by Emma Slate
“Nose, a few ribs.” He shrugged and then winced. “They dumped me back at my hotel room in Naples. I’ve been steadily drinking for the past two hours, so if I start to fade out…”
“Tell me what happened,” Flynn said.
“First tell me if you have any internal bleeding!” I demanded.
Duncan grinned. “Nope. All good.”
I scooted closer to Flynn on the couch and rested my hand on his leg. We were dressed for dinner and didn’t have a lot of time before we met Michael O’Malley in the restaurant downstairs.
Duncan took a long pull of the bottle he was drinking from and then said, “They’re skilled fuckers. I’ll tell you that much. We ever need a job done… I told them who I was. The leader knew since they were hired to kill me and Da.” Duncan paused and then swallowed. “Anyway. I told them what was going on with you and how you would’ve come yourself but you were behind bars at the moment, aye? They accepted me in your stead. I told them we needed to know who was behind the House of Lord murders and how it was getting done.
“Antonio—the leader—older than I expected, told me that if I wanted the knowledge, I had to pay and money was no good. So I paid their fee and they told me everything.”
He paused again, took another swig. I could see that his eyes were bleary, even in the dim lighting of his hotel room.
“They use this neurotoxin. I’ll remember the name of it tomorrow when I’m sober. Anyway, this neurotoxin—they get it from some fish. It goes in the bloodstream, stops the diaphragm, and the victim dies of respiratory failure. There’s no antidote, it’s more potent than cyanide, and it doesn’t show up on a tox screen.”
“It’s genius,” I murmured.
Duncan nodded.
“But why leave a tattoo?” Flynn wondered.
“It’s the same as leaving a business card,” Duncan explained. “For those that knew what to look for.”
Flynn appeared thoughtful. “Did Antonio tell you who paid them?”
“Aye. But here’s the thing. They don’t take just any case that comes their way. They’re selective.”
“So it’s not just about money,” I stated.
“Exactly.”
“I hate to rush you, Duncan, but we’ve got dinner plans—”
“Jane Elliot,” Duncan blurted out. “Jane Elliot hired them.”
“Please tell me you don’t mean Jane Elliot, Ramsey’s fiancée?” Flynn remarked.
“Sorry,” Duncan muttered. “That Jane Elliot. She wanted all the men who were part of the same secret government agency that her father belonged to killed. She blames them for letting her father take the fall.”
“Jane Elliot hired Italian mercenaries to take out the men who indirectly killed her father,” I said, leaning back on the couch.
“And she kept it from us.” Flynn’s jaw clenched. Duncan began to sway even as he continued to drink. “For fuck’s sake,” Flynn muttered. “Duncan, put down the bottle and go to sleep.”
“And sleep on your back,” I commanded, not wanting a broken rib to puncture a lung.
Duncan reached towards the screen and then he disappeared, the iPad going dark. “He’ll be okay,” I said, trying to reassure Flynn. “Buchanans are a tough lot.”
“Aye,” Flynn agreed, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Jane Elliot… couldn’t be more Buchanan than if she’d been born to one.”
My mind reeled. I liked Jane. The young woman had remarkable courage and backbone. I didn’t think anyone was more surprised than her when she fell in love with Ramsey. Then again, Ramsey was a charming man. We’d hoped her love for Ramsey would buy her loyalty and protect the SINS.
“You all right?” Flynn asked, taking my hand when we stepped out of the elevator. Flynn and I put the Jane discussion on hold since we were on our way to meet with Michael O’Malley at the bar and restaurant and we didn’t want to be late.
“Stunned stupid,” I admitted.
“Aye. Me too.” Flynn flashed a grin and brought my hand to his lips. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look?”
I wore a simple wrap black dress and diamond studs. I’d left my hair down and free. I was presentable, but hardly a knock out at the moment.
“Thanks, love.”
He tugged me into his side as we walked through the lobby, heading for the restaurant. We gave the host a wave and then went to our usual table, a booth in the corner. O’Malley hadn’t arrived yet, so Flynn ordered a scotch and I ordered a sparkling water.
