Page 11 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)
Ruby
T he hotel Kieran picked was the kind of place my mother’s side of the family would have died to get into—all marble floors and gold leaf, the lobby ceiling painted with cherubs and city royalty.
We parked out front, the car too ordinary for the valet, and walked inside like we belonged.
Kieran checked us in under a fake name, not even blinking as he handed over a credit card with someone else’s initials.
He kept a hand at my back, guiding me through the lobby, and for a second I felt less like a DA and more like a mistress in a bad spy movie.
Maybe the difference didn’t matter anymore.
The room was nicer than I expected. Two queen beds with crisp white linens, blackout blinds, a view of Boylston Ave lit up in a bruised haze of city light.
Rosie made a beeline for the window, flattening her palms to the glass.
“We’re in the air!” she said, delighted.
She’d always loved being up high. Kieran dumped the bags and did a slow sweep of the suite, eyes flicking to every vent, closet, and corner.
Old habits. For a second, he looked embarrassed to be caught doing it, but then he just sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced his boots, one eye on the hallway door.
I ducked into the bathroom, flicked on the light.
The mirror was huge and unkind. I looked like hell—borrowed leggings, hoodie two sizes too big, dark circles under my eyes, windburn on my cheeks.
I splashed water on my face, watched it bead and drip.
The adrenaline comedown was already setting in, making my hands shake.
I braced myself on the counter and tried to breathe.
Panic was an option, but not in front of Rosie. Never in front of Rosie.
For a second, I let myself feel it—the real fear, the kind that crawled up your spine and settled in your teeth.
Ten years prosecuting fraud and trafficking had rewired my panic, made it colder, more controlled.
But this—this terror for Rosie, for me, for how many hours we could outrun whoever was after us—this was different.
I dried my face, rubbing at my skin like I could erase everything that had happened with friction.
My eyes wouldn’t clear: red, rimmed in last night’s mascara.
The face in the mirror was leaner than it had been in law school, the bones set deeper, but still recognizably me.
I ran through my mental checklist: things left to do, things left to prove, things never to repeat.
At the bottom: never sleep with a Callahan.
I didn’t need a sticky note to remind me of that. Never sleep with Kieran Callahan again. One wonderful thing, and a thousand bad ones. I was on the implant now, and I refused to get pregnant by this man a second time.
I changed into the hotel robe, feeling like every exhausted mom who ever gave up at the end of a long road trip, and sat at the tiny desk. Kieran was ordering room service for Rosie—pancakes and orange juice, her only food group after 8pm.
“Thank you,” I said.
He shrugged. “We should eat too. What do you want?”
“Whatever you’re having,” I said, too tired to care.
He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve gotten so easy going.”
I rolled my eyes. “Burrata plate. And the lobster ravioli, if you want to split.”
“You still take half my food,” he said, already swiping the wine list.
“You told me I never finish my food.”
“You don’t. Thank you for ordering the burrata.”
He rattled off the order like a pro, adding steak frites for himself, and recited the room number from memory.
Rosie had already turned the suite into her personal playground: she’d commandeered every blanket, lined up her two stuffed animals (both a crisis gift-shop purchase, don’t judge), and built a fort under the desk.
Kieran pretended not to see her, but I caught the twitch of a smile at the edge of his mouth. He poured himself a glass of water and stared out at the city, and for a second, it almost felt like we were just hiding out from the world instead of running for our lives.
Eventually, Rosie burrowed into her fort and went quiet—a sign she was reading the book I’d thrown in her suitcase. I knelt by the blankets and watched her mouth move, half-whispering the words to herself.
The tenderness of it hurt.
For half an hour, nothing happened. I almost fell asleep in front of a muted Chopped rerun when a sharp knock at the door snapped me awake. Kieran jerked upright too. We exchanged a look. He motioned to me: get the kid, back up.
“Room service!”
He moved fast, silent. Palmed a switchblade from somewhere—an actual switchblade, because of course he had one.
I’d fought like hell to keep things like that off the street…
but I knew Kieran. He’d probably had that knife for years, tucked in a boot or glovebox, flicked open with the same casual arrogance he used to break my heart.
Somehow, it felt like a personal attack.
He pressed his back to the wall, blade glinting. The knock came again, louder. A cart rattled outside. Room service—or someone dressed for the part.
“Let’s stay real quiet, peanut. We’re still playing hide and seek, okay?”
