Scorched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (Byrne Brothers Book 3)

by Holly Hart

  I point at the door. Sofia’s expression creases with pain. “But right now, I need ye out of here. I need …time.”

  Sofia’s pupils widen. If it’s even possible, she goes whiter than she was before. She looks like I’ve pronounced a death sentence upon her.

  “Now.” I finish.

  I watch as Sofia turns with dread in her eyes. She seems to have shrunk – noticeably – in the last few minutes. She pulls on those leather and suede knee-high boots, tucking them under her sweatpants. She looks at me one last time as she shrugs on her jacket, and then hangs her head.

  The door clicks closed behind her.

  I realize that I don’t know how long it’s been since I took a breath. I let out the contents of my lungs, and collapse to my knees. I’m burning up with anger. My fists are clenched, jaw set. Every inch of me is vibrating from the adrenaline flowing through me. I feel like I just ran the Olympic hundred meters.

  My breath sounds unnaturally loud in my ear. It’s the only noise in the entire apartment. As the adrenaline and anger fade from my veins, I feel empty … exhausted …

  … and alone.

  “Ah fuck,” I groan. Why did ye have to go and do tha’ for?” I’m not sure who I’m talking to: Sofia or myself.

  I stand up and step into the kitchen. The thick bag of groceries is still where I left it, and the sight of it forces me to remember how happy I was when I stepped into the apartment tonight. It’s an unpleasant thought.

  I shake my head. I’m beginning to think that I’ve made a very bad decision. “Ye idiot,” I mutter, shaking my head again, “ye fecking idiot…”

  The regret flows through me as I walk through the empty apartment. I’ve lived here a year, and yet there aren’t any decorations on the walls, nor photos. Just a few hours ago I was thinking of putting one of Sofia and me up, but I’m too late.

  I can’t see her looking at me the same way again. I don’t blame her. I couldn’t have reacted worse. What is wrong with me?

  I walk into the bedroom, and see a small pile of Sofia’s neatly folded clothes lying on my bed. That finally brings home how stupid I’ve just been.

  “She’s the mother of yer child,” I moan to the empty room, “and ye sent her out into the cold wit’ nothing but the clothes on her back.”

  I feel like I’m walking through a swimming pool, half a foot underneath the surface. I can’t see clearly, nor hear, nor even think. All I know is that I’ve got to get Sofia back in here, back into the warmth.

  I don’t care whether she forgives me or not. I just want to know she’s safe. I can’t believe I’ve screwed up this badly. Now the anger has faded, I don’t even care what happened. That’s the worst part of it all. Even through the rage, I could see that Sofia wasn’t lying. She didn’t trick me into having this baby. Hell, she never even wanted to start dating me. I should’ve known that. I should’ve trusted her, and yet – and yet I didn’t. I couldn’t. I let the weakest part of me overcome me, and now it’s cost me everything.

  But it isn’t too late to do the right thing by Sofia.

  I run for the door, grabbing my jacket. I’m going to get Sofia back here, or somewhere warm. It doesn’t matter where, just that it happens: and fast, before it’s too late.

  20

  Sofia

  My first thought as I push my way out of Kieran’s building – the seeds of tears stinging my eyes – is that I should have wrapped up warmer, because it’s cold: all kinds of cold. The first snow we’ve had in weeks is threatening to rain down on Boston. The first flakes are floating out of the blackness, glowing like diamonds in the light of a hundred streetlamps.

  Snowflake after snowflake collides with the asphalt, immediately melting, and disappearing into nothingness. It will keep falling, and melting; falling and melting, and then – out of nowhere – it’ll start to settle. Before anyone blinks an eye, Boston will be covered with a thick blanket of white snow. The streets won’t be recognizable. The city will become a place for wrapping up warm and romantic walks, and crunching through the icy glass.

  But for now, the snow just melts.

  In a strange way it reminds me of what just happened with Kieran. I opened myself up to him, and he threw it back in my face. The memory stings so badly. It’s still fresh and raw. Every time I close my eyes, I see Kieran’s glittering eyes staring back at me. They remind me of a volcano: bubbling with a combination of shock, anger and… hurt.

