Page 111 of Filthy Dark (Five Points' Mob Collection 3)

No, what had trapped me was the tag on my wrist.

Thinking of Amaryllis, my student, who had come to me for help with her partner who’d been kidnapped, I wished we’d been close enough for me to call her, to find out how her partner was doing. But I barely knew her. Barely knew anyone in this life anymore.

Well, except for Declan.

The whirl of the city blurred by, and Seamus, who’d never visited, and who’d often complained and even had a tantrum or two over not being able to come with me on my infrequent trips, was in a stupor as he came to terms with his new home.

In such a short span of time, everything had changed. In more ways than one. I’d gone from thinking that Dec would loathe me, to actually feeling like we might make something work. And I said ‘something’ because I’d never be the wife he probably thought he wanted.

I’d take a back seat, not take center stage when the macho man act had to come out, but no way was I putting the brakes on my career. No way was I going to stop doing what I loved.

Having figured out a path for myself with Seamus, I saw no reason why a boyfriend or husband would get in the way.

At first, I thought we were being taken on a scenic route, and then when we eventually made it to Hell’s Kitchen, I realized what had happened.

They’d taken us around and around in circles, driving from one part of the city to the other depending on whose territory we were in.

Amazing how these things were coming back to me. Amazing how I’d forgotten that a city wasn’t just split into blocks and districts and neighborhoods, but into invisible lines that were ruled by no governing body that had been elected by the people and for the people.

There were worlds within worlds here, cities within cities. It was a hard, cruel life, and I was envious of the people who weren’t touched by it. But, in the grand scheme of things, fewweren’ttouched.

Protection money had to be paid if you owned a business or a restaurant. Drugs were dealt on street corners, bikers passed by on major arterial roads, protecting shipments that were under watch from the FBI. Most people would never come into contact with the Feds, but for us, it was a way of life.

I reached up and fiddled with one of my earrings, and when a KFC came into sight, I didn’t even have the option of eating in. We went through the drive-thru.

A little peeved at the lack of choice, even if it was for our security, we placed our orders, grabbed our food, and Seamus tucked in.

It always amazed me how my big kid reverted to his younger self when fast food was on the table. He beamed a grin, the first for a few days, and I had to hold back a smile at the sight of the honey mustard sauce coating his lips like makeup.

I didn’t bother cleaning him up—I wasn’t that kind of mom. He was only going to get dirty again, so I just let him enjoy his meal and questioned him about his choice of school.

When I knew Midlands would suit him, and that it was what he really wanted for himself, I focused on the streets again, and wouldn’t you know it?

Somehow, we’d ended up right outside my old home.

Stuck at a red light, I leaned forward, and while I didn’t know the driver or the guards, I knew they’d know the answer to my question.

“Do Mary and Kyle O’Neill still live there?”

One of the men, George, had a wide smile and kind eyes, but he lived on his nerves, always fidgeting, which made his gun rattle against the holster and his belt buckle jiggle. The men wore expensive suits, which told me they weren’t just gofers—the lowest of the low—but high-ranking.

In this world, a man guarded his treasures or they were taken from him.

It was strange to think of myself that way, and with anyone else, I’d feel like an object. But Declan had a way about him, a way that made me feel cherished. These past weeks together had only confirmed that.

“The O’Neills still live there, yeah,” George answered, and the driver, Jerry, an older guy with a watchful stare, scanned the road like we were in downtown Benghazi.

“Can we stop, please?”

George blinked and Jerry caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Why, ma’am?”

God, I hated being called ‘ma’am.’ I was in my early thirties, not ready to settle into my dotage.

Gritting my teeth, I muttered, “They’re my parents, and I haven’t seen them in years.”

What I didn’t say was that if my parents’ schedule hadn’t changed—which I highly doubted because it hadn’t altered an inch in the years of my childhood—then Dad would be tucked away in the pub with his cronies and Mom would be alone.

I wanted to see her. It had been too long, not only between visits but for phone calls.

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