Wretched (Never After Series)(11)

Pressing my knuckles against the glass, I gaze out over the city that’s my new home for the foreseeable future. “Yeah. I’m ready. Let’s take these fucks down.”

Two nights later and I’m lounging in the booth at Winkies, the Westerly-owned bar on the eastern side of Kinland. I’ve never been a fan of whiskey, but it’s what I’m swirling as I take in the scene. It’s a nice place, as far as dive bars go, busy enough to pass as legit, but not in an affluent enough part of town to attract too much attention.

They say Farrell opened it up to help the community prosper, but more than likely, he uses it as an easy way to launder money in a protected area untouched by both the feds, and more importantly, the Italians.

The Cantanellis are the stronghold syndicate in Chicago, and they’ve been trying to sink their claws into Kinland territory for the past ten years.

Right now, at three o’clock on a Wednesday, Winkies sits mostly empty, with TVs in the corners blaring the stats of the upcoming football season, and forest-green vinyl-covered booths that house a spattering of heavy drinkers or people taking advantage of an early happy hour.

My back is facing the wall in one of the tables that sits in the far-right corner, and while I won’t show it on my face, my insides wring tight, anxiety causing pops of apprehension to stab at my middle.

These first few moments of undercover work are always the most nerve racking. Make or break, you either set yourself up for success or you fail before you have a chance to fall.

But I’ve never faltered under pressure; I thrive.

Not everyone is meant for this work. Not everyone gets it. Some people are too ingrained in their morals, in their ego, to do what it takes to act the part. You have to live and breathe the job. Become it. Otherwise, you end up with concrete shoes and a bullet in your head.

Or pulled from the middle of an investigation and deemed unfit.

My jaw clenches as I remember my last gig and how it ended. The way I was ripped from the streets, forced to watch as they let the case turn cold.

A little bell jingles from the front door, and I tap my fingers against the rim of my glass, watching as Zeke O’Connor and Dorothy Westerly make their way inside and straight toward me.

My stomach twists.

Showtime.

Zeke is a large man with broad shoulders and long auburn hair that hits his chest, and if I were anyone else, I’d probably be intimidated. He looks like a mix of rough and jolly, like he’d smash you over the head with his pint before helping you up and buying you another round.

“Brayden,” he says when they reach the table. He doesn’t offer his hand so I don’t either, choosing to sit back and bring the tumbler of whiskey to my mouth, my eyes skimming over his giant frame before moving to his companion.

Farrell’s daughter.

My gaze lingers on hers just a little too long to be considered appropriate.

She’s an attractive woman, and in any other situation, she’d be my type.

But she’s a job. A way to glean information and funnel it back to camp.

“You’re the guy we’re meeting?” She licks her bright-red lips.

“That’s right,” I say, placing the glass down before bringing up my hand to rub at my jaw. “Problem with that?”

She tilts her head, making her dark-brown ponytail swing to the side and dip down the front of her shoulder. “You’re just… not what I expected.”

My smirk grows and I lean in until the edge of the table digs into my sternum. “I’m rarely what people expect.”

Zeke chuckles, pointing a thick finger at me. “Don’t fuckin’ hit on her.”

“Why, you got a boyfriend?” I wink and her cheeks blush a bright shade of crimson.

“Maybe,” she replies, smiling as she sits across from me. She reaches out, tapping her red nails on the table. My eyes flick to the small shamrock tattooed on her inner wrist, hidden beneath thin rose-gold bracelets.

Zeke sits next to her, crossing a leg over the opposite knee as he watches me. I don’t take my gaze off Dorothy, but I feel his stare and a sliver of unease worms its way down my sides, wondering if maybe he didn’t flip after all. If this is a setup.

It was stupid to let him see my face before now.

“So, are we doing something here?” I finally say. “Or did you call me just to waste my time?”

Zeke grins, running a palm over his beard. “You should be honored we want to talk to you at all. Skip doesn’t meet with just anyone.”

Skip is short for Skipper, which is what they call Farrell.

I turn my head to the left and then the right before looking back at him and shrugging. “Yet, he’s not here, is he?”

Zeke’s golden eyes darken and he shoots forward in his seat, his fist pressing into the table. “You think this is a game, Brayden? I’m vouchin’ for you as a favor. You want in? You want a piece? This is your chance, I won’t give you one again. So quit bein’ a fuckin’ smart-ass and show some respect.”

Licking my lips, I grab my glass and tip back the last of the whiskey, allowing the burn to sear my throat and warm my chest. When I set it down on the table, I run my finger around the rim and nod. “We go back, Zeke, and I appreciate you reaching out. I do.” I lower my voice. “But don’t think you can speak to me like one of your bitches. You guys don’t want to do business with me? That’s fine. There’s plenty of other fish in the sea. Bigger fish. Ones that come from Sicily and know opportunity when they see it.”