  “Maybe there’s still hope,” I whisper. Without realizing it, my palm falls to my stomach. It lingers there, stroking the flatness that will soon bloom with a part of Kieran and a part of me.

  “Get out the way, lady,” a man grunts at me. His voice is gruff and irritated, and it breaks me out of my fog. It’s probably a good thing. I need to get off the streets. For all I know, Mickey might have people looking for me. The look in my brother’s eyes when I left him yesterday still scares me. He was manic: unhinged; dangerous.

  Plus, on top of all that, it’s just damn cold.

  I hear the rumble of an engine starting up somewhere close. I don’t pay attention to the sound, other than to wish I had a car of my own: maybe something big, warm, and safe.

  I thrust my hands into the pockets of my jacket. Snow blows against my front, forming a latticework of ice on my gray sweatpants. The heat of my body starts to melt it, and my legs grow cold and wet in seconds.

  No more moping, I decide. I figure I’m better than that. I’m not one of those women who is going to eat ice cream out of the fridge with my bare hands for a week. I’ve never been that way, and I don’t plan on starting now.

  Headlights beam out of a dark alleyway. The light catches my eye, and I watch with little interest out of the corner of my eye as an equally dark, decade-old transporter van creeps out. The old vehicle’s tires kick up slushy snow that must be piling in drifts, refrozen and blown into the alleyway as shards of ice.

  I look away.

  I need to work this out. The way my legs are going, I need to get inside soon, or I’ll catch my death of cold. But that leaves me in a bind. I can’t go back to Kieran’s place, and I can’t go home. Those options are both off the table entirely. I’ve got cash – bundles of it but nobody knows about – but that’s all in a safety deposit box.

  That’ll take too long.

  I could use my credit cards, but I wouldn’t put it past Mickey to have someone trace them. That would put me in a very bad situation indeed. But I think, wrapping my arms around my body to stop myself shivering, it’s not like I’ve got any other choice.

  Then my mind is made up for me.

  I hear the screech of tires behind me. The van’s headlights briefly bathe me with pillars of bright light. My shadow lengthens on the wall in front of me; then disappears entirely. I start running; my shoes splash in puddles of half-melted snow. It’s an automatic response. I know that whatever’s coming; it’s nothing good.

  The van screams to a halt. The squeal and slam of a sliding door opening announces that whoever’s after me, has decided to chase me down on foot.

  “Someone, please,” I yelp, fighting against the tightness of my chest and the cold winter air, “help me!”

  It’s no use. My attackers must’ve waited for a moment when the street was entirely clear. The deadening weight of falling snow is killing any sound traveling in the air. No one’s coming to my aid. I’m on my own. I need to get off the main street; it’s my only hope. I don’t stand a chance in a foot race.

  I peek over my shoulder, almost slipping on a patch of freezing water. In the end, it’s not the ice that nearly knocks me over; it’s the sight behind me. I recognize both of the men chasing me: Tony Bianchi, and my own brother.

  “Oh crap,” I mutter. I’ve never been less happy to be right.

  My mind clears. Adrenaline pushes all the terror aside, and I feel like Superwoman. I’m running faster, no longer feeling the cold. Freezing water splashes up against my legs, but I don’t feel that either. I dart down a s
ide street, then head into an alley. My stomach does a backflip. I’ve screwed up now: badly.

  The alley is blocked. A chain-link fence cuts the thin, dark alleyway in two. I can’t go through it. I can’t go around it. I’m going to have to try going over it.

  “Sofia, you bitch,” Mickey shouts from behind me. His voice is clipped and tight. I can tell that he’s out of breath. He’s not built for running, and sure as hell not built for chasing. “Slow down. I just want to talk.”

  Yeah, right, I think.

  I don’t bother replying. There’s no point in me wasting the breath. I should be using it for something a whole lot more useful: like escaping. If Mickey believes I’m going to fall for that trick, then he must think I’m an idiot. You don’t chase someone down with a rape van, then pile out and continue the chase on foot if you “just want to talk.”

