Page 145 of Broken Blood Ties

I repeat myself. “License and registration.”

Both her hands come up to grip the sides of her helmet and with a gentle tug, she lifts the helmet off. Light strawberry-blonde hair tumbles around her dainty face, and she fixes me with a stare.

She blinks at me, and I blink back, then sigh. “Ma’am. Failure to produce your license?—”

“Aw. How sweet. You reallydon’tknow who I am.”

Here we go. Now this I’m familiar with. Happened all the time in LA. If I had a dime for every influencer that expects me to recognize them from their online social media presence, I’d be able to retire and eat better food than cheap greasy burgers for lunch.

“I can assure you, ma’am, I do not. Now, if you could please provide your license and registration. Proof of insurance as well.”

Her button nose wrinkles, and a sly smirk splays across her mouth. She throws up both hands. “All right. All right.” Reaching behind her, she sticks her hand into a small, zippered pouch strapped to the back of her—holy shit—it’s a Ducati Panigale.

My brain works overtime. This is an expensive bike for a girl this young. Although all these Harvard graduates usually have expensive stuff.

My imagination runs wild for several seconds before she hands me her paperwork and ID with a smugness that this generation seems to have tattooed to their faces and waits, crossing her arms.

I chuckle, thinking my old partner Frank—may he rest in peace—would bust my balls if he knew this was the most I’ve done all week in a city like Boston.

I scan her ID and freeze.

My mouth pops open, and I can feel my toes tingle. I thought the unit was playing a prank on me when they told me. I’d heard rumors and rumblings among the department, but to be face to face …

It must be my shocked expression, because she unfurls her arms and snatches the paperwork out of my hands, tucking it back into her pouch.

“Have a great day, officer.” She coos those words, and they sucker punch me.

With the rev of her engine, the Ducati slingshots out of the parking space, disappearing ahead of a BMW.

I stand there, left contemplating the brick print shop signage in front of me.

Holy hell buckets. She’s right. She needs no introduction.

I just met Aoife O’Donnell, leader of the Irish Mob.

The End