She smiled, pressing her lips together, eyes wide with mischief. I felt like a bad mother…like a liar.
She would need to learn at some point that it wasn’t a game. I just wasn’t ready to tell her.
Kieran cracked the door, foot braced behind it. The hallway light glared, and a kid in a black vest and bow tie—mid-twenties, tight curls—stood awkwardly holding a tray with three domed platters and a carafe. His eyes darted, not quite meeting Kieran’s.
“Dinner, sir. From room service?” He tried to sound casual, but his hands shook.
Kieran didn’t blink. “Why are you late?”
“Sorry, sir. Busy night. Elevators are slow. I have your burrata, lobster ravioli, steak frites, and…uh, pancakes?”
The kid was nervous. Made sense. Whenever me or Rosie was in danger, Kieran looked a bit like a wild animal.
“Where’s your partner?” Kieran asked, voice low.
The kid blinked. “They said just me. Is there—?” He trailed off, realizing he’d screwed up the script.
He scanned the room, but it was clear he wasn’t casing the place. Just an underpaid kid who didn’t understand why the air felt so heavy. He set the tray on the table and started laying out the plates. I hovered by the fort, unwilling to move.
Kieran nodded. “Take it over to the desk. Keep the receipt.” He wanted the kid to stay for a minute. To see if there was a click in the hallway, a second set of shoes, a shadow in the threat.
Rosie peeped out. “Do we have orange juice?”
The kid’s voice softened. He squeezed the carton into her hand before he even finished unpacking anything else.
“Say thank you, peanut.”
“Thank you, peanut,” Rosie replied.
I rolled my eyes. The kid laughed. “Can I tell you a secret?” he said. “My name is Brian. My mom calls me peanut, too.”
Rosie giggled, spilling a little juice on the napkin. She grinned at Brian, and for a second, he looked proud.
Kieran tipped him—cash, peeled from a roll in his pocket, crumpled into the kid’s hand with a nod that said don’t ask questions, just get out of here alive.
Brian blinked at the bills, stammered a thank you, nodded at all three of us, and ducked out.
Kieran waited, watching the peephole until the elevator dinged. Then he closed the door, pulled the chain, and gave me a look that said he’d expected trouble, found only dinner, and didn’t trust the luck of it.
We ate in silence, letting Rosie tell Kieran about the birds at the feeder, the snow angels, her need to be on the highest floor of every building in America because the city “looked better if you could see both the tops and the bottoms.” Kieran listened intently, but I kept waiting for him to break the spell, to say something so Kieran it would blow up the table and remind us who we were.
He didn’t. He even cut her pancakes into tiny pieces when she asked. He poured her juice, refilled it, let her drain it dry. If he was faking, it was impressive. The edges were too dull to be a lie.
When she was full and sleepy, I nudged her to bed, tucked her under the comforter, kissed her hair, and read three pages of her book.
Through the crack in the bathroom door, I saw Kieran tidying up, stowing the knife, checking his phone with a focus that said his mind was still on the world outside.
Once Rosie was out, I turned to Kieran, sipping my seltzer.
“What’s the real plan?” I asked.
He considered me, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t we agree to stop fighting for a day?”
I wasn’t letting it go. “I want to know what you’re not telling me. Why Tristan? Why not just get us out of the state? Why not Vermont, or Mexico?”
“You want me to take you to Mexico? Ruby…this is starting to feel like a honeymoon.”
I glared at him. “Kieran. Talk. ”
He toyed with his glass. “You want the truth? Not the spin?”
“Please.”
He leaned in, hands cupped. “Someone paid the Crew for a contract on you. The amount is enough to draw talent from out of state. Maybe out of the country. I’m good, but I can’t keep you alive and move you and keep Rosie from panicking at the same time.
Tristan…he runs Boston. He can make you not exist for as long as it takes to shake this off. ”
He let the words settle. It was controlled, like he was handing me a live grenade and waiting to see if I’d pull the pin.
“I don’t want to not exist. I’m the DA of Suffolk County, Kieran. I get to go on a little vacation. That’s it.”
“Then don’t disappear. Face it down. But you won’t face it down alive if you’re on your own.” His voice was gentler than I’d heard in years. “They’ll find you if you go back to regular life without protection.”
“I ran for DA on an anti-corruption campaign. On an anti-mobster campaign. On an anti-Callahan campaign.”
He barked out a laugh. “I’m not sure what you think you’re telling me right now.”
“That I did all that and managed to survive—”