Page 65 of Velvet Chains
“Then I do what I do best.”
I looked at him.
He grinned, humorless and sharp. “I turn you into an innocent victim of a violent stalker with a decades-long history of threatening public servants.”
“You’re going to spin it?”
“I’m going to tell the story, Ruby. That’s what we do. We tell it first, and we tell it better.”
I swallowed. “What if I can’t?”
“You can.” He met my eyes. “You will. Because you’re a mother, and the world is about to forget that—unless we remind them. We’ll show them who Mickey Russell really was. And as for Kieran Callahan?” He leaned in, quieter now. “He’s just a man. But your daughter? She’s everything.”
I nodded, throat tight.
He took the seat beside me instead of across. Close. Steady.
And I started writing.
Chapter Eighteen: Kieran
Back rooms were meant for secrets, and today, we had more than our share.
The club wasn’t open yet—not this early. The floor was still sticky from last night, and the speakers hadn’t been tested, but the privacy it offered was worth the sour smell of vodka and sweat. Liam was already pacing when I arrived—hoodie inside out, half a shave, twitchy in that way he got when something was slipping through his fingers.
“You look like shit,” I said.
“I feel like shit. Sit down.”
I did as he told me. The office here was dark, even with the dim light bulb illuminating it. My dad had furnished this club and the chairs were red and ugly, with tall backs and wooden details. At least they were comfortable.
I sat down next to Liam, scanning the room for any clues as to what the fuck might be going on.
“You don’t look much better yourself,” Liam said, setting his gaze on me.
“I think it’s a Callahan thing.”
Liam twisted his mouth. “Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. He reached for a folded memo on the table and slid it toward me with two fingers.
I picked it up and scanned it. Homeland Security. FBI. Boston DA. Joint memo. Internal distribution only. My name. Ruby Marquez. Callahan Imports flagged as a “known laundering vector.”
The bottom line? Lots of really bad shit.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Pulled it from a friend of a friend’s inbox,” Liam said. “One of the junior prosecutors in Boston had their credentials used to log a memo into DOJ channels last night. That document wasn’t supposed to be public. Which means someone’s spooked.”
I sank into the closest chair. “Is this about the port?”
“Yeah. Secondary inspection flagged a container. Number was on your roster. Courier panicked and ran.”
“They weren’t supposed to run.”
“Well, they did. Which means the container’s sitting in secondary now with a bunch of dogs sniffing around, and Customs didn’t call you because they think it’s federal.”
“What difference does that make? We have guys in Customs to flag shit like this, whether federal or not.”
“Yeah, well, our guys are spooked,” Liam said. “Which is so fucking stupid. They should be afraid of us, not them.”