“Not drinking?” Flynn asked.
“Pacing myself,” I answered.
Michael O’Malley arrived at the table. Quinn’s father was tall and lean, with the same shade of green eyes as his daughter. But instead of dark raven hair like Quinn, O’Malley had blond hair.
O’Malley robustly shook Flynn’s hand before his gaze slid to me. “You must be Barrett,” O’Malley said, nearly pushing Flynn out of the way to give me a hug. “My daughter speaks very highly of you.”
“I’m so glad,” I said. I gave the older man a genuine smile. “I really like Quinn.”
Once we were seated, O’Malley said to Flynn, “I hope you won’t be offended if I order Irish whiskey.”
Flynn chuckled. “By all means.”
“What are you having?” O’Malley asked me.
“Sparkling water.”
“You can’t toast with water.”
“You’re right,” I said dryly, shooting Flynn a look. “I’ll have an Irish whiskey, too.”
Chapter 44
The waiter came and O’Malley ordered us two glasses of Bushmills. When the waiter disappeared, O’Malley turned his attention back to us, more specifically, Flynn. “I want the bastard who took Quinn.”
Flynn didn’t take his eyes off of O’Malley when he replied, “And I’d like nothing more than to give him to you.”
O’Malley heard the sincerity in Flynn’s voice and though some of the tension left his body, it didn’t disappear from his clenched jaw. “But?”
“But he belongs to Giovanni Marino first. You’ll have to sit and discuss with him what will have to be done.”
The waiter returned and dropped off our drinks. He looked like he was about to disappear again when Flynn said, “Let’s order.”
When the waiter had our orders and we were alone again, we got back to discussing the situation.
“I don’t like Marino,” Flynn stated. “I don’t trust him. I don’t trust his word. Still, I know what my word is worth, and I’m not willing to put that on the line. If it got out that I—”
O’Malley waved his hand. “I understand your position. But perhaps you and I could come to our own arrangement. After all, we’re practically family.”
Flynn smiled. “How do you figure?”
“My daughter is in love with the Russian. The Russian considers your wife family. Your wife is married to you. Ergo…”
“Ah,” Flynn said. “To be clear, I consider the Russian my family.”
“The Russian who is currently fighting for his life in the burn unit,” O’Malley spat. “Whatever deal you think you have with Marino, I wouldn’t put it past him to have made an alliance with his brother, called for peace, and turned against you.”
A muscle in Flynn’s cheek began to tick. Discreetly, I put my hand on his thigh. He took my hand and gave it a squeeze but didn’t let go.
“You know that Filippi and Marino are brothers?” I asked.
“I know a lot more than you think,” O’Malley said.
“How?” I wanted to know.
“I have my sources,” he evaded with a shrug. “Marino can’t be trusted. Just like his father.”
I was thrown back into my memories of the night Marino was killed on the docks. Flynn had been shot; Sasha had saved him. He’d been my family even back then, before anything had been solidified.
“They came after my daughter to get to Sasha. Filippi wanted insurance—but how do you think he made that happen? He had help, Flynn. And I’d bet
you anything Marino helped him, all the while pretending to be your ally. Why? Because even if Filippi and Marino go to war with each other, one thing remains true: they want the territory the Russians took from the Italians.”
“You find a way to prove that to me—solid evidence—then I’m with you. We go to war,” Flynn stated.
O’Malley nodded. “More than fair.”
Our appetizers arrived just as my phone vibrated. I checked the screen. Quinn was calling me. “It’s your daughter,” I said to O’Malley, holding up the phone, about to answer it.
“Don’t tell her I’m here,” he stated.
Nodding, I pressed a button. “Quinn?”
“He’s awake!” she blurted out. “Sasha’s awake!”
O’Malley came with us to the hospital. Though Quinn was surprised to see her father, she didn’t seem to question why he was there. Brandon hadn’t left Quinn’s side and even now, he stood sentry.
“What happened?” I asked, running to her, my heels clacking on the white floor.
