Crush(48)

My sleepy eyes had just begun to fall into slumber but now popped open. I turned to look at him. “Why are you going to see Tommy? Nothing has happened. Why can’t we just leave things alone?”

He swiped the hair from my face. “It doesn’t work that way. And I don’t want us looking over our shoulders, waiting for something to happen. I can’t live like that.”

With a sigh, I turned back and laced my hand in his. “I’ll wait until you get back.”

He squeezed me tightly. “It’ll be all right, Elle. I promise.”

I think I nodded.

“Good night,” he whispered.

I closed my eyes again and dreaded the coming of tomorrow for so many reasons.





DAY 17





LOGAN


The f*cker was smiling like he’d just gotten a get out of jail free card.

His arms were tatted up, half-sleeves to his elbows. His eyebrow was missing a ring that the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department must have confiscated. His dark blue eyes, mousey brown hair, and sharp jawline were staring at me, daring me to set foot inside.

No dare was necessary.

He had no idea.

I was more than ready for this.

Just seeing him unfurled a lifetime of hatred. I could feel my jaw clench and my fists ball at my sides.

Easy, I thought.

Control.

Focus.

Stick to the plan.

Don’t act like you did the last time.

Just get in, get what you need, do what you have to, and get out.

Fifteen minutes was all I had to get enough to make it look like he was a rat. And in doing so, set myself free. You see, a rat would be extricated from his power faster than lightning would strike a pole in a storm.

Tommy Flannigan might have thought he was untouchable, but he couldn’t be more wrong. His coveted status as the son of the Blue Hill Gang’s boss didn’t mean shit to me, and soon enough it wouldn’t mean shit to anyone else.

The number two, second in command, son of the boss—soon none of that would matter.

I couldn’t wait.

He was pure evil.

Vile.

Ruthless.

Scum of the earth.

No one was off-limits to him—but me.

And if that didn’t put a smile on my face.

He hated me.

It was mutual.

Blamed me for his unwed pregnant sister’s suicide.

I blamed him for so much more.

Unfortunately for me, he also held the key to my kingdom in his hand. He was everywhere, even locked up, and I knew it. That’s why I was doing this. I just hoped my plan worked.

The Nashua Street Jail was a maximum-security facility in Boston and it was no playground. But I wasn’t looking to play. That note. That note that read The letter E wasn’t meant for Emily was a threat. A threat I wasn’t going to push under the rug or cower down to. This time, I was going to fight, tooth and nail, with anything and everything I had.

“Ready?” the voice behind me asked.

Snapping out of my thoughts, I couldn’t help but admit, “Ready isn’t even close.”

The uniform laughed like he hated the motherf*cker sitting at the steel table almost as much as I did. Gave me hope that Tommy’s stay would be anything but pleasant despite any connections his father might have.

The door opened into the small room. All the furniture was bolted to the floor, the overhead light had a cage around it, and security cameras were in every corner. A malfunction with the sound couldn’t be helped, but courtesy of Miles there would be lots of pictures. Lots of proof that Tommy Flannigan was turning against his father, against the Blue Hill Gang. Or at least that was how it was going to look before I finished with him. First a visit from me, then one from the Attorney General’s office, on a Sunday nonetheless, the big favor Miles had arranged, should do the job. No doubt Tommy wouldn’t say anything to either of us, but no one else had to know that.

Dressed in his prison uniform and shackled in chains, I found myself hesitating for a moment before stepping into the same room as Tommy Flannigan. Old instincts died hard. Last time I saw him our face-to-face wasn’t so civilized. But this time, I reminded myself, it would be. It had to be.

“Just knock on the door if you need anything,” the corrections officer told me.

I gave him a nod. “Will do.”

Tommy was positioned directly in the middle of the table with his cuffed hands on its surface. He didn’t look up when the door closed or at the sound of my feet on the linoleum floor. Instead, his eyes were trained on the tabletop.

With steady strides, I eased toward him, taking my time, rehearsing my words in my head. My nerves were locked down deep inside me. To anyone on the outside I looked rock solid. The fabric of my slacks hid the quivering in my legs. Just before I reached the table, I forced my knees to steady.

My shadow loomed large over his small body as I strode toward him. When I came to a halt, his head snapped up and lifeless eyes stared back at me in a suddenly expressionless face. Something had shifted in the sixty seconds since he glared at me through the window.

I placed my palms on the table, leaned down, and stared back at him, my expression just as flat as his. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

His lips twitched into a dangerous smile. “McPherson.” And then, there it was, the hatred. The one thing no one can keep locked inside.