Inked Destiny

by Strong, Jory

  “I need to see you in person. Can we meet up?”

  “Where you at?”

  She gave him the name of a café a couple of blocks away.

  “I’ll send someone to get you.” And a short time later a sports car pulled to the curb ahead of where she stood waiting, sipping a mocha that went down smooth but churned in her stomach.

  She took a step toward the car as the door opened and a lean, attractive black man got out far enough to flash a smile and say, “Your chauffeur has arrived.”

  The voice kicked her memory. He was one of Jamaal’s clients. He had devotional ink from shoulder to wrist on his left arm. Jesus. Mary. A cross that was beautiful.

  “Greg, right?”

  “Good memory.”

  “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  He laughed. “Wife says I’m sporting enough ink. Besides that, I’ve got a new kid on the way. Got to be thinking about college funds. Hop in and I’ll take you to see my cousin.”

  “Cousin? Small world.”

  “True enough.” She didn’t miss the way the smile left his eyes and lips.

  Getting into the car, she inhaled the scent of leather and care. “New?”

  “Had it a couple of years. Writing is on the wall though.”

  “College fund?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll look good driving a soccer mom van.”

  “You mean the coach’s wheels, doubling as the team equipment vehicle.”

  He got on 101, heading out of the city. She experienced a brush of fear, wondering where Eamon’s territory ended, her gaze flicking to the rearview mirror and pulse skittering when she could almost believe she saw Liam about to materialize there.

  “How far are we going?” she asked.

  “Foster City.”

  Not too far then.

  She caught Greg staring at her, as if he’d picked up on her fear. Saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel like he was arguing with himself. Finally he said, “Anton did me favor years back, a life-changing one. I owe him. Otherwise he wouldn’t be staying with me.”

  “I owe him a favor too.” Truth, but not the purpose of this visit.

  Twenty-four

  Home sweet home, Cathal thought. It’d been that when he was growing up, despite where the money came from, despite the presence of his father’s mobbed-up soldiers and his mother’s fixation with society and her place in it.

  He couldn’t shake the family loyalty, couldn’t shake the lessons learned here. Scratch the surface and he could be what his father and uncle were, a stone-cold killer. He’d almost become that very thing in the presence of the Harlequin Rapist.

  He parked across from his parents’ house rather than having the gate opened so he could pull around back. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen his mother or father enter or exit through the front door, though given his father’s security, the chance of being attacked here was slim. He doubted the neighbors had as much of a handle on their own schedules and routines as the Dunne personnel did.

  Paranoia? Deterrent? Or necessity? Because he didn’t know the details of his father’s business, he couldn’t be certain which it was.

  “Hold,” Heath said, getting out as down the street a car door opened and a woman emerged, long, curling black hair shielding her face.

  A glint of sunlight drew Cathal’s attention to the ring she wore, the red flare of it as unnatural today as it had been at Saoirse. She twisted it on her thumb, hiding it in a fist as she turned toward him, steps faltering at seeing Heath approaching with rapid, smoothly menacing strides.

  Her chin lifted in defiant courage and surprise hit Cathal at how much she resembled Brianna from a distance. Remaining in the car became impossible.

  He got out and jogged forward, unsure what Heath was capable of if he determined the woman was a threat. He was there seconds after Heath intercepted her.

  Jesus. Up close and personal it was more than something as tame as a resemblance. With her blue eyes and thick, black lashes, she could pass for a female version of Brian, the cousin who’d died less than a year ago in a car wreck, not a twin, but a sister one of his uncle’s affairs had resulted in.

  Christ. What was she doing here?

  There was only one possible reason. She’d come to find out where her father was.

  Did Denis even know she existed?

  Heath grabbed her wrist. She tensed, shooting a look at Cathal, fear and defiance combined in blue eyes that were far too familiar.

  “Let her go,” he ordered.

  “It would be best if I see the ring first.”

