Page 48 of Taken By the Mobster

Even though one door was still hung open, Conor started the car and drove. The car jerked, as if it didn’t want to go, before it gained speed and flew down the road. The tires squealed as they rounded the corner at breakneck speed.

Declan sat up, grabbed the open door, and yanked it shut. Olivia climbed to her knees and stared out the window, watching as the bright orange sky faded behind them.

They pulled off the road into an empty parking lot fifteen miles from the Muldoon compound. Conor parked in the back, away from the streetlights. He put the car in park and turned to look at Declan.

“Is everyone okay?” Declan asked.

Conor touched his arm and winced. “Bullet grazed me.” He reached into the glove compartment, removed a purple handkerchief, and tied it around his upper arm. “But I’ll live.”

“Olivia?” Declan turned to her and ran his hands over her body, searching for injuries.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

Declan kissed her, then he pulled his phone from his pocket. A scowl marred his face when he read the screen.

“We can’t go back to the house,” Declan said.

“Why not?” Conor asked. “What happened?”

Declan held his phone up and pointed at it. “Drew called. He said he noticed the same car drive past the house four or five times, then it parked up the street. He waited two hours for them to leave and when they didn’t, he grabbed everything he could, loaded it into the SUV, and took off.”

“Where’s he going?” Conor asked.

“Wakefield. He’s got a friend there that has an empty rental property he said we can use. It’s furnished, and no one has been using it for weeks. He’s going to meet his friend there. He’s texting me the address.”

“We need to ditch the car,” Conor said. “If a cop sees us, we’re in deep shit.”

“We’re gonna have to steal another car,” Declan said.

“On it.” Conor climbed out of the car and took off down the street at a slow jog. He disappeared around the corner after a few seconds.

Declan turned to Olivia. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Are you okay?” he whispered.

“I … I think so. No major injuries. A few scrapes and bruises, but otherwise, I’m fine. What about you?”

“Same.” He held out his arms. “Come here.”

Olivia slid across the seat and fell into Declan’s arms. She buried her face against his chest and breathed deeply. He smelled like leather and gunpowder. She loved it.

“Clyde said he was going to let me go after you did something for him. What did he mean?” Her voice sounded muffled, since her face was pressed against his chest.

“It’s a long story, but in short, he was going to let all of us go free if I did one thing for him. Except that one thing probably would have gotten me—us—killed. I have other plans.” Declan kissed the top of her head.

Olivia sighed. “It’s not over, is it?”

“No, it’s not. Not yet, anyway.”

A loud honk came from across the lot. Out the window, Olivia saw Conor parked in a beat-up, old pickup truck.

“Let’s go,” Declan said. “We need to make ourselves scarce.”

The rental property was on the edge of Wakefield, situated back off the street, far away from the other homes. They parked the car in the garage, and Conor moved the SUV several blocks away.

The house was large with two stories, four bedrooms, and a large, enclosed patio that wrapped around the back of the house.

That was where Oliva found Declan an hour after they arrived, stretched out on an extra-large, dark blue chaise lounge. One foot rested on the floor, he held a glass of whiskey in his hand with the bottle on the floor beside him. The smell of burning wood rose from the stove in the corner, and the quiet pop of the logs breaking apart filled her ears.

“Declan?” she murmured.

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