Page 21 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)

Kieran

R uby had to go back to court.

Rosie had to go to Julian’s.

I was left back at the house, which was not technically my house.

I watched my own hands as I clattered around, cleaning up in the aftermath of the breakfast tornado, feeling not unlike a friendly, heavily tattooed poltergeist. I made the beds, straightened the couch slipcover, found six mismatched socks under the radiators, and then ran one finger down the edge of the window glass, hunting for advanced surveillance as if Ruby didn’t already know every cop and snitch in the metro area by sight and smell.

I poured what was left of the coffee and sat at the kitchen table, staring at the wall.

The house was quiet except for the creaks in the floor and the hum of the fridge.

It felt strange, sitting still. I wasn’t built for stillness.

In my family, there was always something to fix or protect or fight.

You didn’t get to just sit. You didn’t get to want anything.

Now, with the Crew supposedly taken care of and Tristan pulling strings, there wasn’t much left for me to do. And that should’ve been a relief—but it wasn’t. I didn’t know how to be in this space with Ruby without a job to anchor me. Without a reason to be here, I felt like I might vanish.

But I wasn’t leaving. Even if she never asked, even if she never said the word, I was staying. I’d let her take the lead because I didn’t want to spook her, but I was still here. I was still watching. Still ready. Tristan could play diplomat. I’d handle the rest.

I drove to City Hall and parked right out front.

It was early, that sharp, wind-cutting cold that welded your ears to your skull and made every stranger walk hunched and fast, pretending to belong.

The main glass doors weren’t even open yet, and already the security crew inside looked bored, waiting for the day to get ugly.

I loitered on the steps, watching the city shake off the night and brace for a Monday.

I pretended I wasn’t waiting for her, but when Ruby blew through the revolving door—red lipstick, hair up, black wool coat buttoned to the chin—I knew my morning started with her.

She didn’t see me until I stood up off the granite bench, wagged an eyebrow, and caught her eyes over the heads of three kids and a guy in a hi-viz vest trying to mop up the lobby.

“Are you following me?” she asked without looking at me, voice even.

“Making sure you don’t get jumped on the steps of City Hall.”

She didn’t slow down. “You realize how this looks.”

“Of course,” I said. “So tell me to get lost. Make it convincing.”

She shot me a look, brief and biting. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“Could be fun, actually,” I said. “Boss me around, maybe add in a slap or two.”

“You don’t have to make it sound like foreplay.”

“It is foreplay.”

Her silence said enough. We walked together, not touching, but close enough to draw questions if anyone was watching. And someone always was.

“You’re already taking heat,” I said, quieter. “Might as well be for something that matters.”

She exhaled, sharp through her nose. “You showing up like this doesn’t help.”

“Disagree,” I said. “But you can yell at me later.”

When we reached the landing, she stopped just short of the doors. “You’re not coming in.”

“I know.”

“If anyone asks…”

“You threatened to have me arrested. I’ll look appropriately chastised.”

Her mouth twitched—something between a smile and a sigh. “You make everything harder than it needs to be.”

“Still walked you here,” I said. “And I’ll be here tomorrow, too.”

She looked at me fully, eyes sharp. “Don’t.”

I held her gaze. “Too late.”

Ruby, through the scanners. Ruby, up the stairs, coat over her arm. She didn’t look back, but I watched until she vanished behind the metal detectors.

I tried to stop myself from trailing after her.

I lasted ten minutes.

There was nothing else to do.

I hit the building’s coffee shop—really just a box of bad light and institutional scones, but it had a line, it had people, it had the churn of foot traffic and voices.

The geometry was good: nobody could pass through without being seen, and the plate glass across the street gave a panoramic view of every approach.

Old muscle memory took over, and before I knew it, I’d already picked a square grey table and checked every angle for escape or ambush.

When the cold let up, I went out to the plaza and did the slow, loitering walk of a nobody killing time before a meeting.

I spent the first hour watching people move.

The suits with too much swagger were probably lawyers or lobbyists.

The ones with lanyards and bad shoes—city staffers, most of them, pretending they ran shit.

Real power didn’t dress like that. The real power came and went with no fuss: clean coats, clean cuts, good instincts.

