Page 2 of Forbidden Romeo

I snort—like father, like son. “Got a tip from the ticket office that Maguires have been here every night this week.”

Graham’s expression darkens. “Staking us out?”

“Or something. Seems like one hell of a risk when they already know this place is swarming with our people.”

“How has no one caught them yet?” Graham says, glancing at the armed members of the Dead Eyesstationed at every exit of the arena below.

“Luck of the Irish, I guess,” I reply bitterly.

“We’re more Irish than those fucking British sympathizers,” Graham spits to emphasize his point. As if any of us need reminding that Graham is proud of his family name.

I simply nod at this and lean back in my chair. “Well, I guess their luck is running out tonight, then.”

“You got an ID on them?”

As Graham says this, a young man dressed in the Luckiesuniform approaches the box. I turn to him with a smile—perfect timing. “Sal, has our guest of honor arrived yet?”

“Yes, sir,” Sal confirms and passes me a folded note before scampering away.

I unfold it quickly, noting the contents before passing it on to Graham:

F23

“Seat number?” Graham confirms unnecessarily—I’m already scanning the crowds.

Then I see it, the flash of red hair that’s so unmistakably Maguire, my toes begin to curl. Not to mention that the man is staring right at us, despite the fact one of the scrawny fighters has just managed a knockout.

“Seems we have an admirer,” I comment and stand up with a stretch. “Fancy a walk, Graham?”

Graham seems to spot him, too, and frowns. “Why do I recognize him?”

“I thought you said all those ginger twats look the same?” I say as the ginger twat in question stands up too.

“He’s too confident, Jack,” Graham says as we watch him leave the arena without any of our men seeming to notice. “Send the boys after him first.”

I groan a little. “Don’t want to ruin your nice suit?”

“I’m serious.”

“Come on, when was the last time we roughed up a Maguire together?” I counter.

Graham stares up at me, unwavering. “They’re clearly planning something. And you’re just itching for a fight.”

“When have you known the Maguires to demonstrate they have more than two brain cells to rub together?” I glance back at the arena; the man has disappeared from sight. It’s now or never. “Padraic will give you the ‘Best Son’ award if you bring him in yourself. Bet it’ll come with a little gold trophy and everything.”

“You’re his son, too,” Graham snaps back, but I can see his resolve wavering.

“Barely,” I reply. “Besides, you know you’re going to get credit for this anyway, may as well earn it.”

It’s a low blow that I’ll definitely pay for later, but I know it will work. Sure enough, Graham is on his feet a moment later, giving me a look that promises an untimely end.

“Let’s walk,” Graham Duffy announces, and his entire demeanor changes. He slips seamlessly from his lighthearted mask into his true self—the legitimate heir to the Dead Eyesmob and son of one of the most powerful men in New York City. Graham Duffy isn’t a man you tease about women or his chances in the boxing ring; Graham Duffy is a man you run from.

Despite everything, I’m just glad I get to walk by his side.

On our way out, I pick up a knife and pistol from the surrender box and conceal them casually—knowing full well that Graham is probably carrying an arsenal already. He whispers to the men at the door, no doubt telling them to trail us, before gesturing to me to follow him out the front door.

New York is never quite dark, yet stepping into Hell’s Kitchen at this time of night always has me on high alert. With the fight in full swing, the street outside the underground arena is eerily quiet.

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