Page 38 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)

Kieran

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

That was the rule—stay away, don’t draw fire, let Ruby handle it. Let her burn it all down without dragging me into the flames.

But rules and I never got along.

I hung back in the marble atrium, just another suit in the crowd, hiding in plain sight.

The actual swearing in ceremony had been by the numbers and was perfectly calm; Ruby said her vows, the crowd cheered.

Now, the press conference was already rolling.

Ruby stood at the podium, lit up like a headline, prepared to torch every lie that had kept her safe until now.

There were other men watching her. Not just the press.

My brother’s men, scattered through the crowd, hands resting on belts, in pockets, on the black cases of their notebook computers.

Real help, not for show. Tristan had told me to keep my distance, but I kept moving, ghosting the perimeter, never more than forty feet from her, never making it easy to pick the angle of approach.

She looked good. More than good—jaw sharp, hair smoothed, lips painted blood red. Her hands didn’t shake, not even a little, on the cheap municipal wood of the lectern.

She was steady. Perfectly steady…performing.

“I wanted to thank you all for being here,” she started, and her voice made everyone pay attention.

It was amazing to watch her like this—to see how she could command a room.

Tristan was right; she could run for higher office, it was only a matter of time.

“It is my absolute honor to have been chosen as your next District Attorney…and I am so very proud to take on the role of breaking a new glass ceiling as your first Latina D.A.”

Applause sounded and she smiled, even though I knew she hated that angle. Alek insisted it sold.

“I know you’re here for a standard press conference,” she said. “Honestly, I would have preferred that myself—to celebrate our achievements so far and all the things we still have to do. But something has happened, and it’s my duty to inform the public of it.”

She let the silence build. The journalists leaned in, phones held up, not wanting to miss a syllable.

“Several weeks ago—the night I was elected by the people of Suffolk County—an individual broke into my house. He was armed. He intended to harm me and my child.”

No one said anything, but pens scratched on paper. One person raised their hand for a question and got a sharp look from Alek.

“I did not call the police,” Ruby said, “because I am the police. I am the process. I am the system you all depend on, for better or worse. The man was a convicted abuser. He was released early by the Department of Justice to serve as a confidential informant on organized crime in Boston.”

Silence again.

Nobody breathed.

It was for dramatic effect—and it was working —but the press was getting antsy.

“Who was it?” a guy in the press pit finally called out.

“Please hold off on questions until the DA is done speaking,” Alek said.

Ruby drew a breath, and I could hear the trouble in it.

“His name was Mickey Russell,” she said.

“He had previously been prosecuted by my office for a series of violent domestic assaults. In my view, he should never have been released.” She steadied herself on the podium, letting the words hang, giving herself a second to line up the next shot.

“Full disclosure: I shot him. In my own home, defending myself and my daughter. I wish I could tell you I did everything perfectly. I didn’t. But this is the truth.”

The room went nuclear. Every reporter scrambled for the kill-shot quote. Erica Fields, the only one who could keep her head, cut through the noise.

“Are you saying the Department of Justice knowingly put you and your family at risk by deploying Russell as a CI?”

“No,” Ruby said, cool and even. “I’m not assigning intent.

Special Counsel Lucy Darnell and the FBI are doing their jobs.

But the pattern is clear: the DOJ has repeatedly leveraged violent offenders as confidential informants, with insufficient oversight.

Their calculus assumes that women and children will not become collateral damage. That calculus is broken.”

She let that hang.

“Going forward, my office will not participate in any joint investigations involving confidential informants who haven’t been fully vetted for violent history. If the federal government wants to use dangerous men as tools, that’s their decision—but Suffolk County will not be complicit.”

My stomach turned. I’d told the Bureau I killed Mickey Russell. We had an agreement. She was blowing past it like it didn’t matter—and maybe it didn’t anymore. The press had latched on now, jaws open.

“What happened to Russell’s body?” someone from the Globe asked. “There’s an active missing-persons investigation in Cambridge.”