“Brandon and I were sitting in the waiting room,” she explained. “The doctor came out and said that they’ve been slowly weaning him off the sedation drugs and that Sasha woke up.”
“Have you seen him?”
She shook her head. “They said I can see him tomorrow. Visiting hours.”
I took her hand and squeezed it. “Go home, Quinn. You need to sleep in a bed tonight.”
“I doubt I’ll be able to sleep,” she said. The tiredness of her face belied her words.
“I’ll take you home,” Brandon said. “No arguments.”
“I’ll join you,” O’Malley said.
Quinn and Brandon turned in the direction of the exit and began walking away. O’Malley paused to look at us, his bright green gaze darting to Flynn and holding it there. Ever so slightly, Flynn inclined his head.
We watched them leave and then I went to the nurses’ station. When the nurse on duty gave me the runaround about waiting to see Sasha until tomorrow, Flynn swooped in, dropped his name, and told her he wanted to speak to the doctor.
The woman blanched at the unyielding, formidable command. Flynn always got his way, and the nurse realized that when she paged Dr. Bridgefield and he came immediately. I instantly felt bad for the man. He looked like he’d been catching a few minutes of sleep and Flynn’s edict disturbed him.
“As I told Ms. O’Malley,” Dr. Bridgefield began. “Visiting hours are tomorrow. He’s resting now. He’s in a lot of pain and even though he woke up for a bit, we’ve put him back under sedation. We want to keep him comfortable.”
I hadn’t seen Sasha since he was brought to the hospital. I had no idea how he looked, but I needed to see for myself. Even if he was asleep and didn’t know I was there, I wanted to see him. For my own benefit.
“Five minutes,” I said, widening my eyes and pleading with him.
Dr. Bridgefield hesitated but a moment before he relented. “Five minutes. And then you come back tomorrow like everyone else.”
Chapter 45
The right side of his face was burned, the blond hair on his head shorn close to the scalp. I couldn’t tell what had been cut and what had been burned away from the fire. Splotches of red and black covered him, his body raw and gruesome.
And the smell…
Dear God, the smell.
It took all of my willpower not to vomit into my medical mask. Dr. Bridgefield had tried to warn me while I was putting on sterile scrubs, gloves, and a mask. In the burn unit, infections could spread easily. Every protocol needed to be followed.
Still, no amount of warning could’ve prepared me for this. Not only was Sasha unrecognizable, but also his injuries were substantial. If he survived, he would have months, maybe years of healing. Painful years. Ugly years. Lost years.
I was alone with him and I took a seat by his bedside. I wanted to hold his hand, but they hadn’t been spared. I gently touched my pinky to a swatch of skin that wasn’t charred. He stirred, ever so slightly.
My heart broke for him—and for Quinn. This would change them. This would change all of us. But I believed Sasha was strong enough to heal from this. Maybe he would never be who he used to be. Maybe his sense of humor would be gone. No way to know at the moment.
I lifted my eyes to see that Sasha’s were open. Ice blue slits rested on me. I smiled, forgetting I was wearing a surgical mask.
Unwavering blue gaze. Whispers. Pain as he tried to speak.
“Don’t talk,” I said quietly. “Just rest.”
The stubborn Russian refused to listen to me and kept trying to say something. I shifted closer, leaning my head towards his mouth, hoping to hear him.
“Milost’,” Sasha murmured.
I knew a few Russian words, mostly curse words. I shook my head. “I don’t understand—”
“Mercy,” he breathed.
My eyes flew to his; there was no hint of pain in his gaze, only emptiness. I could pretend to misunderstand, to blame it on the drugs, but I knew the truth.
It would’ve been easier if he had died in the explosion. For him, anyway. He was a warrior—a broken warrior.
“You sure?” I asked.
“Da,” he whispered. “Help me go.”
“Quinn?”
“Better… off… without me. Like this.”
We stared at each other, communicating without words, not needing them. Finally, I nodded. I pulled my pinkie away and stood. Sasha’s eyes drifted shut and he fell back asleep, the pain meds fed into his IV knocking him out.
