Page 18

S arah

I’ve been spanked.

Kissed.

Totally ravaged in every possible way.

The last thing on my mind should be my podcast, but the Mafia Prince Killer is back. Not only is he back, but he’s in Las Vegas. This is what I do. This is what I live for.

Or it was. Now I’m a confused mess. I’m thinking about Boyd. Thinking about Arthur Dykstra. Torn between the true crime obsessed girl I’ve always been and the woman who just spent most of the day in Boyd’s arms.

After I agreed to be his .

“Alright, so I didn’t get through all your podcasts about the Mafia Prince Killer,” Boyd says, looking over at me once we’re in the SUV. “Was there anything that suggested Dykstra wasn’t the one committing the murders?”

“Arthur Dykstra is an enigma,” I answer, the knowledge gushing out of me with all the excitement I usually have when I talk about true crime.

“The cops got a tip that led them to him right after he killed his last victim in New York. They found knives in his apartment that matched the stab wounds. They found a gun that matched the ballistics he used in several murders. He had a hard drive with all the dirt on the crime bosses he was targeting.”

“Doesn’t sound very innocent to me.” Boyd shrugs.

“That’s why it could be a copycat,” I admit. “But Arthur Dykstra didn’t even testify at his trial. He refused to talk to the cops about the murders. His lawyer entered a not guilty plea, but the trial was pretty one-sided.”

“And the guy had a dead man’s switch, right?” Boyd asks. “If anyone takes him out in prison, everything gets released?”

“I guess you made it that far in my podcast.” I look over at him and smile.

“Like I said, the guy is an enigma. Everyone assumes if he had as much dirt as what was on those hard drives, then there’s a lot more.

Thing is, nobody could ever figure out how he got that dirt.

He had information on crime families in Chicago, New Jersey, New York…

Fifteen victims. Well, sixteen now, if Arthur Dykstra is innocent. ”

“Five victims per city,” Boyd sighs. “Which means, if it’s the real Mafia Prince Killer, he’s just getting started in Las Vegas.”

“Right,” I mutter, lifting my vape to my lips.

I may be excited about the sudden reemergence of the Mafia Prince Killer, but I’m not excited someone lost their life tonight.

Especially a kid. From what I can recall from my Mafia true crime wall and what I’ve overheard, The Brennan family is last of the Irish Mafia in Las Vegas.

The Morandi family controls the city, but they’ve never had a problem letting other families run their territories, as long as they follow the rules and give the Morandi family a cut.

The Bratva didn’t follow the rules, and they got wiped out after they killed Massimo’s first wife. If Massimo hadn’t done it, Boyd probably would have, considering what they did to his sister.

“When we get there, let me do all the talking,” Boyd says. “I don’t know what we’ll run into, but I can handle it. There might be a few cops around. Brennan’s men will definitely be around, even if they’ve ordered the family out of the Brennan residence.”

“They should be happy someone is looking into it,” I say, glancing over at Boyd. “Especially you.”

“That’s what I used to think,” he sighs. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“Why?” I ask, perking a brow.

“Nobody even fucking called me tonight after it happened,” he mutters, the expression on his face darkening. “Guess nobody needs Big Boyd anymore.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “They probably thought you were busy trying to keep up with me.”

“Maybe,” he sighs.

Despite what I said, it does seem kind of odd. I might be a little biased, but if I was responsible for the Morandi family, the first person I would want to call is Big Boyd.

I look down at my phone while Boyd drives us to the scene of the crime.

I have several messages from friends, family, and people who are familiar with my podcast. I scroll through them all until I find the one from Lea.

She was the first one to text me after it happened, and she’s sent a few more since then checking in on me. I need to respond.

Sarah: Thank you for messaging me about the murder! I’m going to be doing a podcast on it soon!

Lea: Are you okay? It took you forever to respond.

Sarah: Yeah, I’ve been with Big Boyd learning all the secrets!

Lea: Still with him? At this hour?

I glance at the time on my phone and my eyes widen. It’s really late. I’m surprised Lea is still awake, but the Morandi family may be in crisis mode right now, even if they didn’t call Big Boyd.

Sarah: I’ll have to talk to you about that later…

Lea: Sarah! What did you do?

Sarah: Don’t say anything to Massimo until I get a chance to talk to you.

I send a sly-wink emoji, grin, and put my phone in my purse. I don’t hide things from Lea, but I’d rather tell her in person than over a text message. I gave her enough to know it isn’t entirely innocent. Hopefully, she’ll sit on that information until we can talk.

“Ah, yeah,” Boyd mutters. “There’s a lot of motherfuckers here.”

I look ahead and see a large iron gate. There are guys standing in front of it with really big guns.

M16s, if I’m remembering it right. Crime scene tape is on the ground, and it looks like the gate was blocked off by the cops.

I guess the Brennan family doesn’t really care about that.

I probably wouldn’t, if someone I cared about had just been murdered in cold blood by a serial killer.

Boyd drives up to the gate and lowers his window. A guy with red hair and pale features approaches, flicking a cigarette away as he peers into the vehicle.

“Big Boyd,” he says flatly. “I thought the Morandi family had already seen all they needed to see.”

“Hey, Sheamus. I’m going to have a look around to make sure nothing was missed,” Boyd says. “Open the fucking gate.”

“You got it,” Sheamus replies, turning and motioning to the other guys standing at the gate.