  Magic. It didn’t even surprise him.

  “Do you mind?” he asked this stranger who was probably his cousin.

  She remained stiff but turned her wrist in Heath’s grip, opening her fingers to reveal the ring.

  Heath’s eyebrows went up. He released her. “An interesting artifact,” he said and walked away after having apparently decided there was nothing to worry about.

  Fuck, if only that were true. “I’m Cathal.”

  “I know. My name is Mirela.”

  “Denis is out of the country.”

  “I’d still like to meet your father.”

  That answered Cathal’s question about whether or not Denis knew about her. If his uncle did, then his father would.

  Shit. This was bad timing given everything Brianna had gone through in the last year. Then again, when would the time ever be good?

  Brianna could do the math. She’d know her father cheated on her mother.

  Cathal glanced toward the house. His arrival had been noted. One of his father’s bodyguards now stood in front of the door to usher him in.

  “Your mother left about an hour ago.” Meaning there’d be no witnesses.

  Did Mirela know his mother preferred to remain blissfully ignorant of anything that might dirty her world or impinge on her enjoyment of it?

  It was probably safe to take Mirela inside. Probably. No guarantee.

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  “I know what he is. I know what they are. My mother told me.”

  There was a slight accent, Eastern European maybe. The careful way she spoke nearly masked it.

  A nod said he believed her. It was far too easy to imagine his father and uncle away from the United States, where there were plenty of beautiful women willing to consort with men seen in the company of powerful, dangerous, known criminals.

  “Let’s go then,” he said.

  They wouldn’t take his father by surprise. Mirela’s car would have been noted. Whoever was monitoring the security feed had probably written her off as a cop stationed outside the house. But the minute they got a good look at her, they’d have summoned the boss.

  “You vouching for her?” the guard asked when they reached him.

  Fuck.

  “That is unnecessary,” she said, holding her arms out in an invitation to be patted down for weapons.

  Not a thing to bluff about here despite their being in plain sight.

  The bodyguard was thorough and totally professional. A search outside, then just inside the front door a wand looking for listening devices, and still a misunderstood move or too quick gesture would land anyone, even him, on the floor in a heartbeat.

  “He’s in the sitting area attached to the formal living room,” the guard said, motioning for Cathal to lead while he covered the rear.

  The position meant Cathal couldn’t witness Mirela’s expression as they traveled through his mother’s domain, a testament to taste and what could be done when a top-of-the-line interior decorator was not limited by budget. Then again, maybe she’d look around her and compare this house with its limited history to places in Europe.

  The sitting room was done in whites and browns and beiges, the furniture a luxurious cluster positioned in the center of a room whose sole purpose, other than to impress, was to take in the view of the bay through windows that stretched the twelv
e feet from floor to ceiling, the strips of wall necessary to support them always making him think of an ancient Roman coliseum. Like the rest of this part of the house, the smell of flowers dominated, drifting upward from an arrangement delivered fresh earlier in the day.

  His father rose from the sofa as they neared. Cathal said, “This is Mirela.”

  “My mother was Jaelle Dvorak,” Mirela said, causing a flash of surprise in his father’s eyes, and then the shock was his when she added, “On her deathbed she finally gave me the name of my father. You.”

  She thrust her hand out, the ring appearing ordinary against the backdrop of the San Francisco Bay. “In case you doubt me, here is your proof. You gave this to her in Prague.”

  Fuck. Not Brianna’s sister. His.

  Niall motioned to the furniture in a gesture to sit. When they had, he looked at Mirela and said, “Why did you come here? What do you want?” His voice was cool, his eyes assessing, in that moment, the mafia don Cathal knew him to be.

  Mirela’s chin lifted, and if her hands tightened marginally on the material of her pants, he still gave her props for bravery, and he admired her for it. “I came to satisfy my curiosity.”

  “Not always a smart move.”

  “Dad—”

  A glance in his direction said this was between his father and, Jesus, his sister.