Ruby didn’t blink. “Mr. Russell left the premises. He subsequently disappeared. For the safety of our law enforcement partners currently pursuing active leads, I can’t share details about an ongoing investigation.

But you are correct, Ms. Petrovic—he is missing.

And I encourage anyone with information to come forward. ”

Alek, off to the side, looked calm, but I saw the tick in his jaw. He was tracking every raised hand like a sniper.

“Is it true the Attorney General’s office is investigating you for obstruction?”

“I’m aware of the rumors,” Ruby said. “And I welcome a formal inquiry if it comes. My office has been transparent and fully compliant. If someone wants to make headlines by launching a political investigation, I suggest they take a number.”

A few scattered laughs. She had them again—for the moment.

Then a harder voice came from the back: “And your family? You said your daughter was targeted, but what about your husband?”

She could have dodged. Could have lied. Instead:

“Julian Garcia and I are, as of this morning, beginning the process of divorce. This has no bearing on my office or its operations. Thank you for respecting the privacy of my family, especially my daughter. Neither my daughter nor her father were in the house when Russell broke in. We have been separated for some time.”

More shouting, a dozen voices trying to climb over each other, but Ruby just gave them a tight, professional smile. “Next question.”

“What do you say about the rumors that you’ve been seen speaking with operatives from the Callahan syndicate?” Erica Fields again.

Ruby let the question hang. She scanned the crowd slowly—measured, confident.

“What I say is this: the Callahan investigation has been active for seventeen years, under five different DAs. It remains open, and it remains a priority. Anyone suggesting otherwise is trying to distract you—from the real story.”

Murmurs rippled across the room.

Erica pressed. “You’re denying any personal relationship with Kieran or Tristan Callahan?”

Ruby didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to manage gossip.

I’m here to prosecute crime. That means speaking to people involved in it, around it, or willing to give evidence about it.

And frankly, I find it interesting that no one asked those same questions when a man broke into my house and tried to kill me. ”

Silence again—but this time, uneasy. Shifted.

She looked directly at Erica. “If there’s discomfort in certain agencies about how I run my office, maybe it’s because I’ve refused to play along.

Maybe it’s because I’ve pulled files they thought would stay buried.

I’ve said from day one: I’ll work with any agency that puts public safety first. I won’t work with ones that use violent men to do their dirty work and call it justice. ”

And then, clean as a knife: “If the Department of Justice wants to investigate me, they should be very sure they want their own methods on the record.”

The breath went out of the room like someone had cracked the glass. Even the interpreter’s hands stilled for a beat.

In the back, by the janitor’s closet, I felt the pressure leave my chest. She wasn’t just surviving this. She was winning it.

“Now, I really need to get to work—there’s plenty of things to do in Suffolk County, and we’re just getting started,” Ruby said. “Thank you all for being here.”

The press pool erupted. Alek raised a hand, sharp and practiced. “That’s all for today,” he snapped, already moving to block the first wave of reporters.

Ruby stepped back from the podium and vanished behind the flag before the lights could catch her face. She didn’t need them to. The moment was already hers.

And just for a moment, she was safe. It was over.

That’s when I heard the gunshot.

One shot. A pop—louder than a starting pistol, sharper than any fire alarm, unmistakable if you’d ever lived a certain kind of life. I was moving before I knew it, every cell in my body calculating lines of sight, angles, probabilities, even as the concrete floor rippled with the stampede of panic.

Ruby hit the ground in a crouch behind the podium, arms over her head, the only part of her showing the lines of her calves and the thin, ridiculous slingbacks she’d worn for the photo.

People screamed, bodies dropping. Alek reached her first, dragging her into the lee of the flag, his own body braced for the next shot.

But there wasn’t one. Just the echo, raw and ringing.

Security poured in—building, city, private detail, all tripping over each other’s radio traffic—and I used the chaos, the clotting presence of a hundred human shields, to work my way along the wall.

Nobody noticed me. Just another suit with cold eyes, logging the scene for a war that would never make the papers.

Except this war had a front row in the press pit and a kill order on my favorite target.

