Page 5 of Wicked Duty
I should give Shane a polite no and fly book it to Ireland for my annual visit right now. Only an idiot—or someone incredibly reckless and greedy—would steal from a notorious mobster.
If Lucy Marlow’s gotthatbig a death wish, the Kings should keep their money. No amount they pay me will be enough to prevent the heat from coming for this girl. Darren wants to keep Veronika happy by protecting her friend, but we aren’t miracle workers.
Theories fly through my mind. “What did she take?”
“A crypto wallet.” Shane pulls the cigar from his mouth and blows out a cloud of smoke. “Rumored to be worth around one-hundred and fifty-three million dollars.”
My mouth slips open.
How the fuck does someone successfully steal that much money from a monster like Roguilin without being vaporized by his extensive security network?
I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.
Shane rises from his seat, towering over me. “Callum.”
I stand up immediately. “Sir?”
“Get me that wallet.”
Not a question. Not a plea. An order. One that leaves no room for argument.
I knew I should’ve flown home to Ireland the second Darren called me.
Chapter 1
Lucy
He’s here. Again. In the same spot as the last three days, sitting with his back to the corner so he has a full view of Café Tomé. Every so often, he glances up from his tablet, scans the diner, and goes back to reading. He’s probably memorized the layout and decor by now.
Wooden tables and cozy upholstered seats cover the space.
Hydroponic plants in brightly patterned ceramic pots hang from the ceiling above him. I’m sure he knows exactly how many. Behind me looms a blackboard wall filled with elaborate chalk drawings and an extensive menu of coffees, teas, pastries, and sandwiches. He’s probably got that memorized too.
Servers bustle throughout the diner, greeting customers and delivering orders. White ceramic mugs clink against saucers. Steam hisses from the industrial espresso machine behind the counter, infusing the air with the aroma of coffee, and the door jingles every time someone saunters in.
Sally and Diana, two of my fellow servers, think “the man in the corner” is a journalist or coffee critic. Mike and Patrick, the guys who cook, peg him as a book publisher. Jerri, the owner of this quaint Brooklyn establishment, says FBI agent.
Not a single one of them suspects that he’s my bodyguard.
A young mother with a baby on her hip and a toddler at her side sets her purse on the empty table beside him. A closer glimpse of her new neighbor has her snatching her purse and tugging the toddler to another table.
I don’t blame her. Intimidation wafts from this man like stink off bro-dudes after a week at Burning Man.
Whenever he glances my way, goose bumps erupt over my arms. I can’t shake my anxiety, which always spikes in his presence.
The man is unnerving, not to mention dangerous. And his presence aggravates me.
The fact that he’s also gorgeous just makes him even more aggravating.
Callum Kavanagh. My bodyguard. He has dark auburn waves, cropped short and practical, an iron-strong jaw, and an arrow-straight nose that draws attention to a moody mouth that’s always tipped into a semi-permanent frown.
His green eyes, observant and cold, remind me of uranium glass. Overall, though, his tough features and calm, thoughtful expression do a fine job of hiding the more infuriating points of his personality.
My gaze travels to the faded scar along the right side of his jaw. Which, of course, only adds to his mysterious aura and amplifies his attractiveness.
His face alone would be distracting, but that face on top ofthat bodyis a whole other story. The man stands a couple of inches over six feet. Powerful, lean muscle packs an athletic build. He’s broad-shouldered and brawny and carries himself with surprising grace.
And my personal weakness? The man has style.
