dunn looked away again. “We were friends.”

  There was more to it than that but Ben didn’t press. There were more important matters at hand than his dead brother. “What about Michael O’Shea? Were you friends with him too? Is that why he ignored my father’s kill order and brought you in alive?”

  “What does it matter?” Like before, the mention of Michael’s name stiffened Dunn’s spine. “From what I’ve heard, O’Shea is as dead as your brother.”

  “You’ve been in a box for four years—where would you’ve heard that?” he said, even though he had a fairly good idea. His father was the only one with access to Dunn. Ben could imagine him, standing on the other side of Dunn’s box, telling him all about the things he was powerless to change or stop from happening.

  Dunn grinned at him like he’d read his mind but he didn’t answer him.

  “Do you hate my father?”

  “Yes.” Dunn didn’t hesitate, delivering the one word answer with enough force that he could physically feel it.

  “Is that why he stuck you in the box?”

  “Your father stuck me in the box because he knew it was the only thing outside of a bullet that would keep me from killing him.”

  “So, why didn’t he just kill you?” he said, pushing in, question by question. “Michael brought you in against orders but it’s not like there’s a shortage of people willing to do what he wouldn’t.”

  “I don’t know.” Dunn shrugged. “Next time you see him, maybe you should ask him yourself.”

  “You used to be one of them—all wagging tail and lolling tongue when my father snapped his fingers.” Ben said, giving as good as he got. “The way I hear it, you were his number one Fido. So, what happened?”

  The question hardened Dunn’s jaw, clouding his eyes. “Your father took things from me I can never get back.”

  Ben knew that look. Understood the kind of loss that shaped it. “Your family.”

  Dunn smiled again, a quick baring of teeth that looked more predatory than amused. “Enough questions for today, Little Brother,” he said before settling into the seat. He closed his eyes and went still again, his face smoothing out into an emotionless mask.

  “I’ve got one more,” Ben said quietly, watching Dunn’s expression. As far as he could tell, he couldn’t even hear him. “If I asked you to, would you kill my father?”

  The corner of Dunn’s mouth twitched a fraction of an inch. “Little Brother, I am going to kill your father,” he said without even bothering to open his eyes. “Whether you ask me to or not.”

  56

  Yuma, Arizona

  Rather than walk through the lobby, Sabrina took the back stairs that fed directly into the department’s employee parking garage. A quick google search told her that St. Rose’s confession hours were from 10 AM to 5 PM. It struck her as slightly ridiculous that a church that didn’t even have electricity would have a website but she wasn’t about to complain.

  You think you’re gonna get that old fool to tell you the truth? Think again, Darlin’. He’s just as guilty of killin’ as the rest of us.

  Entering the parking structure, she looked at her watch. It was four-thirty. By the time she got to the church, confession would be wrapped up and Father Francisco would be preparing for evening mass. That meant she’d have about an hour to get some answers. Looking up, she saw the sleek, dark outline of a limousine parked next to the car she and Church shared.

  Her first thought was Shaw. That he’d found her. She should have listened to Church. Believed her when she warned her about the danger of being out in the world, unprotected. The realization reminded her of the man she’d seen at the hotel and later, at St. Rose.

  She took a step back, ready to retreat into the stairwell but she didn’t get far. Colliding with a broad, solid chest, strong hands bracketed her biceps. She took a step back, planting her foot between his, hands cranked into fist. Before she could make her move, the limo door swung open.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He stepped through the open door and stood, an amused smile on his face. “She doesn’t take kindly to being manhandled.”

  The man behind her suddenly released her. She wanted to believe it was because of the warning that had been issued but she knew better. It had everything to do with who issued it.

  “Hello, Phillip,” she said, relief sapping the steel from her bones. “I told you not to come.”

  “I believe,” he said with a shadowy half-smile, turning toward the open car door, gesturing her inside. “Your exact words were, whatever.” The man behind her stepped to the side and she caught an imposing glimpse. Wide shoulders. Expensive suit. Tattoos peeking out from under his collar and cuffs. Song’s underlings were as easy to spot as Livingston Shaw’s.

  She complied without protest. Even if he was the last person she wanted to see right now, Phillip was her friend. Sliding across the soft leather seat of the car, Phillip followed her inside, closing them in with a soft click. “You look well, Sabrina,” he said, angling himself on the seat toward her while studying her. “Different. Not like yourself at all. Your hair. Your eyes. The shape of your face, even. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “How did you then?” she said, forcing herself to submit to his appraisal. “Recognize me.”

  “Nan naega jangnim hadeolado, dangsin eul bol geos-ibnida,” he said quietly. For some reason, the words made her uncomfortable.

  “No fair,” she said playfully, resorting to what worked between them. “You know I don’t speak Korean.”

