Page 23 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)

Kieran

I t happened fast.

One second I was sure the guy was gone, the next I was eating steel just above the ear—the fucking multitool, if I had to guess.

The world spun, and I staggered into the alley wall, hands up, brain scrambling for balance.

I barely had time to brace before he caught me again, this time clipping my ear so hard I felt blood slick my neck.

The streetlights smeared out, red and watery, as I reeled toward the curb, half-blind, grabbing for crumbling brick.

Wasn’t Tristan supposed to be taking care of this? What kind of thug was this man?

What kind of animal had federal plates?

Where was his partner?

All thoughts I managed to have before the pain made me too dizzy to think.

“Motherfucker,” I grunted, just as he kicked out my knee and dropped me, face-first, to the pavement. My teeth split my lip open, and I tasted old coffee and toast, sharp as bile.

He was on me in a heartbeat—heavy, breath cold at my ear. “Should’ve let it go, Callahan. She would have.” His hand pressed my neck, not quite choking, just pinning me like a snake with a mouse. The multitool slid up my cheek, metal trembling like he’d done this before. “You listening now?”

I spat blood and managed, “You got thirty seconds before I kill you with your own teeth.”

He laughed, low and ugly, the kind of sound you only hear from men who’ve seen enough alley fights to know the score. “I’d like to see you try,” he said, and let up just enough for me to get my elbows under me.

I didn’t wait. I bucked hard, cracked the back of my skull into his nose—the only thing I could reach—and felt it break, hot and wet.

He tried to bring the tool down again but I caught his wrist, rolled hard right, and slammed his knuckles into the wall, once, twice, until I heard the crunch.

He howled, a dying-animal sound. I didn’t bother with questions.

I pinched his windpipe until he stopped fighting, then let him drop, coughing and clawing at the ice, his blood streaking a trail across the ground.

Then I put the pressure on again—knee on his chest, ready to kill if I had to.

Maybe even if I didn’t have to.

I really wanted to kill this guy.

“Fuck you,” he gasped, somewhere under my knee.

“Why are you after Ruby?”

He barked a laugh, even with his nose mashed flat and blood in his mouth. “Ruby? I’m not after Ruby. I’m after a paycheck. The DA is incidental.”

He’d trained himself not to show pain—maybe ex-cop, maybe private muscle, definitely the kind of guy who’d seen a few wars. I wiped blood out of my eyes and stomped on his foot, just once, so he’d remember me. “Who pays you?”

He spat more blood. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”

I pressed my thumb into his broken knuckles. He grunted. “Name.”

Something flickered in his eyes—not fear, just a quick calculation.

He could see I was done with questions.

Next came consequences.

“You want to know who pays the Crew, Callahan? Fucking everyone does. It’s not a hotline—it’s a bucket.

People throw in for sport, for spite, for a maybe.

If you’re on the board, there’s a dozen freaks and lawyers and enemies-of-your-enemies kicking up for the kill.

” He spat blood. “You think this is personal? It’s crowd-sourced.

You’re lucky it’s me and not some little influencer bastard trying to livestream your execution for likes. ”

I dug in. “Name.”

He gritted his teeth. “Ask your brother. He’s the only one who can afford the full package.”

Didn’t love that answer. Neither would Ruby. I grabbed his pinky and bent it back, slow.

“I don’t fucking know! It’s an anonymous app, prick!”

“Where do you get it?”

“It’s invite-only. Darknet, or a burner, or through a guy you meet at the back of a used-tire place and never see again.

” He was panting, blood beading at the base of his skull.

“Nobody even picks a target anymore, man. You just upload a photo and a price and hope someone’s close enough to take the job.

It’s the fucking gig economy. You want a piece of advice?

Take the girl and run. You already know this doesn’t end in one piece, not for you, not for anyone in your orbit.

They got all the dirt, and they always have. ”

“I don’t want your advice. Give me your phone.”

He hesitated, then handed me the phone—burner, scratched screen, blood on the edges. No passcode. No contacts. Just a grid of basic apps and one folder marked “Docs,” holding a single recovered file.

The Crew.

Looked like fantasy football. Blue-hex icon, faux-legit branding. I opened it and scrolled. No GPS, no names—just open contracts. Photos. Locations. Payouts. Anonymous and clean.

Ruby’s face was third from the top. Grainy image from her last press conference, cropped tight at the podium. The contract was scheduled for tomorrow—11 a.m. at Copley Square. Public target, extra for proximity. Bonus if caught on camera.

