Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Just that same calm, automated voice, saying, “This number is temporarily unavailable.”
“Seriously? They can’t all be unavailable.”
A throat clears behind me.
I jump and spin, heart slamming like it’s trying to break out.
A man stands in the doorway. He’s in his mid-thirties, tall, dark hair trimmed neat to his face, tattoos crawling down both arms. He’s handsome, but not like Lorenzo. Lorenzo is something else entirely.
“Sorry.” He lifts his hands slightly, palms open. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I lie automatically.
His gaze flicks to the receiver still clutched in my hand. “Lines are blocked.”
My throat tightens. “Blocked?”
He nods once, like this is normal. “Boss’s orders.”
The word boss lands heavy. Lorenzo might work for his uncle, but this scary man works for Lorenzo . . .
I steady my breathing. “So I’m cut off from the world.”
He shrugs, a small movement that reads like resignation. “That’s one way to phrase it.”
“And your way would be . . .?”
“Safe.” He says it like a rehearsed line. Then his expression shifts. “I’m Nico.”
He steps forward a half pace, then hesitates. What is he doing? Then his hand reaches into his jacket, and my whole body tenses. This is when it happens . . . I’m going to die. Lorenzo told him to kill me if I try anything.
But instead of a gun, I’m met with a small phone. I’ve seen enough movies to know it’s a burner. He holds it out discreetly, palm flat, like he’s offering contraband in church.
I stare at it like it might explode. “Why are you helping me?”
Nico’s jaw flexes, eyes flicking toward the hall. “Because everybody needs someone. Even in situations like yours.”
He doesn’t say prisoner. There’s no need to.
“I’m not—” My voice catches on the lie before it can form.
Nico tilts his head slightly. “Aren’t you?”
My stomach drops.
“Use it when you need it.” His voice lowers. “Not now. Cameras don’t cover the west hall bathroom. Bad wiring. Use that spot.”
My pulse spikes. “If Lorenzo finds out—”
“He won’t.” Nico’s mouth tightens. “And if he does, you didn’t get it from me.”
He steps back into the hall, already retreating like he knows staying longer makes him a target.
At the doorway, he pauses, eyes on mine. “Mrs. Amante.”
The title again—soft, cautious.
Then he’s gone.
I stand frozen with the burner in my hand, feeling the weight of it like a weapon I don’t know how to use.
A lifeline.
A trap.
A test.
I slip it into my pocket and force my legs to move, carrying myself upstairs like I’m not trembling under my skin.
My room is too big, too perfect, too wrong. Sunlight spills across the bedspread. Everything looks peaceful, but it’s a lie.
Nothing about this place is a paradise.
Blocked phone lines. Stopped at the doors. Eyes everywhere.
I don’t care what anyone says . . . this is my cage. Like my nickname, Little Bird.
The funny thing is that he thinks he can control me.
That he can keep the world from me.
But he doesn’t get to keep me from myself. I straighten slowly, making my spine harden.
He wants me contained.
He wants me compliant.
He wants me broken.
“No,” I whisper.
If Lorenzo Amante thinks he can trap me in this house, choke off my world, and call it protection—
He’s forgotten who he married.
I’m not eighteen anymore.
I’m not fragile.
I’m not blindly in love with him.
And I will not break the way he wants me to.
Not now.
Not ever.
Let him wage his war.
I’ll quietly start mine.
40
Lorenzo
Steel screeches against stone.
The knife doesn’t need sharpening, but it always relaxes me to do it. Something about the sound scrapes my brain and halts all my thoughts.
I love it.
Rafe stands across the table, arms folded, watching the blade. Vin’s to my left, flipping through a folder thick enough to qualify as a novel.
“Again, from the top.” I drag the knife along the whetstone.
Vin taps the photo clipped to the front page. “We still can’t get a location on the nephew. Connor Gallagher stays hidden behind other idiots.” He flips the page with a crisp snap. “But we have a friend.”
“Everyone does.” I test the edge with my thumb. Sharp. Already was. “Who’s his?”
“Patrick Murphy.” Vin slides the photo to the center of the table. “Mid-level out of Southie. Bookies. Small-time loan sharking. He’s been taking bigger risks for the past six months. Lines up with when the money went missing on our end.”
Rafe leans forward, squinting at the picture. “He looks like a douche.”
Vin doesn’t even blink. “Murphy’s our bridge. He’s handling local recruitment for Connor’s expansion. He’s the one funneling the skimming. Launders through three bars and an import business.”
I pick up the photo and study Murphy’s face. Average. Forgettable.
“What about routes?” I ask. “How are they moving what they stole from us?”
Vin flips to a rough map, finger stabbing inked lines. “Two corridors. One: Providence, reroute near the docks. Two: private trucks, fed into legitimate shipments that end up through Boston Harbor.”