The gate opens and Boyd drives through it. There are two patrol cars parked near the residence. The house is so lit up it looks like every light in it is on. Boyd parks the SUV and turns off the engine.

“Stick close to me,” he says. “And remember to let me do the talking.”

“I will,” I say, nodding in agreement.

I’ve never been to a crime scene before.

When I was doing my podcast about the Mafia Prince Murders, all I had to go on were photographs or pieces of information that leaked.

I was scouring chat rooms, social media, and calling everyone I could to try to get a statement—even a no comment was nice, since I could say they declined to comment on whatever piece of information I was dazzling my audience with.

This is going to be a lot different. None of the true crime podcasters know what is written on the wall.

It normally takes a day or two for that information to leak.

I’ll be the first one to report it. People will be skeptical, but once it’s confirmed, everyone will be paying attention to my podcast, because they heard it from me first.

Boyd walks around and opens my door. I follow behind him, a twinge of nervous excitement bubbling in my gut. We get to the front door and Boyd opens it. There are two cops standing in the foyer. They look alarmed for a moment, then nod to him.

“Mr. Morandi sent you, too?” a cop asks. The badge on his chest tells me his name is Officer Ramirez.

“Something like that,” Boyd mutters. “Where did it happen?”

“Upstairs bedroom.” The cop motions toward the stairs. “The detectives are still in there.”

“That’s fine,” Boyd says, motioning for me to follow him.

Nobody seems to bat an eye at the fact Boyd has a true-crime-junkie-slash-true-crime-podcaster following behind him.

Then again, nobody here knows who I am. I’m just a random girl at a crime scene.

I guess Big Boyd can open doors without kicking them in—even doors that should be closed to someone like me.

We get to the top of the stairs, and I hear a lot of commotion. It’s easy to figure out which bedroom used to belong to Lloyd Brennan’s son. There are several plainclothes detectives taking photographs and jotting down notes.

The detectives look at Big Boyd, but don’t say anything to him. I follow him into the bedroom and my eyes get wide. There’s blood everywhere, and a puddle near the wall. Just like all the other Mafia Prince Murders, the message is written in blood—presumably the victim’s blood.

“I missed you. The trial was entertaining. Sorry, Arthur,” I read aloud. “Holy shit.”

“Mm,” Boyd growls.

“That message looks like all the others,” I say. “Same jagged letters, and he always starts over in a new city by saying I missed you . What if Arthur Dykstra really is innocent and the Mafia Prince Killer is still at large?”

“Let me talk to these detectives,” Boyd says. “You can look around, but don’t take any pictures, and don’t touch anything.”

From the looks of it, the forensics team has already done their sweep.

If this is really the Mafia Prince Killer, they won’t find anything.

No fingerprints. No DNA. Nothing at all.

If it wasn’t for the tip that led the cops to Arthur Dykstra, they wouldn’t have caught him after his last murder in New York.

Could it all be an elaborate ruse? The Mafia Prince Killer could have framed Arthur Dykstra.

But if he was innocent, why didn’t he testify?

Why didn’t he say anything on his behalf?

He’s never given an interview. Never spoken to anyone about his crimes—or supposed crimes.

His lawyer said he barely participated in his defense.

I walk a little closer, but stay several feet away from the blood. It’s a gruesome sight and seeing it in person is a lot different from looking at photographs. I can smell the blood. It makes me a little nauseous, so I walk out of the bedroom.

Boyd is still talking to the detectives, so I wander down the hallway and look around.

The Brennan residence has a lavish décor that is clearly influenced by the family’s Irish roots.

They’re criminals, just like the guy who brought me here, but Liam Brennan was just a boy. He didn’t do anything wrong.

“Sarah,” Boyd calls out. “Let’s go.”

Boyd is already walking down the stairs when I turn around, so I hurry to catch up with him. That’s easier said than done. He’s already standing by the SUV with my door open when I step outside.

“Find out anything useful?” I question as I get to the vehicle.

“I’ll tell you in the car,” he mutters, motioning for me to get in.

I wait for Boyd to get in, but he doesn’t say anything until we’re outside of the iron gates.

“Alright, so the cops think this is the real Mafia Prince Killer,” Boyd says. “There was apparently some evidence from one of the crime scenes in Chicago that always made them question if Dykstra was really their guy.”

“Evidence? What kind of evidence?” I ask. “I’ve never heard anything about that.”

“It was never released to the public,” he rumbles.

“Yeah, but it should have come up at the trial,” I say. “If there was evidence that pointed to someone else, Arthur Dykstra’s attorneys should have used that. It could have exonerated him!”

“After everything they found in New York, do you really think they wanted to introduce evidence that could prove he was innocent?” Boyd asks. “They buried it. That’s what cops do.”

“Not good ones,” I mutter.

It wouldn’t be the first time. The true crime circles are full of people who think law enforcement fabricates evidence or hides things that could prove someone’s innocence.

I’ve always been skeptical, but never got into the deeper conspiracies.

Especially when it came to the Mafia Prince Killer.

Everything pointed to Arthur Dykstra once they raided his apartment in New York.

As the adrenaline from seeing the crime scene begins to wear off, I find myself stealing glances at Boyd. Thinking about what happened before I fell asleep in his arms. Imagining him inside me again.

But I’ve still got a podcast to save. Big Boyd just gave me an exclusive that is going to set the true crime world on fire.

The Mafia Prince Killer is back .

And this time, I’m right in the middle of the action.