Fuck… fuck. That was when she was supposed to be sworn in.

I showed him the screen. “This wasn’t the hit.”

“Nope,” he said, grinning through broken lips. “I was early.”

“Trying to jump the line?”

He shrugged, winced. “Clock doesn’t matter if you get the job done. First blood still counts, even if it’s off-books. Makes you look hungry.”

I crouched, voice low. “Text them. Say the job’s burned. Say she’s protected. Say to drop it and go quiet.”

“You serious?”

“You want to limp home, or not?”

He typed it out fast—short, efficient. He didn’t look at me while he sent it.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he said.

“I will not. You work for me now.”

“What?”

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” I said, squatting to meet his bloody stare.

As I did, I texted myself from his phone, then added myself as a contact.

“You take a job on Ruby, or me, or anyone else I name—you tip me off first. Doesn’t matter if the job’s locked or just a whisper.

You get me early, and I’ll pay you double what the Crew posts. ”

“You think I’m some kind of snitch?” He tried for disdain, but his eyes kept darting away from mine, and his fingers were trembling.

“There’s nothing left but snitches and ghosts in this city, man.

Pick a side and cash out.” I tossed his phone down the alley at his feet, then kicked his thigh—not hard enough to break, just enough to make sure he’d remember.

“I’m going to send you a list. You tip me, I keep you alive.

You blow it, I finish what I started. Understand? ”

He massaged his busted hand and muttered, “You’re fucking crazy.”

“I’m Irish,” I said. “It’s genetic.”

He barked out a bitter laugh.

“My number is in your phone,” I went on. “I expect a check-in every single day. Or I will find you. And I will kill you. Do you understand?”

He nodded, jaw clenched.

Then he limped off, hands jammed in his armpits, disappearing down the far end of the alley…back to his partner and the federal SUV with what I had to assume were fake plates.

Jesus…this city really was going to hell.

I waited until the echo of his footsteps died, then took off after Ruby, heart still slamming in my chest. It was only then I realized how much blood was on my shirt, how my brain was throbbing, how the old wound at my ribs had split open again.

The pain, which I’d been ignoring until now, started to flicker at the edges of my vision, and the cold was threading up through my shoes.

But I couldn’t stop, not when Ruby was still out there—still counting on me, whether she’d admit it or not, to cover her blind spot.

I wiped my face, pressed my sleeve to the worst of the bleeding, and staggered out of the alley.

I found her at the parking garage, in the shadow of her SUV, clutching a pharmacy bag and digging for her keys.

She saw me, then saw me again—took in the torn shirt, the blood painting my temple, the way I held my face like I was trying to keep my head from falling off. She didn’t scream, didn’t even flinch. She just straightened, jaw set, and waited for me to close the distance.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she said.

“Just a scratch. Are you okay?”

She looked me up and down, and I saw it—the flicker of her lawyer brain, cataloging every fresh wound, every inch of damage, then shelving it because there was nothing to do but keep moving. “Get in,” she said. No questions. Just action.

We dropped the act once we were on the Pike. The air in the car was metallic, hot, and under the cheap car-freshener was the smell of copper—raw and close. She didn’t say a word for a few exits. I fished a napkin from the glovebox, held it to my ear, and let my head swim.

At the Brighton off-ramp she finally exhaled. “Tell me.”

So I did: the muscle, the Crew, the job, the app, the gig economy of violence. She listened, hands white-knuckled on the wheel, never missing a beat even as I walked her through the fight, every ugly detail. When I finished, she let out a long, controlled breath.

“So,” she said, staring at the streaked, sodium-lit rush of cars along the Charles. “You’re telling me that someone is crowdsourcing my death on the internet.”

“And mine,” I said. “But you knew that, right?”

She barked a laugh, then pulled the SUV onto Memorial Drive and switched off the radio. “Is it wrong that I’m comforted by that?”

I grinned, fractured lip stinging. “Not wrong. Just pragmatic.”

She said something else. I didn’t catch it.

I was staring at the blur of tail lights ahead of us, the sway of headlights on the river.

My vision kept narrowing, like a camera lens winding down.

Every bump in the road rattled through my ribs.

I pressed the napkin harder to my face and watched it turn the color of rust.

“Hey,” she snapped. “Stay with me.”

I blinked hard. Managed a nod.

“Just tired,” I said, voice low and slurred. “Couple aspirins. Nap in your driveway. Good as new.”

She didn’t answer. Her foot pressed harder on the gas.

And I let my head fall back, staring at the ceiling like maybe it had answers.