Page 48 of My Irish Mafia King

“She seems nervous,” Colm mutters.

“She is,” I tell him gruffly. “But that’s the thing with Lucy. She knows how to push through. How to keep going. She never quits. She’s been like that her whole damn life, and that’s not about to change now. She can do this.”

Nineteen

LUCY

Iwait around the corner from the men’s bathroom. When Owen emerges, I walk down the hall, then stop in front of him. He looks like a kind elderly man… except for something in his eyes. It’s difficult to say what, exactly. It’s a vibe.

“Mr. Doyle, isn’t it?”

“Owen, please,” he says with a thin smile.

“Owen, I’m not sure if you remember?—”

“We just met. I’m not senile.”

“Sorry.” My heart is thundering so hard, I wonder if it’s going to block out the recording device. “I was wondering if we could speak. It’s a delicate matter. I think it’s better if we do it in private.”

“What could we possibly have to speak about in private, girl?”

I swallow. This is it: the gamble. If I bet wrong, I could ruin any shot we have of proving that Owen is behind this. I’m trusting Killian’s instincts. And, after briefly meeting these two men, it seems far more likely that level-headed Owen is behind it than Frank, who’s already incredibly drunk.

“The mob,” I say.

His eyes snap open widely. “What has Killian told you?”

“Nothing,” I reply. “This isn’t coming from Killian. A man has been visiting my bakery for quite some time, and he mentioned you, sir.”

I somehow keep a steady voice. The whole time, I’m watching Owen for a reaction to what I say. His smile returns, more calculating and belittling than before. I imagine him thinking,This stupid little thing doesn’t know what she’s getting herself involved with…

“I’m not agreeing that I have any notion of what you’re talking about,” Owen mutters. “But yes, perhaps speaking in private would be better. Follow me, then.”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Ignoring my question, he snaps, “So, does Killian know you’re aware this is a mob gathering?”

“Killian’s just a businessman trying to do a good deed,” I tell him. “He was going to invest in my bakery. He was there so I could show him some of my special menus when that attack happened. And he helped me with something else… concerning that man I mentioned.”

“A businessman,” Owen says, laughing harshly, the kind mask slipping away. “Is that what he told you? This will do… Well, open the door, will you? Can’t you see I need some help?” He says, lifting his cane.

“Are you sure we’re allowed to use the manager’s office?” I say for the benefit of Killian, so he knows where we are.

“I own the hotel, so I’d imagine so, girl. After you…”

Fear spikes in me as I walk ahead of him. What if he pulls out a gun and simply shoots me? I gave Killian my word that I could do this, but the deeper I get, the more terrifying it becomes.

He closes the door behind us, then leans against it, gripping the pommel of his walking stick in both hands. From the way he holds it, it seems more like a weapon than a tool of assistance.

“Why don’t you enlighten me about what you think you know?”

“For months, a man named Shane Delaney has been visiting my bakery to collect payments. I knew he worked for the mob, but not for who… until recently, when he arrived with a prisoner. I demanded that he let her go. He got angry, and he mentioned your name. Owen Doyle. He said that if I didn’t do what he wanted, I’d have to answer to Owen Doyle.”

“He used my name,” Owen mutters, his eyes widening, his jaw pulsing like he’s trying not to scream. “My name specifically.”

“After that, Killian helped me get rid of the man. I don’t know where he took him. I know nothing. But when I heard you were going to be at this party?—”

“You stupid bitch,” he cuts in.

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