Page 33 of Crown of Smoke

I step inside the pub, making a beeline for the bar when a meaty hand clamps down on my shoulder.

"Hold up." The bouncer's face darkens with recognition. "You're the prick who jumped my boys in the alley."

I keep my expression neutral. "Just here for a drink."

"Like hell you are." His fingers dig deeper. I do my best not to wince even though he’s found a bruise I gained at the fight two nights ago.

"Hey, Mike!" A stocky guy with a crooked nose approaches, eyes lighting up. "This is the fighter from the other night. The one who destroyed O'Malley."

Mike's grip loosens slightly. "That right?"

"Damn straight. Like Daniel taking down Goliath." Crooked Nose extends his hand. "Name's Patrick. You got skills, kid. Real skills."

I shake his hand, maintaining my fighter persona. "Thanks. Just trying to earn some extra cash."

"Cash?" Patrick laughs. "You could earn way more working for Mr. Kean. We're always looking for guys who can handle themselves."

"Appreciate the offer, but I prefer keeping things simple. Just want to fight, collect my winnings, maybe have a quiet drink." I nod toward the bar.

"Your loss." Patrick shrugs, then turns to Mike. "Let him be. He's good people."

Mike releases my shoulder with a grunt. I slide onto a barstool, ordering whiskey neat, needing something stronger than beer. I feel like I’m on borrowed time here. Mike and Patrick don’t seem too worried about me, but Conner and O’Brian might. My original plan was to keep a low profile while also fitting in. Sort of hide in plain sight. But between the incident in the alley and now the fight, I’m drawing too much attention to myself. I need to find another way to get information.

I act normal as I drink my whiskey and toss a tip on the counter and make my way to the exit.

“Sure you don’t want to give up the fights for something more lucrative?” Patrick says as I reach the door.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m happy with the fights.” I leave the pub and head to my car. Lucy's face flashes through my mind. She's already knee-deep in this investigation, already has contacts and sources willing to talk to a pretty journalist. And she's going to keep digging whether I help her or not.

Maybe it's time to change tactics, let her take point while I fade back into the shadows where I belong.

I pull out my phone, checking the time. I don’t know if she has regular hours. If she does, she should be home. Either way, I decide to go to her place.

When I get there, I knock, but there’s no answer. A sliver of worry slides down my spine, concerned that she’s met foul play. I check her door, and I’m pissed that she hasn’t updated her locks while glad that I can slip in. I use my license to break in again. She’ll be pissed, but maybe she’ll get the point. If I can break in, so can Kean’s men.

I prowl through her living room, taking in the organized chaos of her investigative work. Papers spread across her coffee table, Post-It notes on her walls connecting various Kean family members. She's thorough, I'll give her that. And determined.

Her bedroom door stands ajar. I shouldn't look, really shouldn't. But I need to check all entry points, right? The window fire escape needs better locks too. At least that's what I tell myself as I step inside.

Her bed is unmade, sheets tangled like she rushed out this morning. A well-worn robe is draped over a chair.

I head to her kitchen and raid her refrigerator, finding a bottle of beer. Opening it, I take it with me to the couch and settle in with her notes to see if she has anything new. She's already gathered impressive intel on the Keans' operation. Considering how easily she gets into trouble, I’m surprised the Keans aren’t on to her. If she’s going to keep poking her nose deeper and deeper into the Keans and the murder of my family, she’ll need protection. She’ll need me to stick close to her.

I smile as I sip my beer. Yes, indeed. I plan to stick to Lucy like Super Glue.

13

LUCY

Ifreeze in my doorway, keys dangling from my fingers. Flynn sits in my dimly lit living room on my couch like he owns the place.

"How did you—" My mouth goes dry. "What are you doing here?" Part of me wants to run, but another part can't tear my eyes away from him. The dangerous edge I've always sensed lurks closer to the surface now.

"Your locks are shit." He holds up a piece of paper, one of my research notes about the Ifrinn family fire. "Found this while I was checking your place."

"Checking my—" The words stick in my throat. "You broke into my apartment?"

"More than once." His blue eyes lock onto mine, unrepentant as he rises and moves toward me. "One time, you were here. In the bath."

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