I clocked three runners—fast on their feet, didn’t linger, carried nothing but still managed to leave nervous eyes in their wake.

Two watchers in the smoking cluster on the east side. One was faking it. The other wasn’t.

The ones who wanted to be seen were safest. It was the ones who moved quiet that I kept my eyes on.

I kept a low profile all afternoon, moving when the wind picked up or the shadows changed.

At lunch, I cased the perimeter again and ate a bagel.

I chewed slow and watched, piecing together the comforting rhythms of Ruby’s workday: she went out once at two, walked with two women I didn’t recognize, heads close, talking murder or almonds or whatever DAs talked about.

She didn’t notice me, not even when I ducked behind an ice-locked bike rack as she passed, winter sun carving diamonds off her hair.

Nothing about the day set off alarms.

Nothing…until just after four, when a black Escalade with seven-figure glass and unfamiliar plates idled at the curb just beyond the smoking stoop.

It’d been cruising around all morning, but something felt wrong about this pass, about the way the rear window cracked down an inch before the engine even cut. I watched as a guy got out—white, late thirties, gym-fit in the way cops or federal muscle tend to be—earphones in his ear, hands free.

He glanced up the block, squinted, rolled his shoulders like he was cold or trying to shake off a bad thought.

He didn’t go inside. He just walked a tight loop around the plaza, phone at his jaw, then got back in the car, which rolled a half-block and parked again.

It repeated: park, circle, scan, re-park.

Always the guy in the suit and the guy in the back, never trading places, like they were waiting for something only they could see.

I drifted toward the edge of the plaza for a better look.

The guy didn’t see me; he barely looked at anything but his phone and the building’s door.

After a minute, he nodded to the glass, muttered something into his mic, and started walking.

He didn’t even bother glancing for tails, which told me he wasn’t shy, or worse, didn’t need to be.

Which meant this was either a well-insured professional, or a guy being paid exactly enough to not care if something went down in thirty yards of public real estate.

I snapped a pic of the plates as the Escalade made its next lazy orbit.

Massachusetts vanity, not in the city system.

The driver was so clean-cut he looked like a parody, but the passenger in the back sat at a slouch—like he was reminding the world he didn’t need to be seen until he wanted it.

I recognized that posture. Callahan confidence, except the only Callahan I’d expect wasn’t supposed to be in this part of the city for another week.

I texted the plate to Tristan. No reply for two minutes. Then, predictably, a call.

“You’re shadowing your own girlfriend?” Tristan’s voice was cool and flat. “That’s not healthy.”

“Don’t call her that,” I said. “And yeah. You told me the Crew was handled. This isn’t them.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they’re not hiding. SUV with government plates, two passengers. Parked three times in full view of City Hall. They didn’t blink when I made eye contact.”

“So…feds.”

“Yeah. Most likely. I just want to know what they’re waiting for.”

There was a pause. Paper rustling—Tristan already pulling threads. “They’re probably not moving yet. Just keeping eyes.”

“Then I’ll keep mine too,” I said.

“I’ll check it. Stay on her until she leaves. Then chase her home. And don’t—” he paused, annoyed— “don’t let her know you’re protecting her. If she smells it on you, you’ll only convince her she’s in real danger. I need her not to panic.”

“She’s smarter than both of us. She’s already planning two moves ahead.”

“Then keep up.” Click.

I watched the Escalade and the muscle man for a while longer.

At five-thirty, Ruby emerged, scarf looped twice around her neck, shoulders squared against the cold and the city.

She crossed the plaza, hit the sidewalk, spun north.

Muscle tracked her with his body, but didn’t move in—just hovered at his perimeter, watching with a calculation that was pure efficiency, no obsession.

She ducked into a pharmacy two blocks up.

I followed, lagging three windows behind.

Muscle entered, too. He picked up a basket and fucked around the cold-and-flu aisle, holding a box of Advil like it was a live grenade.

I moved closer, under the anxiety glow of fluorescent lights and the shimmer of seasonal discount candy.

Ruby was at the counter, exchanging words with the clerk. She smiled at something the woman said, and for a second, I hoped she’d spotted me, acknowledged the shadowing, but her gaze was locked somewhere beyond me, running the odds on daylight violence.