  “My apologies, yeon-in, I tend to forget there are actual limits to what you’re capable of.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a wicked half-smile. “It was your walk—it’s always been full of purpose. Like you’re perpetually charging into battle. I’d know it anywhere.” He reached over and powered up the glass partition that separated the front seat of the limo from the back. As soon as it was closed, he continued. “Eun is worried about you,” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his suit. The movement pulled the crisp cotton collar of his shirt away from his neck to reveal the flat, sinewy scales of a dragon inked into his skin.

  “Just Eun?” she said, falling effortlessly into their old rhythms and he smiled.

  “There is no point in worrying about what you can’t control, is there?” He removed the red silk pouch and the gap fell closed, hiding the tattoo completely. “With this comes a warning.” He held it out to her. “My poor cousin still holds onto hope that you’ll actually listen to her.”

  She reached for the pouch, frowning. “I listen.”

  “Yes—you listen. But rarely heed,” he said, his hands re-closing over the pouch before she could take it from him. “His prolonged banishment will have angered your Gae Dokkaebi. Made him dangerous.”

  “Tell Eun I said thank you,” she said, forcing her mouth into a reassuring smile. “And not to worry about me so much. I’ll be okay, as soon as this is all over and I can go home.”

  Phillip nodded once before placing the pouch of tea into her outstretched hand.
“There is another solution, yeon-in,” he said softly, his fingers closing around hers while his other hand reached out to skim fingers along her jawline. “Let me take you home... your real home.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined it. Returning to San Francisco under Phillip’s protection. He was head of Seven Dragons—the Korean mob’s most powerful family. Even a man as connected as Livingston Shaw would think twice before crossing him. She could go back. To Val. To Rylie and Jason. Strickland. It would almost be like she never left.

  Almost.

  She reached up, closing her hand around Phillip’s to pull it down, holding it in her lap. “Michael is my home.”

  “Eun says he is your senteo,” Phillip rocked back in his seat, pulling his hand from hers. “Your center—that he holds you still. Keeps you balanced,” he said, that wicked smile going sad around its corners. “Fills the empty places inside you.”

  She smiled. “As usual, Eun is right.”

  His dark eyes glittered, something unreadable passing quickly across his face. “All I see is someone who has stolen you from the people who love you and places you in harm’s way, time after time.”

  “He can’t steal something that already belongs to him, Phillip.” She shook her head, holding her hand up to stop him when he started to speak. “And no one places me anywhere. You of all people should know that.”

  He chuckled softly. “I care deeply for you, yeon-in,” he said, leaning toward her. “And I know you care for me. You know I can protect you. Come back. Not only to me but to everyone who—”

  “Michael and I are married,” she said quietly. Reaching into her shirt, she pulled out the length of chain Michael’d given her before she left. Dangling from it was the platinum band.

  As soon as he saw it, Phillip slumped back against the seat. He was a lot of things and she’d wager he’d done a lot of horrible shit, but if she knew anything about Phillip Song it was that he lived by a strict code of honor. That she was another man’s wife made her untouchable. She tucked the chain away before reaching for the door handle to let herself out. “Thank you for coming all this way to bring me tea,” she said, giving him one last look.

  “Naneun dangsin-eul dasi bol su jiog eul geol-eossda geos-ida,” he said, watching her go.

  “Still don’t speak Korean,” she said bending over to look at him through the open car door.

  Phillip inclined his head, giving her another slight smile. “I know,” he said, before closing the door between them.

  57

  The church parking lot was empty. Even though he’d switched cars, he drove past the lot. A single car would be noticed. Remembered. He’d made it this far by being careful. By listening. Paying attention. Following the path that had been laid for him.

  Just keep doing what I tell you, boy, and we’ll both get what we want.

  He parked about a hundred yards away, on the soft shoulder of the road, leaving the car where it mingled with the trucks and hatchbacks belonging to the fieldworkers that dotted the landscape. He hurried toward the church, hands jammed into the pockets of the jacket he wore, despite the oppressive heat, head ducked to keep his face hidden beneath the bill of a faded UofA ball cap he found in his back seat. To a passerby, he’d look like one of those fieldworkers, hoping to make confession.

  Is that why we’re here? Wade laughed, the sound of it ringing in his head, grating against his nerves. Are you here to confess your sins, boy?

  “No,” he said, answering the question only he could hear. “I’m here to punish him.” He yanked the door open, standing in the slice of bright light he’d created for no more than a moment before he stepped inside, letting the dark church swallow him whole.

  Standing still, he gave his eyes a few moments to adjust. Shapes and figures pulled themselves from the dim. The silhouette of Saint Rose herself, face turned upward, crown of roses settled on her head. The pew where he’d used to sit while he watched the Father attend his flock.

  Listening to their troubles. Giving them counsel. A shoulder to lean on… to everyone but you. Almost like he couldn’t stand the sight of you. Like he knew what you were, even back then.

