Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
"You're absolutely certain about this?" Fearghus asks finally.
"On me mother's grave," I lie smoothly.
Oh, Lorcan my boy—
"Shut up, Father Patrick!"
On the other end of the call, Fearghus laughs. "That priest still haunts ya, huh?"
I don't have the patience for this. "Are we done here? Can I go back to sleep, seeing as how I drove for eighteen fucking hours to do this pointless job?"
He doesn't answer right away. Makes me wait, the bastard. Thinks I'm squirmin'. But truth be told, Fearghus hasn't made me squirm since I was sixteen.
"All right," he growls. But I can hear the shift in his tone—from interrogation to acceptance. "I'll pass it along to the LaRiccias. But Lorcan—"
"What."
"You better be right about this. Because if you're wrong, if Giovanni did kill their son and we're the ones who helped cover it up? That's not just bad business. That's a fuckin' war. You understand what I'm sayin'?"
"I understand perfectly." My voice is steady, calm. "And I'm tellin' ya—Giovanni Bavga didn't kill Rico LaRiccia."
What I'm not tellin' him is that Giovanni Bavga absolutely did kill Rico LaRiccia, probably with extreme prejudice based on what I've pieced together from Emmaleen's careful non-answers last night.
That Rico hurt her badly enough to put her in hospital for six days.
That Giovanni saved her by murdering the fucker who harmed his property.
Which is actually rather romantic in a deeply fucked-up way, now that I'm thinkin' about it.
Not that I'm condonin' murder. But if you're gonna murder someone, defendin' a woman from assault is at least a motivation that doesn't make you a complete monster.
Though Giovanni's still a monster. Just a monster with occasional flashes of somethin' resemblin' human emotion.
"Good," Fearghus says. "Ya can take the day today, but tomorrow I expect ya to be around. I've got three shipments coming in and I need you at the docks making sure everything runs smooth."
"Will do."
He hangs up without saying goodbye, which is typical Fearghus—the man treats phone conversations like military operations, efficient and devoid of unnecessary pleasantries.
I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear even though the call ended, brain spinnin' through the implications of what I've just done.
I've lied to my uncle. Lied to the LaRiccia family by extension. Lied to cover for Giovanni, who definitely committed the murder they're investigatin'.
And I've got the key witness handcuffed to my bed upstairs.
Brilliant plan, Lorcan. Truly inspired.
I'm turnin' away from the window, headin' for the stairs, already mentally preparin' myself to go back upstairs and figure out what the hell I'm gonna do about Emmaleen—whether that's tellin' her to act normal when the LaRiccias come sniffin' around, or takin' a shower to wash off the tension crawlin' under my skin, or just goin' back to sleep and pretendin' this entire day never happened—when the doorbell rings.
Sharp. Insistent. Cuttin' through the quiet like a blade.
"Fuck!"
My heart kicks against my ribs before I can stop it—instant adrenaline spike, fight-or-flight response firin' on all cylinders because my first thought is—
It's them. Already. The LaRiccias sent someone and I'm about to have a very difficult conversation while there's a handcuffed woman in my bedroom.
I cross the foyer in three strides, jaw tight, and check the security screen mounted beside the door—blood already boilin', hands flexin' at my sides, ready for whatever's comin'—and then I see the delivery truck parked at the curb, the logo stamped across the side panel.
My shoulders drop as I let out a breath. "For fuck's sake, Lorcan," I mutter, scrubbin' a hand down my face. "Get a hold of yourself."
It's my weekly grocery delivery. Nothing more sinister than that.
Which also means it's evening now. Not afternoon anymore. Five o'clock in the evening, to be precise—because the delivery always comes at five on the dot, every Monday like clockwork.
I've lost the entire day to sleepin' in, and not one moment of it was restful.
I don't open the door. It's contactless delivery—one of the few modern conveniences I've actually embraced, not out of efficiency but because I don't particularly enjoy small talk with strangers on my own doorstep.
So instead, I just stand there like a proper shut-in freak, pressin' myself against the wall beside the front window, peekin' around the edge of the frame like some paranoid recluse watchin' for signs of life in the outside world.
The delivery driver—a kid in his early twenties, I'd wager, wearin' a baseball cap and movin' with the kind of efficiency that comes from repeatin' the same task a hundred times a day—drops the bags on the front stoop, scans somethin' on his phone, then turns and jogs back to the truck without so much as a glance at the door.
Lorcan, my boy—
One of these days, I'm gonna kill that priest…
I haul the grocery bags inside one at a time, methodically unpackin' them into the fridge and cupboards with the kind of rigid focus that keeps me from over-thinkin' my life choices.