  I throw myself at the wire mesh fence. I think my lucky stars that it isn’t topped with barbed wire. I’m testing my luck – and athleticism – enough as it is. I don’t think I can handle anymore. The metal fence is freezing cold. It bites into my fingers like cheese wire as I climb. I half expect to see them dripping blood the next time I have a second to check.

  “Tony!” Mickey yelps. He sounds like he’s about to double over heaving for breath. “Get the bitch, will you?”

  My heart sinks when I hear my brother’s barked order. That’s the last thing I need. Mickey, on his own, I think I could outrun. But Tony Bianchi isn’t Mickey. He’s no athlete, but he might be fast enough.

  The chain fence rattles as I climb. Small clumps of snow start shaking off. It’s so slippery that I’m terrified I might fall. I’m already four feet off the ground, now five. I’m almost at the top, when –.

  Tony leaps towards me. I hear him grunt with exertion, then an almighty rattle as he throws himself at the fence. His fingers grab a hold on my ankle, closing tight and dragging me down. My shoulders pop and send out violent signals of pain as I struggle to hold my body weight up – and now Tony’s as well. Pure terror surges through me. I know that I can’t win this fight.

  “Please!” I yell; doing my best to kick the gangster’s grabbing hands away. “Just let me go.”

  I don’t imagine for a second that my pleading will work. Tony Bianchi isn’t the kind of guy who listens to women; certainly not women he’s been ordered to hunt down. He’s my brother’s kind of gangster: soulless and violent. The thought gives me strength,or at least, it scares me enough that I try even harder to escape.

  I kick out, again and again. The adrenaline gives me strength to start inching my way up the top of the chain fence. I’m almost high enough to swing my other leg over. If I get there, then I know I should be able to use my body weight to my own advantage. I reach up, stretching as hard as I can, wishing I was just a touch more flexible.

  But I’m too late. Another set of hands clasps around my ankle, another man’s strength starts to pull me down. I’ve got no chance now. Not against two men, each buoyed by angered strength.

  “Get. The fuck. Down. Here.” Mickey growls; punctuating each word with a yank. I slide down, colliding with the cold, wet, asphalt. It knocks every last ounce of breath out of my lungs. Neither Mickey nor Tony let me suck in a breath of air. They pick me up, hauling me to my feet. I’m desperate for air. My body keeps trying to fold up into the fetal position, but they just won’t let me! Panic rises in my chest.

  “You stupid girl,” Mickey narrates as the pair of them drag my unresisting deadweight through the slush-filled alleyway. I must have knocked my head in the fall, because I feel like I’m on the verge of passing out. “You couldn’t just do what you were told, could you?”

  The van’s headlights blind me. It pulls up close to the front of the alleyway.

  “Tony,” my brother grunts; ignoring me for a second. “Pull her up a bit. Make it look like she drunk a bit much, you dig?”

  “Yes boss,” the sullen gangster replies. They pull me up. My eyes dart around desperately – looking for anyone who might be able to help. But there’s no one. I’m being kidnapped, only a hundred yards from Kieran’s front door. There’s nothing he can do about it. There’s no way that he can help.

  The two men easily carry me the short distance to the open van door. They throw my body inside. What little breath I’ve managed to recover escapes again, tearing out of me. I make a keening, whimpering sound. I try to stop it – I don’t want to let my brother have any satisfaction – but I can’t. A grunt of air bursts from my mouth, carrying the sound of my body struggling for breath into the cold night air.

  “Gag the bitch,” Mickey grunts. He slams the van door closed. It blocks out my last sight of the street – and my last faint glimmer of hope.

  A voice I don’t recognize calls back from the driver’s seat. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Morello? Are you trying to get caught?”

  My brother laughs. It runs up and down several octaves, sounding unhinged – claws screeching down a chalkboard. “Omelettes and eggs, Mackey,” he chuckles. “What, you care about the law all of a sudden? I’m throwing my sister’s life into the bargain. The least you can do is help.”

  Mackey? I think I know that name, but it’s far from my prime concern. Even in its oxygen-starved state, my brain realizes that what Mickey just said might as well be my death warrant. I try to stop myself blacking out as Tony Bianchi’s rough hands stuff my mouth with a rag, then duct tapes it closed. I shudder when I realize that his fingers aren’t stopping there. While no one’s looking, the gangster caresses my body, using the excuse of tying me up as a disguise.

