Page 7 of Forbidden Girl

I shrug. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Girl, we’ve been friends for a decade. Like we don’t know you could teach the CIA a thing or two about the art of subterfuge.” Shannon gives me an eyeroll.

Rose backs her up. “Like that time in high school you told your dad you were sleeping over at my place, and paid a homeless woman fifty dollars to pretend to be my mom, call him from my phone, and confirm it, only to go to Ryan’s house and get wasted.”

“His parents had good booze, okay?”

She chuckles. “You’re a genius, Juliet, but one of these days your luck is gonna run out.”

“Yeah, yeah. That day is not today.” I signal to our waitress that I’m going to need another cocktail post haste.

SIX

ROWAN

“Tick tock, Monaghan,” Frankie barks at me through his postnasal drip the moment we set foot on the dock. He has his gun out, waving it around like the tough guy he tries so hard and fails to be. His two backup thugs seem unimpressed by the display of toxic manliness.

“You have somewhere more important to be?” I respond. “And put your piece away.” This is the part of the evening where we enter our usual power struggle stare-down. He doesn’t like being told what to do by the “filthy Irish,” or by a woman, and probably by a tried-and-true lesbian who has shut down his advances more than once. But I’ve got what he needs. He has zero leverage and he’s well aware of it.

His shiny Colt glints in the wharf lights as he tucks it into his waistband. Subdued now, he gives Elisa a once-over and nods. “Hey, cuz. How ya doing?”

She purses her lips, not thrilled to see his messy ass, but she’s polite, nonetheless. “Hi. Doing fine.” Her smile seems effortless, though I recognize that it’s forced.

I have no patience for him, either. I want to get this the fuck over with ASAP. Of all the things I hate about my job—which would be all the things—handling drugs is number one on the list. “Where’s the cash?”

“Where’s the shit?”

I turn to Ben, give him the go-ahead. He lifts the metal briefcase he’s been lugging around all night and places it atop a blue plastic barrel, snaps the lock-clips, and pops it open. Frankie looks at the two perfectly wrapped kilo-bricks of blow like he’s found his soulmate. It’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen.

“What’s it cut with?”

“Do I look like I cooked it, you goombah? That’s not my job, I’m just the transporter.”

“Oh, you got jokes.” He sneers, pulls a switchblade from his pants pocket and releases the blade. He cuts a small, thin line into one of the wrappers and scoops out a sizable mound of white powder, shoves the stuff up his nose, then sniffles. “That’s nice.” He goes for a second scoop and offers it to me. “Bump?”

“No, thanks.” You’re the only braciola-for-brains on the pier tonight.

He shrugs like suit yourself. “Give her the money,” he says over his shoulder. The tall, bald guy in the navy-blue blazer comes forward. He plunges his giant hand into his jacket, fishes around inside, and pulls out a thick, folded yellow legal envelope.

Ben takes it from him, then undoes the clasped flap. “You don’t have to count it,” I tell him. His brow furrows. “Alfonso bankrolled it. We’re all good.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Frankie says as he closes the briefcase. “You want a ride home, El?” he asks her pointedly, as though he doesn’t trust me with her.

The nerve of this asshole. She’s safer with me than she is with him. I’m less reckless than his showy self could ever be—not that the cops would give either of us shit, our families have so many of them in our pockets. But if he’s willing to take her off my hands, I can ditch the guys and go back to the bar alone. “It’s cool with me if you want to leave with him.” I didn’t want to take her out tonight in the first place. It was my father arranging our dates, per usual. It’s always on nights like this one, when he’s got some hardcore criminal errand he needs me to run. He thinks it’ll be a bonding experience for Elisa and me if we share the culpability. And the guilt. All we have in common is the filthy lawless world we grew up in and he knows it.

There’s a glint of dejection in Elisa’s brown irises as she glares at me. I’m aware of how awful I am to her: I treat her like she’s a colossal waste of my time, and that’s by design. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough to get us both out of this predetermined clusterfuck if she’s unhappy with me. She’s a daddy’s girl and regardless of how ambitious Alfonso may be, his daughter’s happiness will always come first. The trouble is she kind of likes me, despite my indifference toward her. I’ll have to try harder.

“Sure, Frankie,” she agrees, demure. “You can drive me home.” She steps closer to me, places the gentlest kiss on my left cheek. Reflex beats me at my own game, and I put my hand on her hip. She moves away, then runs her fingers through her long, jet-black hair. “Will you text me?” Her tone is so hopeful.

She’s not made for this world. She’s a wounded gazelle and I’m a ravenous lion. “Yeah.”

She nods, satisfied as always with what little I’ve given her.

I watch her and the rest of the Rossis disappear into the blackness, then unclip the carabiner from my beltloop, remove my gun from my holster, turn to Merrick and hand him both. “Take the Wrangler and do… I don’t care what, I need some me time.”

He glowers at me, knowing that I won’t be alone during “me time.” I only ever part with my piece when I’m with Jules. He doesn’t disapprove of her; he worries for me. It’s not just Patrick Calloway and most of his family, there are a lot of people in this city who hate me because I’m a Monaghan.

“Can you keep your phone on? Your dad almost murdered me the last time I told him I didn’t know where you were and he couldn’t get ahold of you.”

---