Blow(41)

Her cuts were superficial, but the emotional damage was anything but.

To her and me.



The day that Emily died will always remain a permanent point of reference for me. My life ever since has been “after” . . . but the run-in with Tommy was a day I’ll never forget, and it, too, became an “after.” Both marked an alternate path my life would take. Both had an impact on me. Yet that day with Tommy made me a different person.

We hadn’t called the police. Things weren’t handled that way and besides, Patrick had the Dorchester cops in his pocket. Rather, he and my grandfather roughed it out. The problem was, Patrick was already unofficially running things, so the punishment didn’t match the crime. My gramps had one foot out the door and didn’t have much of a choice but to agree to the terms. Patrick had sanctioned what Tommy had done as due retribution. As if he wouldn’t. My gramps allowed the incident to pass, but ordered no further engagement with me by either Patrick or Tommy, on any level. I also was forbidden from going anywhere near Tommy and he was forbidden from coming anywhere near me. Neither of us violated the order. We both knew better. I hadn’t been in the same room with him or Patrick since that night.

But that was about to change.

The thought of him had me seeing red. I pounded my fist so hard against the bathroom mirror that it cracked down the middle. Blood seeped between my fingers. I didn’t give a shit.

Tommy was going to be trouble with his second-in-command status. Sure, he was older now, but he was still a cokehead. What made it worse was that he was a cokehead with power. With troops. With eyes everywhere. And to boot, he was more ruthless than those before him had been. Women were his favorite targets. He was a motherf*cker, a ticking time bomb, and a cold-hearted killer.

The truth was, now that my gramps had left the ranks, there was no way Tommy was going to stick to the treaty made years ago.

It was just a matter of time.

This situation might speed it up, but either way, he would be coming for me.

I’d be ready this time.

I looked at my scar one last time.

His time would come, but until then . . . he couldn’t see me with Elle.

Ever.





ELLE


“McPherson?” she gasped.

I nodded around a sip from my water bottle.

“You’re certain his last name is McPherson?” she asked again, spearing the credit card receipt that the last customer had just signed.

“Yes, Peyton,” I said exasperatedly and set my bottle down.

Cracking open a roll of quarters, she kept going. “As in Killian McPherson?”

I brought my voice down. “I’m not sure. Who is he that the name has you fifty shades of crazy?”

It was the first break we’d had all day. It was close to three and the boutique’s grand opening had been unbelievable. Sales were more than I had ever expected for my first day and the traffic in and out was insane.

Peyton closed the cash register drawer and whipped around. “Didn’t read up on Boston before you moved here?”

I blinked. “No.”

Peyton grimaced. “Oh, right, your sister. Sorry.”

“Focus, Peyton. Who is Killian McPherson?”

Her face resumed its normal charm. “Killian, the Killer, McPherson was the original leader of the Blue Hill Gang.”

My brows popped. “Okay. Are we talking motorcycle club or street gang?”

“Neither. They’re the Irish Mafia,” she whispered.

“What type of material is this?” a woman holding a set of sheets in her hands asked.

My mind was spinning. The Mafia. My sister had been involved with the Mafia. Logan was related to someone who was once in charge of underworld organized crime. Was Logan part of it too? Is that why he was so concerned about what could happen?

“It’s Egyptian cotton,” Peyton told the customer, and I was relieved. I wasn’t certain I could talk right now, my throat was so tight.

“The fabric feels so coarse,” the woman commented.

“The material softens with each wash. And it resists any type of pilling. The sheets are very durable, and extremely breathable. I highly recommend them. Egyptian cotton is known for its ability to create extra-long fibers so they not only feel luxurious on your skin, but they can last for decades.”

My mind was thinking back to episodes of The Sopranos, made men, earners. I just couldn’t see Logan being a part of anything like that. He was cultured, not brutish, although he was brooding. No—still, I didn’t see it. He had to be more like his other grandfather, the one from New York City that he had told me about. Yes, that made sense.

Having talked myself off of the ledge, mention of his name had me thinking about him in other ways. His rough fingers digging into my skin, his soft lips on mine, his hard body pressed to mine. Even if he was a killer’s grandson, that didn’t mean anything. We couldn’t control who we were related to—I knew that all too well.

Voices brought me back.

What the hell was wrong with me? I should stay away from him.

Peyton glared at me while she talked. Although I was only half listening, I was still impressed. She had done her homework. “Isn’t that correct, Elle?” she said, narrowing her eyes at me.

“Yes, it is,” I smiled sweetly, having no idea what I was agreeing to.