I left the room, briefly nodded at the two Russian men who stood guard outside Sasha’s door, and then briskly walked towards the end of the hallway towards a trashcan.
“Barrett?” Flynn asked, rising from his chair.
I didn’t answer him as I tore at my surgical mask. It fluttered to the ground as I stuck my head in the trashcan and vomited. Standing up, I wiped my mouth with the collar of the scrub shirt. I wanted to get out of the hospital. The smell of scorched flesh lingered in my nose. It was so strong I tasted it at the back of my throat.
My stomach was in knots, my heart was heavy, but there was no argument about what I was going to do.
“Love?”
I looked at Flynn who watched me with an intense gaze. I wondered if he knew, if what Sasha had asked me was written all over my face.
“Let’s go home, love,” he said gently, taking my hand.
I stared out the living room window and watched the snow fall. I’d gone to bed a few hours ago, only to toss and turn, and when I did doze, I dreamed of fire and death. Pulling my legs up to my chest, I rested my chin on my knees and wondered if it was worth getting decked out in winter clothes to go for a walk.
“Hen?”
I turned my head to see Flynn standing in the living room, his hair mussed from sleep. Though it was the middle of the night, he seemed strangely awake.
“Did I wake you?” I asked.
He shrugged and then walked over to me. He wove his fingers through my hair as he leaned down to brush his lips across my forehead.
“Sasha?” he asked knowingly.
I nodded and turned to look back out the window.
“He’s strong.”
I paused and then, “Let’s say he lives. Let’s say he heals. He’s never going to be the same person again.”
Flynn’s hand moved underneath my hair to hold my neck, but he was silent, letting me talk. I wasn’t ready to tell Flynn what Sasha asked of me. I didn’t know if I would. This was my burden to bear.
Could I live with myself if I helped Sasha end his life?
Could I live with myself if I didn’t?
“What is it, love?” Flynn asked. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”
I looked up at him. My eyes pleaded with him not to ask me. I hated keeping secrets from Flynn, but this wasn’t about him. It was about Sasha and me, and for whatever reason, Sasha wanted me to carry this out. Maybe he didn’t trust Qui
nn to do it; maybe he didn’t want to put the burden on her, make her live with the knowledge that she killed—even in the name of mercy.
But Sasha and I…
Of course he’d ask me to do this.
“Take me to bed,” I said to Flynn, leaning in to his touch.
“Aye,” Flynn rasped. “I’ll take you to bed and make you forget what has you worried.” Our coupling was sweet, full of anguish, and I fell into a deep sleep around dawn.
The next day, Duncan was back in New York. I didn’t know how he had been let on airplane, looking the way he did. Ash refused to see him. She was holed up in Jack’s apartment with Carys and she wouldn’t let Duncan inside.
I was fed up, sick to death of their stupid, childish fighting. Ash was no longer being rational—and she was keeping Duncan’s daughter away from him. She claimed it was because Duncan looked terrifying with a swollen black eye and bruises all along his face and neck.
“I don’t have the patience for this shit,” I snarled at Flynn after hanging up the phone with Ash.
He looked up from the paper he was reading, humor lit in his eyes. “Why do you get in the middle?”
“They put me in the middle!” I yelled.
Shrugging, he went back to reading the paper. I snatched it out of his hands and threw it to the ground.
“What do you want me to do about it, love?” he asked calmly. “As you pointed out we have other things to worry about. Like Ramsey, like the distillery and Sanchez, like who actually killed Lila.”
And the fact that one of my closest friends wanted me to help him end his life. But of course I didn’t add that.
“Did you tell Ramsey it was Jane who hired The White Company?” I asked, wanting, needing to discuss something else to keep my mind off of Sasha.
“Aye.” He blinked blue eyes at me. “To say he flew into a rage is a drastic understatement. But in his defense, he’s not upset that she did it, only that she didn’t clue him in.”
“Why didn’t she clue him in—clue any of us in? It’s not like any of us were unhappy when we got the news about Arlington.”
