Page 56 of Forbidden Romeo

“Give me one goddamn reason I shouldn’t shoot you for selling me out to the Duffys,” she whispers, her voice laced with frustration and betrayal.

“Because I didn’t.”

Her gaze narrows, searching for the truth in my words. I hold my breath, waiting for her decision, hoping that she’ll see the sincerity in my eyes. The weight of the situation hangs heavily between us.

“Then who?” she finally asks.

“We can have this conversation in a more secure location,” I reply. “But right now, I need you to lower the gun and come with me.”

I half expect her to deny me, but after a moment, something in her breaks, and I watch in relief as she puts her gun down. I open a hand to her and she hands it over reluctantly.

“I have a bike just around the corner,” I say, tucking the gun in my jacket and setting off down the alley.

Aimee is at my side a split second later, glancing around us, more alert than I’ve ever seen her. “A bike?”

I lead her to my Harley—which is currently leaning against the wall of a boarded-up shop. I wouldn’t usually leave her out in the open like this, but thankfully off the main street, there are not as many people around. The black paint glistens like new, and I know when I start up the engine, she’ll purr like she’s just been wheeled off the showroom floor.

Usually, people are at least a little impressed when they see her. Aimee, however, looks entirely disenchanted with the idea.

“You can wear the helmet if you don’t trust my driving skills,” I say, offering it to her.

She mutters something under her breath about “safety” and “road traffic accidents” before taking the helmet from me and fastening it under her chin.

I shake my head. All the things to be worried about, and she’s fixating on traffic hazards?

Jumping onto the bike, I go through my usual checks. Thank God, the fuel is looking good; we’re going to need it. I rev the engine once, twice, before realizing Aimee hasn’t got on yet.

“Aimee…”

Through the windshield of the helmet, I can see her biting her lip. No doubt weighing up her options if the glance behind her is anything to go by.

“I’m the devil you know,” I say firmly, hoping it’s enough to sway her. “Promise I’m better than the devil you don’t.”

If we hang around much longer, someone will discover the bodies.

She seems to realize this too and, without a word, jumps on the back of the bike. Her arms hesitate before wrapping themselves around me.

I try not to think too hard about her warm body pressed against mine as I kick off the sidewalk and take us back to the main street.

***

The only place secure from Padraic is my apartment on the upper east side. It’s not as extravagant as the Duffys’ usual taste in properties, but it’s sturdy. Most importantly, it’s off the books for whenever I need to lie low. Especially from my family.

The moment we step into the industrial-style apartment, I’m hit with the familiar wave of raw urban charm. The spacious loft, with its open floor plan and high ceilings, finds a balance between ruggedness and sophistication.

The walls, all exposed bricks and weathered concrete, whisper stories of the building’s industrial past. Large windows stretch from floor to ceiling, flooding the space with an abundance of natural light.

A mix of vintage and contemporary furnishings fills the room. A plush leather sofa, an heirloom from my grandfather, sits next to a sleek glass coffee table. In one corner, an industrial metal bookshelf displays a curated collection of some of my favorite books, and a vintage record player perches on a reclaimed wood console, ready to fill the air with the warm melodies of vinyl.

It’s been a while since I’ve ever had need of it, but there have been countless times where I’ve had to lay low here. Usually, it rankled to be unable to do anything but sit on that couch, listening to the dulcet tones of 70s R&B, but if I could, I’d take Aimee and pull this place in around us for a few months.

When I walk into the living room, it takes me a moment to realize Aimee hasn’t budged an inch from the door.

I sigh. “You can come in, you know.”

“Who are you?”

Her expression is filled with determination, and I know getting through this particular conversation is going to take more than a little work. I’m quickly discovering that you’d be hard-pressed to meet a woman as stubborn as Aimee Maguire.

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