  She sent him a glance too. “I wanted to meet Cathal. I have no other family now that my mother is dead.”

  Bad timing, Cathal thought for the second time since getting a look at Mirela. “We need to take this into your office, Dad.” Code for I have something to tell you and it’s not something for the authorities to overhear.

  “It have anything to do with why you’re traveling with a bodyguard now? From the look of him, one of Eamon’s?” Proof his father had been called to watch what was going on outside.

  “Yes.”

  Niall’s focus shifted to Mirela. “Coincidences make me itchy. Now more than ever since I have a son who’s hooked up with a policeman’s daughter.” Meaning he wasn’t convinced she wasn’t working for the authorities.

  Cathal’s own paranoia allowed for the possibility, ratcheted up a notch because she’d been at the club. Icy sensation swept over him. What if last night was some kind of a setup? What if the authorities had caught him walking away from a body, even if the death would be ruled self-defense in any court. What if—

  He shook it off. For once magic and the existence of the supernatural actually provided some relief. Cage wasn’t human. The blade wasn’t simply a knife. And the ring Mirela wore as a keepsake was something more than that, he’d known last night and Heath’s reaction confirmed it.

  Careful subtext, he’d spent a lifetime communicating with his father that way, but in that moment he was tired of it. He took out his phone, typed in a text message he’d never send. Someone came after me. Warn Denis in case Brianna is also a target.

  The cold in his father’s expression deepened at reading it. “Your woman has some dangerous friends and acquaintances. You nearly got killed yesterday because of her.”

  Cathal laughed at the rich irony of that, coming from his father. “She’s the one who would have been collateral damage. Fallout from seeing that justice is done.” Your brand of justice. Her father’s and her brother’s.

  The slightest tilt of Niall’s head acknowledged the point and message. “I’ll tell Denis that because of your association with her, you now feel the need for a bodyguard.”

  “Good enough.” Which left Mirela, unprotected, a complication.

  Another irony there. He could hear Eamon’s voice in his head, calling him the same thing.

  He wasn’t sure whether his father would offer her protection. He couldn’t be positive she’d be smart to accept the offer if made.

  Mirela wasn’t to blame for the circumstances of her birth. Acknowledging her existence wasn’t a moral dilemma for him though his mind shied away from thinking about the impact of this on his mother.

  “You interested in following me home and meeting my fiancé, Etaín?” he asked her, making his position clear to his father and also creating the possibility that Eamon would assign an Elf to guard her.

  She seemed surprised by the offer, genuinely pleased. “I’d love to.”

  “Your mother’s due home in a few minutes,” Niall said, not that he couldn’t easily have her delayed.

  Cathal took the hint. “I need to get going anyway.”

  Niall escorted them as far as the front door. When it was closed behind them, he turned to Orin. “You get a tracker on her car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow them. Then follow her after she leaves my son’s house.”

  * * *

  I expected you to hate me,” Mirela said as they reached her car.

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t make sense to. I’ve always known what my father and uncle are. You want the address?”

  Her smile reminded him of Etaín’s, without the sexual jolt of awareness. “I already have it.”

  Of course she did. “You were at Saoirse last night. Why didn’t you approach me then?”

  She started to answer. Hesitated. Finally said, “You’ll think me crazy.”

  He laughed at that. “Trust me, there’s plenty I could say that would make me sound it.”

  “I felt it wasn’t safe. A premonition. I’ve learned to listen to them.”

  He stepped back to allow her to get in the car. It was a rental.

  Heath waited for him in his. “A sister? A cousin?” It was the first curiosity the Elf had revealed since accompanying him.

  “Sister. Will Eamon offer her protection?”

  “In the interim, I’m sure he will do so.”

  “What do you mean by that, in the interim?”

  Auburn eyebrows lifted. “When the Lady becomes his consort, it will be in her power to assign bodyguards, and by extension, yours.”

