Page 68 of Stolen Mafia Vows
Thirdly, Emily isn’t your typical mafia princess. Sure, she has grown up with immense wealth, but she isn’t entitled. She can buy whatever she wants, but she is more comfortable checking out thrift stores in an old pair of Vans and a faded denim jacket than she would be shopping on Fifth Avenue. She isn’t the kind of girl who would trade in a car because it isn’t the right shade of pink.
So, there’s only one explanation for her absence.
She got into someone else’s vehicle.
And I know exactly who that someone is.
Her dad came to Ireland with the sole intention of taking her back to New York. Emily might’ve thought that she won the argument when he let her drive away, but he was simply the cat toying with the mouse before he pounced.
Locking the car, I pocket the keys and go back to the 4x4. I start the engine and enjoy the blast of heat on my damp face while I consider my options. I locate Emily’s number on my call log and hit the green button.
The number you are calling is currently switched off.
Makes sense.
Terry Keegan isn’t going to let me get close to his daughter. He’s a mafia enforcer, the ‘shoot first, talk later’ kind, and Emily isn’t a high-profile casino guest being pawed by a drunk gambler. The stakes are too high. He won’t be easy to find, and my face is probably target-number-one for every member of his team.
So, instead of driving back towards the airport, I head in the opposite direction towards the cottage by the sea where Sienna and Kyle are currently staying. Sienna is the only person who supported Emily getting to know me, and the only one likely to listen to my version of events.
Right now, I could use a friend in the enemy camp.
There are more cars parked outside the tiny cottage and the neighboring properties than I remember from my first visit. The door to the next cottage opens as I kill the engine, and a tall, bald guy dressed head-to-toe in black steps outside, his black wraparounds aimed my way. His hand hovers above the holster that’s obviously strapped to his hips.
I keep my movements nice and slow.
Open the door. Hands in full view of the security guy. Stand beside the car, palms facing outward above my head to show him that I’m unarmed.
A sound from the cottage where I was introduced to Sienna before she had the baby, catches my attention, but I react a fraction of a second too late. A bullet grazes my left shoulder as I turn to face Terry Keegan, filling the doorway with his broad frame, a revolver aimed directly at my chest. He must’ve brought Emily back here instead of taking her directly to the airport.
“Don’t move a fucking muscle,” he growls.
My shoulder stings. I’ve no doubt that if Terry Keegan had wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be standing here now waiting for him to shoot me a second time, but my brain is taking its sweet time trying to figure out why I’m still alive.
He must want something. And that something involves Emily.
If he’s trying to scare me, he’ll have to do better than this. On the other hand, if he’s willing to talk, this is his way of laying down the ground rules first.
“Toss your weapons aside.”
“I’m unarmed.” My voice is steady.
His stepson killed my brother; this man will understand the significance of me putting Emily before revenge against Ruairi’s murderer.
A flicker of irritation crosses his eyes. “I don’t have time for games. Weapons or the next bullet ends the conversation right fucking now.”
“I’m not playing games.” I hold his gaze. “I only want five minutes with Emily before she leaves with you.”
His thumb cocks the cylinder of the gun in his hand, the click a warning for me to stop messing around and give the situation the respect it warrants.
Terry crosses the threshold, bringing him and his weapon a step closer. I don’t see any resemblance between him and Emily. His eyes are deep-set, the prominent brows making them appear murky as a muddy stream. His features are heavier, his jawline sporting thick dark stubble, his cheeks ruddy where Emily’s are flawlessly pink. Either she inherited her mom’s genes, or the years of dealing with gangsters have weathered the similarities beyond recognition.
“Nice try, loser.” His eyes narrow. His finger applies pressure to the trigger as he extends his arm and takes another step towards me. “Last chance to ditch your weapons.”
“I’m unarmed,” I repeat. “I’m not here to start a?—”
The next bullet hits its target, my right shoulder, sending flaming signals to my brain and shooting down my spine. He’s blocking the doorway behind him from my view, and he’s using a silencer, but the thought of Emily watching this scene pan out from behind a window overtakes the pain bouncing around inside my skull and replaces it with anger.
Shooting her husband and forcing her to watch isn’t the key to winning whatever battle he thinks he’s fighting here. The guy’s so out of touch with his own daughter that he doesn’t deserve to take her home.