I reached the curtain at the same instant as Ruby, her hand already stained with a shallow graze above her ear—nothing fatal, but the blood streaked her cheek, and I thought fuck, fuck, fuck.

I wanted to grab her face and check for second holes, but Alek was already there, voice tight even when it didn’t shake.

“Where are you hit? Any vision changes? Ruby, look at me.”

She batted him away, eyes sharp, the wound more insult than injury. “I’m fine. Get the crowd out first.” She’d never take a rescue.

Alek set his jaw, looked at me. “Get her the fuck out of here.” Then he turned to handle the evacuation.

The second he was gone, I grabbed Ruby’s arm, covered her head with mine, and shouldered us both through the emergency exit behind the dais.

The stairwell was instantly silent—the kind of hush you only get in old buildings, after hours, when even your echo is scared to come back.

I almost carried her down the first flight, then realized she was stone-steady under my grip and let her pace me, her heels clicking like a countdown.

“Ruby,” I said. “Where are you hit? Tell me. Right now.”

She pressed her palm to her ear, then peeled it away so I could see the streak.

One drop had already dried in her hair. “It’s a graze,” she said, voice flat.

“I’m not concussed. I’ve bled worse off the playground.

” She stopped on the landing, braced her hands to her knees, and made a guttural sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

“We’re going to go,” I said. “You’re getting in my car and we’re leaving.”

She didn’t argue, which meant yes, which meant hurry before Alek found us and locked down the block.

I hustled her out the fire door, into the side lot where the cars were spitting exhaust into the frost—and, sure enough, right at the curb was my blacked-out Tahoe, brought right to this spot by one of our men.

He got out and gave us a nod, scanning the street for a threat as I got to work taking care of Ruby.

I got her into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel.

I didn’t even feel the cold, didn’t think about the seatbelt.

I just drove, yanking the wheel too hard on the first turn because I needed the world to tilt under me.

Needed motion. Something to outrun the sound of the shot still ringing in my ears.

She was sitting sideways, holding her head at an angle so the blood wouldn’t hit her blouse. Her eyes were glassy—but not in the dazed, post-trauma way I expected. This was something else. Something wrong.

“Do you need a hospital?” I asked, too sharp.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I got lucky. I just—do you have a plastic bag or something?”

I shook my head, but dug through the glovebox, came up with a crumpled Dunkies bag.

She pressed it to her temple. The blood soaked in fast, blooming across the waxed pink and white like a party favor gone to hell.

I might’ve laughed, or choked on something worse, but she beat me to it—let out a startled cackle, like the whole night had tipped sideways and she was the only one in on the joke.

Then her face twisted. “Wait. I’m gonna puke.”

“Jesus—”

Too late. She bent forward, quick and brutal, and emptied her stomach into the bag. Tied it off like a pro, wiped her mouth on her wrist.

“Donuts,” she said. “Kieran, I swear to God—when this is over, you’re taking me to get a chocolate cruller and a Diet Coke. Fountain only. I am not kidding.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” I said, checking the rearview. Nothing behind us but red strobes and a crowd with cameras. “You get shot, puke in my front seat, and your first move is placing a donut order.”

“Correct.” She leaned back, weak but smiling faintly. “Where are you taking me?”

“Anywhere but here. We need to disappear for a minute.” I dug a napkin out of my pocket and handed it to her. She dabbed at her cheek, then paused when she saw the blood streaked with mascara.

“You’re probably nauseous because of the adrenaline,” I offered. “That’s normal, right? For gunshot wounds?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me. Long and steady.

“What?” I asked. “Talk to me.”

“Kieran,” she said, quiet now. “I don’t think it’s that.”

I blinked. “You don’t think what’s that? The adrenaline? You just got shot—”

She looked out the window for a beat. Then back at me.

“No,” she said. “There’s something else. I didn’t want to do this now, but—I don’t think I get a better time.”

“What is it?”

She was pale. Tired. Still bleeding. But her voice was sure…and what she said next threw my whole world off its axis.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

Oh. Fuck .

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