Renzo pulled the phone away and hung up. He sighed and rubbed his temples as I wrapped my arms around myself and tried not to cry.
“Find out where the shipment’s going to be or I’ll cut off his right hand and shove it through your mail slot.” He stood up and looked down at me with his lips curled up in disgust. “And don’t be late to a meeting again.” He walked off, leaving me there alone.
I waited until he was gone before I buried my face in my hands and cried.
God, what a mess. I was sobbing alone on a bench in a public park. I let myself indulge for ten seconds before I forced myself to get in control again.
I was good at getting control over my emotions.
I had to be, living in the Doyle family.
I couldn’t afford a breakdown, not with Connor’s life on the line. I wiped my face, smearing my eyeliner, and stood up to leave. A guy in a business suit with a laptop open next to him frowned at me and looked like he wanted to say something, but my stare must’ve scared him off.
I scared a lot of people lately.
Except for Mack.
I began to walk back to the street.
Who wanted me dead? It couldn’t be the Lionettis—they still wanted to use me for information. Maybe my own family, but I doubted they knew I was a traitor and a spy, not yet at least. They’d figure it out eventually if I weren’t careful, and my family did not go easy on enemies within the ranks.
That left the Morozov family, the last big crime syndicate. But why would the Russians in particular want to kill me, of all people?
Unless they knew the Lionettis flipped me.
It made sense. Mack did look vaguely European.
I paused beside the black fence that ringed the park. I scanned the street—
And felt my heart leap into my throat.
There he was, leaning up against a storefront across the street, watching me. His arms were over his chest and he had this handsome, maddening smile on his lips. He nodded at me, then turned and started away—
I ran after him. He disappeared around the corner, and I went sprinting through traffic. “Hey, Mack!” I shouted and ignored the Subaru that nearly flattened me into pulp. I hit the corner and turned, expecting to see him ahead.
But there was nothing.
I searched the block, even went into the stores, and nothing.
Mack was gone.
If that was him at all.
I was losing my mind. A hitman was sent to kill me, and all I could do was think about his lips against mine, his hand between my legs—all while my brother was dying in some basement because I wasn’t good at getting information from my very stupid cousins.
I leaned up against a stoplight and took deep breaths.
Connor didn’t deserve this. He believed in the family like everyone else did, but he was still just a kid. He wanted to make our father proud where I wanted nothing to do with any of it, and he didn’t deserve to get his body mutilated by some asshole Italian mobster.
I couldn’t let myself get murdered, and I wouldn’t let Connor end up dead.
That was why I’d never leave Philadelphia. The moment I tried to run was the moment the Lionettis tossed my brother’s body in the river.
I was stuck.
And Mack was still on my tail.
3
Mack
“Did you kill the girl yet, or are you takin’ your sweet time again?”
German lit a cigarette and took a long drag. I made a face and gestured at the cancer stick. “When’d you take up smoking?”
“Been a stressful year. Answer the question.”
I leaned back against the stoop behind me and stared across the street at the bar where Fiona worked. It was a quiet night, a little on the humid side, and most people had to get up early and go into their boring little offices the next day.
I almost envied them.
Except not really.
I studied German for a second. Square jaw, clear blue eyes, good-looking guy, though not much in the affect department—he rarely ever smiled, and I doubt he ever laughed in his entire life.
“Taking my time,” I said, checking out my nails.
“Figured.” German flicked his ash. “Too busy worrying about yourself to care about the family.”
I should’ve taken offense to that, but he wasn’t wrong.
German and I, we had a lot in common. He was a big guy in the family these days, ran his own crew, made a lot of money for the Pakhan. He followed the rules just like I did, except my rules were my own, and his rules came from above. He obeyed orders—I ignored them.
So in a lot of ways, we were extremely similar.
Except in the one way that mattered.
“You ever stop and ask yourself why the Pakhan would want some girl killed?”