Page 113 of Mob Princess

I shake my head. She knows that wasn’t a good idea. There’s noise at the door. She shifts to look past me, but I don’t turn. I grab the phone and put it to my ear.

“This shit isn’t over.” I hang up before the piece of shit says anything else.

Lucy tries to push me and bolt for the door as it crashes open. I know who it is. At least, I’m pretty fucking certain. I shift, so Lucy can’t get past me. She opens her mouth to scream again, and the gun slips past her teeth.

“Sean, I will kill her. Back off until I’m done.”

“Cailín—”

“Not yet.”

I want to turn and run into his arms, but this isn’t done yet. I pull my phone from my pocket and tap the screen. The call’s still connected. I unlock it with my thumb and hold it up to my ear.

“Did you motherfucking know?”

“No, Nik. I swear. I’ll kill him myself. This is shit only you can fix.”

“You think I want to. I don’t. You’re on your own, big brother, and so is he.”

I hang up and pull the gun from Lucy’s mouth.

“Who was he going to say before you cut him off?” I’m not ready to name names yet in front of Sean and his family.

“Sean, she’s crazy. She broke in here and is holding me hostage. Help me.”

I hear Sean approach, and for a moment, I think he’s going to stop me. He’s going to choose her.

“Help yourself.” I speak before Sean can. “Who was his guy? Who’d he get to help him?”

“Mikhail someone or other.”

“Bratva? With an English accent?” I don’t dare glance at Sean, but I want to.

“Yeah. I guess. But this guy’s been an independent contractor kinda deal.”

“There’s no ‘I guess’. There’s no someone or other. You tripped up with your lies. You’d met him more than once. You definitely heard him speak more than once. You recommended him. What’s his name?”

She hesitates. I point the gun down and shoot her other foot. She howls.

“You were never going to walk out of here. Who took Sean?”

“Lina, I already know.”

I ignore Sean. “Answer me, Lucy. Look at me, not Sean. Answer me. I will make this quick if you do. If you don’t, you’ll wish you were a man, and an O’Rourke got to you first.”

“Mikhail Apagov.”

“Was this the bratva? Did a Kutsenko order this?”

“No. Mikhail and I—we have a history. I get him odd jobs sometimes. This was one of them.”

“You just lied about a man with an English accent, didn’t you? It was Russian.”

“Yeah.”

I cock an eyebrow before my gaze really sweeps the place. I spot a couple of things that confirm what I suspect.

“He pays for this place, doesn’t he?”

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