Page 39 of The Mob and his Messenger

“How do we know you have them?” Gabriel snaps, real emotion stabbing in his voice.

There’s a rustling on the other side of the line and then, about a minute later, I hear Dallas’s voice raised and behind it Poppet’s yapping.

“It’s okay, girl. Just be quiet. Just settle down and everything will be okay, I promise.”

“Please, just let us go,” Samantha cries.

I make to talk, to call out Dallas’s name, but then the line cuts off.

A moment later, the address comes through.

Gabriel and I exchange a glance and then wordlessly climb to our feet, walking silently to the elevator at the rear of the room, the private one that will take us straight to the parking lot.Chapter Twenty-OneDallasMom and I sit in the corner of the dank gray cell, the stone walls moist and cold. Poppet’s finally stopped barking at the two guards who stand at the door, but her hackles are raised and she’s taken to pacing up and down, snarling at them every so often.

Every time she does this, I have to tell her to stop because otherwise, I’ve got no idea what they’re going to do to her.

Mom sulks beside me, sobbing softly.

Tears of my own have already dried and crusted on my cheeks.

The impact of this morning’s events thud through me with cruel vividness.

I remember the look on Mom’s face when she saw me walking up the alleyway, where she’d texted me to meet her behind the restaurant. She’d started to cry immediately and, at the last moment, she threw her hands up and screamed.

“Run, Dallas,” she cried. “Get out of here, now. I don’t care if they kill me. Oh, God, what have I done?”

I stared at her in confusion for a moment, which turned out to be a moment far too long. Armed Irishmen emerged from the shadows all around us, dressed in black masks, gloved, looking like a SWAT team as a van pulled up and they bundled us all inside. I was so focused on keeping Poppet calm, I just went with them, and now we’ve been sitting in here for hours, our only toilet a disgusting broken thing in the corner.

Neither of us has had to use it, thankfully.

Yet.

I know now that Cillian was part of the Irish mob, and Mom’s so-called technology detox was actually an excuse for him to kidnap her and not arouse my suspicion. He brought her here and then they used her to lure me out here. I’d almost be impressed if it wasn’t so fucked up and evil.

I close my eyes and try not to let my mind return to the way Dom looked in that video, the casual way he took those men’s lives. I don’t want to think about it because it means he’s not the Dom I thought he was.

But also—I have to admit this.

There’s also the desire for that Dom to come here, right now, guns blazing, ready to unleash his beast and save us.

Patty is a pale, ghostly looking man, with the crimson cheeks of an alcoholic. When we were taken from the back of the van and brought into this warehouse, he sprung forward like an excited child, nonchalantly waving a foot long machete at Poppet.

“If that bitch tries anything, I’m going to cut her fucking tail off and stick it down her throat,” he said gleefully, and then waved it at Mom and me. “As for you two, I doubt you’ve got tails. But I’ll find something to do the job.”

Anger pricks at me as I feel Mom’s gaze on me. I just want her to leave me alone to my thoughts, so I can think of a way to get us out of here, a way to forgive Dom, a way to tell Dad, a way to keep Poppet alive—there are more important problems right now, basically, than Mom wanting me to tell her it’s all okay.

“Dallas,” she murmurs.

“I know, Mom,” I snap, turning to her quickly. “You didn’t mean it. You had no choice. It’s not your fault. What else were you supposed to do? I get it, Mom. Every time something bad happens, you’re always in there right away with your laundry list of excuses. So fine. It’s okay. I forgive you. Are you happy now?”

She blinks but doesn’t fly into her own rage like I expect her to.

“No,” she whispers. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry, okay? Just … I’m sorry. That’s all.”

Guilt jabs at me and I reach across, taking her hand in mine.

“I love you, Mom,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just scared.”

“Me too,” she says, squeezing my hand in support. “Do you think that horrid man has called your father yet? Do you think that’s why he came in here with the phone so that he could prove he had us?”

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