  “You never said I had to get my hands dirty,” Mackey growls, as he guides the van through the streets.

  “Let’s call it insurance, detective,” my brother says, his voice sickly sweet. He sits down on a long wooden bench that runs the whole way down the chassis of the van. “It’s just my way of ensuring that you don’t sell me out once you get your part of the bargain.”

  My brother looks down at me. A grin stretches out on his face. He kneels down next to me. I want to look away, but I can’t. I don’t want to believe that this twisted, unhinged man in front of me is the same kid I played with as a child.

  “That’s right, sister,” Mickey says in a low, soft voice, the kind you might use to croon a baby to sleep. He strokes my cheek. “You’re going to be useful to the family one last time.” He grins. “I’ll mourn you, of course. Maybe even give a little speech at your funeral.”

  I stare daggers at the man who used to be my brother. It doesn’t do a damn thing to help, but it makes me feel better.

  “Would you like that?” He whispers. He strokes my shoulder. God, just the feel of Mickey’s fingers makes me shudder. It’s like someone’s dripping wet leaves all over me. I want to recoil from his damp touch. I try and wriggle backwards, but there is nowhere to go.

  Mickey shrugs. “I guess not,” he says, grinning at me in that same manic fashion. He reaches down and tugs the duct tape roughly off my lips and pulls the rag out of my mouth. He presses a finger to his lips. “Don’t scream, now. No one’s going to hear you, anyway.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I whimper. I am scared; but I’m not scared enough to show it to my brother.

  It’s not Mickey I want listening to me: it’s Detective Mackey. He was just a cop, once. Maybe even the last honest cop left. Something has obviously flipped inside him. Still, I can’t help but wonder if the detective might just be my only route out of this mess. If he has a shred of humanity left, I need to work on it.

  “Necessity, sister,” Mickey says, looking away from me with total indifference. “It’s the mother of invention. And besides,” he growls, spittle flying out of his mouth. I shrink back. There’s something wrong in that brain of his; I am sure of it. My brother’s mood keeps changing on a whim. I just wish I wasn’t his target. “A little birdie told me that you paid a visit to a certain Matteo Lorenzi…”

  The narrow faced man, I think, squ
eezing my eyes shut. An image of the man in the Union bar fills my mind. I can picture his tight, haggard features as if he was right here in front of me. I should have trusted my gut.

  Mickey reads my features and smiles. It’s a wicked, twisting grimace – black humor mixed with malevolence. “Oh, yes. I know about that. Thought you could fuck me, didn’t you, Sofia.” More spittle lands on my face.

  Mickey wipes it away. His expression changes in an instant from burning rage to calm, placid stillness. I close my eyes to hide from the insanity that glows like flame in his brown eyes.

  “That’s right, Sofia,” he whispers. “Sleep. It’ll all be better soon… Still, you should know that your meeting with Mr. Lorenzi didn’t kill you. I was going to do that anyway. It just sped up the timetable.”

  My blood freezes. The casual way that my own brother is talking about my death shocks even me. But I don’t try to say a word; I don’t ignite my hot temper. People call me the Ice Queen. It didn’t hurt me then, and it doesn’t hurt me now.

  I can be ice, if that’s what it takes to survive.

  Because, I will survive.

  21

  Kieran

  The cold air hits me like a slap in the face.

  I deserve it. I deserve more. The impeccably dressed concierge looks at me with concern as I shoulder my way out of my apartment building’s lobby. He doesn’t say a word; he knows better. I reach around and make sure that the gun I slipped between my belt and back is secure. The last thing I need is it slipping out. It’s a just-in-case kind of deal, but I’ve got a bad feeling creeping down the back of my neck.

  I run my fingers through my hair, but in reality all I’m doing is leaving trails of scratched skin across my scalp. The action gives me a slight, delicious shock of pain. I deserve a whole lot more. The way I just treated Sofia is a disgrace. I like to tell the world that I’m a joker, always ready with a smile on my lips and a joke on my tongue: but that ain’t true.