Risking it All (Crossing the Line, #1)(3)

CHAPTER TWO


Bowen Driscol kept the lit cigarette clamped between his lips as two police officers jerked his hands behind his back and shoved him forward onto the hood of their squad car. A group of neighborhood girls passing on the sidewalk stopped to gawk, giggling when he threw them a wink. The officer’s hand between his shoulder blades kept him in place, cold metal clinking when the other uniform removed the piece he’d had tucked into his waistband and cuffed him. When the hand on his back pushed a little too hard, Bowen gave in with a sigh and spat the cigarette onto the curb.

“Look, I like it rough as much as the next guy, but we hardly know each other.”

“Shut it, Driscol.”

“You going to explain why I’m being arrested?” He swallowed a growl as the cuffs bit into his skin. “Or is this just how you get all your dates?”

“Your mother didn’t seem to mind.”

The officer heaved him off the hood and stuffed him into the backseat, oblivious to the sore spot he’d just poked with his casual insult. “As for why I’m taking you in?” With a shrug, he slammed the door.

“Pick something,” he called through the glass.

Bowen

kept

his

unconcerned

expression firmly in place as the officers drove through the streets of Bensonhurst where he’d been raised. Where he’d likely die. He knew every corner, every alleyway, and the name of every shop owner. This was his home. He hated it as much as he loved it. Loved it for the familiarity, hated it for the prison it had become since he reluctantly accepted his legacy.

Even though it was torture being trapped in the back of a police car without the use of his hands, he couldn’t deny a sense of relief. Had they finally caught him? Finally gathered enough information to put him away? God, a big part of him hoped they had, even if he would die before admitting it to these smug *s. He was tired of looking over his goddamn shoulder when he walked down the street, wondering if today would be the day someone tried to end his reign as boss. He’d never wanted the job, but with his father awaiting trial at Rikers Island, it had landed on his shoulders like a ton of bricks. Yeah, he’d never been a saint to begin with, but now people feared him for reasons that had nothing to do with his penchant for street fights. Now they worried about their legs being broken over unpaid debts. Turned tail and ran when they saw him as if he were Death himself.

He racked his brain trying to figure out what had gotten him pinched. Sure they were required to tell him, but the NYPD

never played by the rules. Not with him.

They knew he ran South Brooklyn, they just hadn’t been able to trace any crime back to him—a fact that pissed them off in a big way. It warmed his heart exactly how much. Would that all change today?

Their silence was unusual, to say the least. Any other day, they wouldn’t waste a chance to rib him.

Bowen frowned when they bypassed the turn for the local precinct and proceeded toward Manhattan. “Where we headed, boys?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the one driving.

“Never said I was worried.” He wished for a cigarette. “I’m just wondering

if

I

need

to

make

arrangements for someone to water my houseplants.”

The cops exchanged a glance. “You have plants.”

“What? I don’t strike you as the nurturing type?”

Bowen caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror and had to laugh. With a purple-black eye and a cut bottom lip, he looked like the opposite of nurturing. In fact, he looked like shit run over twice.

Nothing new. He couldn’t remember seeing himself reflected back without some sort of injury on his face. The utter exhaustion in his eyes, though…that was new. Quickly, he looked out the window to find them traveling over the Brooklyn Bridge. What the hell did they want with him in Manhattan?

“You know, I love this new air of mystery you boys have going. It’s sexy.”

Instead of responding, they turned up the chattering dispatch radio to drown him out. It took every ounce of willpower not to question the officers further when they pulled into NYPD

headquarters a few minutes later. His heart pounded in his chest as they pulled him out of the backseat, but he did his best to look bored.

This is it. I’m done.

No more instilling fear, no more resorting to violence to collect money owed to him. No more issuing orders to soulless men who didn’t know how to feel remorse. All done.

The officers led him through the entrance

and

every

head

turned;

animosity and disgust targeted him from all directions. Bowen ignored the twinge of pain from his cut lip as he grinned at his

rapt

audience.

“Afternoon,

gentlemen.” He wished he were wearing a hat so he could tip it. “Weather today is beautiful. Not a goddamn cloud in the sky.”

He didn’t have the pleasure of hearing any angry responses because the officers pulled him down a hallway, shoving him into the first interrogation room.

Irritation clawed at his throat over being pushed around, but he didn’t give them the satisfaction of showing it. If he weren’t wearing handcuffs, he would have already swung on them and they knew it. They also knew he could easily take them both on and win. Fighting was in his blood. He did it often and he did it well. So he couldn’t contain his surprise when they removed the handcuffs. It even managed to distract him from his anger.