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We call the cleanup crew, and I think of putting a hit on Fabiani but rethink it. The guy’s small fry. Probably sold my location to save his skin. I’ll take him out when I get a chance, but I’m not wasting resources.

“Should we see the Russians?”

“Which ones?” I ask with a roll of my eyes. “No. They aren’t involved. They always make it known when they are, and we haven’t crossed into their territory or stepped on toes. They’ve got no beef with us. If it’s Paddy, these are hometown issues and mine to deal with.”

We pack up as soon as cleanup arrives and head home.

I’m going to need to talk to de Rosa. It seems things are sliding sideways since we signed everything. Which doesn’t make sense since he’s getting what he wants and we’re not even asking for much in return.

Yet.

I’m leaning toward just using his name going forward to open my own doors.

But I need to know who planted the bomb and if de Rosa was involved, which I doubt. I’ve been wrong before, though.

I clench and unclench my fingers.

No, the bomb has Paddy written all over it.

As we hit the West Village, I notice a car tailing us. One that I think I saw back in Brooklyn. “Clive, pull over and let me out. Go the long way.”

He nods, and I ignore Declan as he starts to shout. I just get out and slam the door. I’m armed, I can take care of myself.

I light a cigarette and wait.

Sure enough, the car parks alongside the curb.

And a familiar face hidden by a beard gets out.

Familiar by picture, anyway.

He comes up. “Callahan Murphy?”

I narrow my eyes at the fucker.

Headley.

TWENTY-SIX

lucie

I stare downat the paper in my hand, trembling uncontrollably. A sudden chill blasts my skin, still slick with sweat from Callahan’s pounding pace for our daily run.

A letter.

I sink down on a bench in the tiny cobblestone and tree-filled park near the Murphy residence. Arnold jumps up next to me, panting from the run while Callahan stands shirtless, hands on his narrow hips, not far from us.

It’s six a.m. But I’m wide freaking awake now. I ruffle Arnold’s soft fur. He’s going to be a big dog, and in the week or so we’ve had him, since he decided he wanted Clawzilla as his own rescue, he’s filled out, become glossier, grown up. He’s smart, loyal, and fiercely protective of me, and I know he’s on the bench to keep Callahan—whom he loves—off.

Arnold instinctively knows I need space.

“Why?” I ask suddenly.

“Why what?” Callahan doesn’t seem to be paying me any attention, but I know him by now, and he’s utterly attuned to my thoughts and emotions.

A silly girl would take the ownership vibe he gives off whenit comes to me as love, but it’s not. It’s ownership, pure and simple.

The man bought me, paid a handsome sum in terms of opening doors to Dad, and Dad… he paid Cal even more to take me than he had when it had been my sister.