  Cathal didn’t have time to determine how he felt about that. His cellphone rang as he pulled away from the curb, the tone indicating Sean.

  “You got a hit on the prints,” he said.

  “Always in a rush to get to the climax. I hope sex isn’t that way for you.”

  “If I respond you’ll be covering your ears and complaining about too much information.”

  Sean laughed. “Doubtful. I admit to my kink. Secondhand works for me when the parties are visually attractive.”

  “Ever been accused of being shallow?”

  “Not recently.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “The prints belong to a banger who just happens to be in the same gang Marc Ruiz, street name Sleepy, is now part of. How’s that for a coincidence?”

  Cathal glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Mirela’s car tucked behind his, his thoughts echoing his father’s. “I don’t believe in coincidences. You don’t either.”

  “No, but I’ve got a working theory that’d explain it.”

  “Want to share?”

  “The gang Ruiz is in is Sureño. Individual gangs can be at war with each other over turf, but they all answer to the Mexican Mafia. As long as you have Sureños, some of them aspiring to be made members, carnales, of La Eme, you’ve got a steady stream of soldiers to carry out murder, extortion, whatever, you name it, including contracted hits.”

  “Meaning Ruiz and associates could also be a strong possibility for what happened in Oakland?”

  “If the order came from a Mexican Mafia member, yeah, though their going across the bay bothers me. I’d have assumed an Oakland Sureño gang would have been used. But that’s how assumptions go, they can leave you screwed and rushing to cover your ass for a bad call. I need more intel. I get it, I can take a stab at who ordered what.”

  “Find Ruiz. That might be enough.”

  “Find him and what? Make him talk? Hand him over to someone who will? And I don’t think this guy is likely to spill his guts to the police.”

  Cathal tensed, shooting
a glance at Heath, then thinking, what the fuck. Eamon knew Etaín intended this. He had to know by now he wasn’t going to stop her. “A few minutes with Etaín, before the police show up.”

  The silence was complete, breath held in a shifting of belief, a full acceptance of what the evidence had suggested to Sean. “It doesn’t matter whether they’re willing or not? Whether they’re heavily sedated or totally aware?”

  “No.”

  “That explains your unnatural concern for Quinn earlier today.”

  “Yeah.” He left it at that. “Call me when you have something?”

  Sean sighed. “Remind me to revise my rates the next time you bring me work.”

  “Not in my best interests,” Cathal said, smiling until he caught sight of a car pulling onto the street a little more than a block behind them.

  His heart raced at seeing a Hispanic behind the wheel despite it being a Jag. Jesus, not every person of Mexican descent was a gangbanger or mafia member. He knew that, had friends encompassing a lot of different ethnic and cultural backgrounds, as well as employees and the musicians he’d discovered.

  “Talk to you later,” he said, forcing himself not to slow down so he could get the Jag’s license plate number, though he couldn’t stop himself from hitting the garage remote at the exact spot when he got in range.

  Paranoid. Call him paranoid, but he cursed himself for not having gotten Mirela’s cell number, assuming she had one. He rolled down the window, waving a message that she should follow him up the driveway and into the garage. The tightness in his chest eased when she pulled up beside him, the door already rolling downward.

  Heath was out of the car in a flash. Cathal followed. Mirela emerged from the rental.

  The ring flared, a blinding pulse that had Heath rushing toward them, hands gripping their arms in the instant they were hit with an incendiary concussion and fierce heat. The blast so powerful it nearly knocked him to the ground.

  A wall of flame encased them, trapping Mirela’s scream and his own shout of surprise. Chaos followed in a pound of debris and the choke of black smoke visible through a shimmer of red and yellow.

  Sweat coursed down his neck and face. And though he wore clothes, he felt naked, exposed, as if flame touched every inch of skin except where Etaín’s ink was. Cool ocean countered fire, like a buffer against the living flame they stood in.