Page 94 of Mob Saint

Nothing.

Just more pounding. It sounds like they’re about to break it down like they did my front one. I don’t know who it is. Police? Would they open fire without warning? Or did Cormac and Kieran start shooting first? Is it whoever’s been stalking me? Another syndicate or gang that found out where three head mob members were and thought this place was unsecure? Where are the men Seamus said Dillan stationed around here?

I hear my bedroom door give way. I don’t move. I can’t hear myself breathe. I pray over and over that Seamus is alive. If they made it up here, then these invaders made it past my boyfriend and his family. Oh, God. Are they dead because of me?

“Tiernan Furey, this is the NYPD. We have a warrant for your arrest and extradition to New Jersey. Come out with your hands where we can see them.”

Not a fucking chance in hell. I don’t know who that is. I don’t know what’re lies and truths. I’m not admitting I’m in here. If the guy wants to slip a warrant under the door, then he can go for it. But I’m not acknowledging him. Asking to see it just confirms where I am.

“Ms. Furey, open the door. You have ten seconds to comply, or we will enter the bathroom.”

I think about what I can reach to use as a weapon. I ease the shower curtain open and stretch as far as I can to open the cabinet beneath the sink. I grab the bottle of spray disinfectant. I hear the doorknob jiggle. I grab the second bottle. I thought of Seamus as a cowboy gunslinger when we were at Gareth’s, and he had the two handguns.

Holy fucking shit. That was this morning.

Now I’m the gunslinger. I almost want to try twirling the spray bottles over my fingers.

“Ms. Furey, this is your last warning.”

The guy pounds on the door three more times before it flies open. He kicked it. I sweep my gaze over him and the men behind him. They’re in police uniforms, but I see the patch on the arm. It looks like NYPD, but it’s not. There’s not an easy way to describe what’s wrong since the design is correct, but it’s just off. I’ve spent a lot of years looking at the emblem. I know when it’s fake.

He approaches, and like a caricature of someone from the Wild Wild West, I wield my spray bottle, shooting him straight in the eyes. He bellows and staggers back. The next man pushes forward, dodging away from where I just aimed. He didn’t notice the bottle in my other hand. I aim for his open mouth as he’s about to say something. He splutters, then curses. He reaches for me, but I spray him in the eyes too. He puts his hand up and shields himself, but not until after some of the liquid meets his face.

A third guy points his gun at me. My disinfectant is no match for bullets. I’m not ready to back down, but neither am I going to antagonize the man who can put a bullet through my head. I don’t put either bottle down. I don’t even lower them. I just don’t pull the trigger. I watch him approach as the first two men rub their eyes and cough.

“Ms. Furey, that wasn’t wise. Drop the bottles, then step out of the bathtub. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Where are the O’Rourkes?”

“Dead.”

That wasn’t the right answer to give if he wants me to cooperate. Even if it’s the truth, it won’t make me come any easier. They’ll be dragging me out before I leave Seamus behind. Whether or not he’s alive doesn’t matter.

“Who are you?”

“NYPD.”

“No, you’re not. Who are you?”

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Then who’s your employer?”

He grins, and it turns my blood to ice.

“You don’t need to worry about that either.”

“His dick is so small he has to send men to do his work for him.”

I’m testing him. There’s a flash of something in his eyes that makes me wonder if his employer—he’s a mercenary for sure—is a woman. If it’s a woman, then this is about vengeance. Makayla comes to mind since I saw her name in Seamus’s texts. She’s been around for three years, but I’ve only known Seamus three months. Hillary comes to mind since she was pissed about Aaron and me, but she’s married with three kids now. She loves her husband and hasn’t shown any interest in me since she met the guy. Could that have been for show? I mean, she could be happy with her life and still hate me. Gretchen? We don’t like each other, but we haven’t argued in years.

What woman could I have pissed off that much?

What man could I have pissed off that much?

I have no idea, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since I finished my letter of resignation. I’ve wracked my brain to come up with anyone who’d loathe me so much that they’d spend three years extorting Gareth to get to me. I even wondered if it was Aaron from the grave. Did he hire someone to carry this out posthumously?

I don’t have answers to any of these questions, and I’m unlikely to until I meet whoever is behind this. I haven’t ruled out the O’Briens’ rivals either. The northern New Jersey Italians haven’t been that strong in a decade. The Mancinellis moved in when a bunch of the Stiglionos went away. It was a bone of contention that the Stiglionos ever rose to power since they’re from Italy’s Matera region and not Sicily.

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