Wretched (Never After Series)(3)

“Sit down. Fuck.” He runs his hand over his bald head and blows out a deep breath as he plops behind his desk. “God, I hate your ass,” he grumbles.

I quirk a brow. “Are you allowed to say that to a subordinate?”

“I have a job for you.”

Now this gets my attention and I sit forward, the amusement dropping from my face.

Finally.

“You ever been to Kinland?” He tosses a manila folder, the smack of its weight hitting the desk’s top ringing in my ears, a few black-and-white surveillance photos slinking out of the side.

I reach over, picking them up.

“Yeah, a few times,” I say nonchalantly, not wanting to focus on the way my insides wring tight when I think about the two-hour trek from Chicago to Kinland my mom used to take me and my sister on. “I haven’t been in a long time though. Not since I was a kid.”

My voice breaks a little on the last word, discomfort wrapping around my neck. Clearing my throat, I flip through the photos. There’s one of people unloading crates off a semi. Then another of an older man with slicked-back gray hair and tattoos from his fingers to his neck, grinning down at the guy by his side. “Who’s this?”

“That is Farrell Westerly. Ever heard of him?”

I shake my head.

“Pure-blooded Irish American with your run-of-the-mill rap sheet. Spent eight years in Gilyken Penitentiary before being released on parole for good behavior. He’s been popping up again the last few years. Seems like the guy’s everywhere.”

I grin. “A reformed convict?”

“Aren’t they all?” Cap huffs. “They’re running an operation out of Kinland, flooding the streets with that new shit.”

My stomach twists. That “new” shit is called The Flying Monkey, and it’s taking over. Similar to every other type of heroin only not. It’s popular as fuck which means copycats are springing up everywhere trying to emulate the product, and failing. All that ends up happening is more death from overdosing on badly cut drugs.

Squinting my eyes, I look closer at the photo of the two men. “Is that…”

“It is.”

Blowing out a breath, I sit back in the chair, recognizing the bright-auburn hair and large build. “Zeke O’Connor.”

My stomach sours as I set the photos back on his desk. Zeke is well known in our circles. His father, Jack O’Connor, was notorious in Chicago as king of the Irish mob. He was ruthless. But that was before their power was dismantled years ago, and Jack was murdered in the pen while serving time for his numerous crimes.

“So, what then… you want me to do some recon?”

His eyes narrow. “I want you to go in and find their supplier. If we get the big dog, we can drag in the rest. I didn’t spend the best years of my career hunting them down just to have the Irish mob sprout back up with new faces in a new location, thinking they can take everything over again.”

My brows shoot high. “Undercover?”

“You’re surprised?” His head cocks.

My hands shake from the sudden jolt of adrenaline. “It’s just been a while.”

He grumbles, his thick set of brows bunching together until a crease forms in the middle of his forehead. “You saying you’re not up for it?”

My stomach twists and I shoot up straighter. “Are you crazy? No one else can do this like me, and you know it, Cap.”

He reaches to the side of his computer and grabs another photo, placing it in front of me. It’s of a woman. A beautiful woman with shiny brown hair pulled back in a high ponytail, designer clothes dripping from her body. “That’s Dorothy Westerly, Farrell’s kid. Rumor has it she’s his weak spot. Once you’re in, try to cozy up to her. She’ll crack.”

Surprise flickers through my gut. “Why her?”

A slow smile tips up the corner of his lips and he leans back in his chair. “Don’t you have a thing for pretty daughters?”





2





EVELINE





There’s blood on my shoe.

Damn it.

I squint down at the worn black pleather of my heeled boot, my stomach tensing with irritation that I have to spend the rest of the night in this shitty club with parts of a dead man soaking into my foot.

Hope that doesn’t mean he’ll come back to haunt me.

“What’s up, grump?” my best friend—my only friend—Cody asks, grinning wide as he rests on the bar next to me.

I snap my gaze up, bringing my hand to my chest and raising my brows. “I’m not grumpy.”

His blond hair bounces as he throws his head back, a bubbly laugh pouring from his mouth. “You’re one hundred percent a pessimist.”

I glance at the people crowding in behind him for a drink and shrug. “I’m a realist. There’s a difference.”

“Well, you’re being fucking boring.” He rolls his eyes. “This is what you dragged me out for? I thought with that fake hair, you’d loosen up a little. Blondes are supposed to have more fun.”

I grit my teeth, drumming my almond-shaped nails on the wood bar top, the black manicure I gave myself mirroring my mood. The only reason I’m even here in Chicago is because I’ve been tasked with the unfortunate duty of tracking down some nobody idiot who needs to be taught a lesson. The blonde wig glued to my head and colored contacts are just insurance. Not for fun.