  He gritted his teeth to keep himself from answering out loud.

  It only hurts because it’s the truth, boy.

  Finally adjusted, his gaze found the confessional. The door to the booth was still closed, the tall pillar candle beside it lit. Father Francisco was still inside, waiting out the last few minutes of confession in silence.

  He approached quietly, slipping inside the neighboring booth before locking the door. Respecting the collar while hating the man who wore it kicked up a whirlwind of conflicting emotion inside him. Giving in, he took off the hat that hid his face, setting it on the bench beside him. The partition covering the window that joined the booths slid open almost instantly, the soft clack of it making him smile. “Forgive me father, for I have sinned… again.” The smile widened into a grin. “We both know how long it’s been since my last confession.”

  There was a quiet intake of breath behind the screen that separated them, the only indication that the priest had heard him. That he knew who he was and what he’d done.

  “Her name was Margaret. She was a veterinary assistant from El Centro. Young this time. Pretty, in an awkward sort of way,” he said, relishing each word. The wounds they inflicted. “When she was a little girl, she was in a car accident with her father and older brother—”

  “Please,” the priest said sadly. “Please, stop.”

  “They both died but she survived. Three days in the snow before she was found. Three days trapped in a car with her dead brother and dead father before she was saved.” He looked down at his hands, rubbing his fingertips together. Still feeling the warm slip of her blood between them. “That made her a miracle, didn’t it Father?”

  “Please.” The word was croaked at him now, harsh and low. “Please, I’m begging you, my son, stop this—”

  “I can’t.” He raised his gaze, settling it on the shadow that sat beside him behind the screen. “I won’t. Margaret was given a second chance. A gift from God,” he said, his hands tightening into fists. “I gave her a chance but like the rest of them, she was selfish. She refused to share it.”

  “You have to stop this madness,” the priest demanded. “There’s a woman—an FBI agent. She’s was here today. She knows who you are.”

  “She knows who I am?” Laughter bubbled in his throat. “That’s funny… but I didn’t come here to talk about her. I want to tell you about Margaret.”

  “You’re insane,” the priest said, sounding broken.

  “Maybe… but let’s stay on track, shall we?” he said, peering hard at the priest’s shadowy profile. “Our Margaret wasn’t a virgin but I think I can safely say the things I did to her—”

  He watched as the silhouette in the neighboring booth jolted in its seat, lunging for its door a second before it was flung open. He listened as the priest tumbled through the doorway, the candelabra clattering to the floor.

  Go after him.

  He kicked the door to his own booth open to see Father Francisco stumbling into the front pew, the toe of his shoe snagging against its corner. He fell, sprawling across the floor a few yards away. He was stunned, his mumbling mouth pressed against the cold cool tile floor.

  “—forgiveness, Lord. Please forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?” he said, using the toe of his own boot to turn the priest over. “That’s a little selfish, don’t you think?” He crouched down, reaching out to finger the thin trickle of blood that painted the corner of the man’s mouth. “Aren’t you going to offer me forgiveness, Father? Don’t I deserve absolution?”

  The priest’s eyes widened in surprise before the narrowed into a glare, defiant and terrified. “You are worthy of neither.”

  The words angered him, but only for a moment.

  You don’t need his forgiveness, boy. You’ve got me.

  “You’re right.�
�� Mouth twitching upward when the priest shrank away from him as he stood. “I don’t need him,” he said, a moment before he lifted his foot and brought the sole of his boot down onto the priest’s face.

  58

  When Sabrina drove away from the station, she half expected Phillip to follow her. He didn’t. Instead, his chauffeured car peeled away almost instantly, turning left while she turned right. The red silk pouch he’d given her sat in the center console, the delicate scent of the tea Eun hand-blended for her drifted upward. Tempting her.

  Who do you think you’re foolin’? We both know you aren’t gonna drink it, Darlin’. You need me.

  As soon as the words echoed in her head, she rejected them. “Like I need a fucking hole in my head,” she muttered, her words greeted by laughter.

  I’m the only person who knows him. I’m the only person who can show you the way.

  “You’re not a person.” Sabrina pulled off the pavement and into the dirt parking lot that surrounded the church. “You’re not here. You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know.”

  We both know that ain’t entirely true. I might be dead but I’m not gone and I’m as real as you are.

  She slammed the car into park and cut the engine. “If you don’t shut the fuck up—”

  Alright, alright… just calm down, Darlin’. You don’t want to go in there all riled.

  The words were a warning—either from her subconscious or the dead man inside her head. One experience told her she should heed. Looking around, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The squat stucco building in front of her looked quiet. Almost deserted. The main door was cracked open—a slice of black against the bright heat of the afternoon. By modern standards, the building was primitive. No electricity. That meant no heating or cooling. Father Francisco and his patrons would be careful to keep it closed against the oppressive heat of the late Arizona summer.