Page 95

Hours later, New York comes into view. Amelia’s grip on my hand tightens. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad to be going home.”
The word ‘home’ sends a warmth through my chest. I lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Me too, princess. Me too.”
The clock on the wall ticks loudly, echoing the silence of my office. I lean back in my chair, swirling the ice cubes in my whiskey, watching them clink against the glass.
“Any word from O’Reilly?” I ask Callum, who stands near the door, arms crossed.
He shakes his head, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “Not yet.”
“No news is good news,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
Callum shrugs. “Yeah.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other before glancing out the window. Where he stares into the dark night as he twirls his cell in his hand. “I’ll call and ask for an update.”
I nod, dismissing him with a wave of my hand as he heads out.
The door clicks shut behind him. Leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering tension that hangs in the air like smoke.
I take a long sip of whiskey, letting it burn down my throat. It’s late—too late for these worries—but sleep won’t come easily tonight.
Amelia is asleep in our bed, while I sit here, worrying about the threats lurking in the shadows. But until Vincenzo is dead, I can’t rest.
I push myself up from the desk and pace around the room, glancing at the framed photos on my wall. The one with my father, East and I. A reminder of better times.
And the more I look at it, the more my reasons for wanting to take over the business no longer seem right.
My phone buzzes on the desk and I grab it quickly, hoping it’s Callum with news that eases my mind. But it’s just a text from East replying to my earlier one:
Is everything okay? I thought you were on board.
I type back:
It’s not my priority anymore.
East:Pussy whipped!
Me:Whatever makes you feel better. Oh, who is Sloane fucking these days?
Petty, but that’ll have to do for now. I’ve paid a man to wipe another man out. It makes everything else seem trivial.
I return to my drink as footsteps approach. Callum turns into the doorway with a serious expression on his face.
“West,” he starts, drawing my full attention.
“What?” My heart races.
Callum’s face drains of color as he strides in. “West.” He takes a deep breath, and I brace myself because he’s now said my name twice.
“What happened?” I demand as my pulse quickens.
“It’s O’Reilly.” He gulps. “He’s dead. They found him in Boston.”
My stomach drops. “What the fuck do you mean, dead? How?”
Callum runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched on his features. “We don’t know yet. But it’s bad, man. There are whispers...it looks like a hit.”
I slam my glass down on the desk, the whiskey sloshing over the rim. “A hit? From whom? Nobody else has the balls to—”
“Vincenzo does,” he cuts in sharply, eyes narrowing at me.