“Hey, no I don’t.” Maybe a little. It’s fun to scare people.
We turn the corner and O’Crowely is sitting in a private booth that sits at least a dozen. There are wine glasses in front of him, poured with red wine and appetizers spread across the table. His men are sitting with him, probably his right and left hands. The ones most trusted.
When he sees us, O’Crowely grins. He doesn’t get up, but he offers us a seat. “One-Eye, Wolf, Fáilte. it’s good to you again.”
I almost forget about his Irish accent.
“Please, sit, join us. I like to rent this restaurant some days before it opens for a few hours. The owner don’t mind.”
“And my cousin called. Whatever you want, it’s yours,” the owner greets, shaking our hands almost violently. He doesn’t seem afraid, just nice. His accent is way classier than Vinny’s, too. “I will bring you wine.”
“Beer?” Wolf and I say at the same time.
His smile fades and he utters a slew of curse words in Italian as he turns away.
“Beer in an Italian restaurant? A fine one such as this? Ye must be mad.” He picks up his wine by the body of the glass and leans back. “I hear you’re looking for yer ol’ lady?”
“That’s right. Boomer said you had some information.”
“Aye. It isn’t information you’re going to like, lad. But before I give my information, I want something in return.”
“Name your price.”
“I’ve no need o’ money. I want something better, something… priceless.” He takes a sip of his wine and then swishes the liquid in the glass. “Get me in touch with Seer, the one in New Orleans.”
My brows raise so high I bet they touch my hairline. “What do you want with him?” Seer is a different kind of man. He can see the future, clips of it at least. He can tell people their fate.
And he is almost never wrong.
“That’s my business.”
I grab a napkin and snag a pen from my cut pocket—every man should carry a pen—and get out my phone, then write Seer’s number down on the napkin. I hand it to him. O’Crowely’s smile is one of a wild animal. One that just got a fresh kill, or is about to get one.
“You’ve made me a very happy man and I make good on me word. Your woman, she doesn’t have much time. I was invited to a wedding by the Nameless, a new gang to the city. They are… sewer rats. At least, that’s what I think they are. They formed underground. I haven’t been able to pinpoint their location, but the leader, Malcolm, sent the word through the grapevine that he’s gettin’ married. Most of the bloody underworld will probably be there. I won’t. I don’t mingle with… rodents,” he mutters in distaste, taking another sip of his wine.
“No fucking way am I going to allow that.”
“Aye, I know,” he says, then looks at his watch. “You don’t have much time. The wedding is being held in an abandoned subway station in two hours. I just found out or I would have said somethin’ earlier.”
“What subway station, do you know?”
“It’s right on the edge o’ town afore you cross. Ye’ll have to climb down under the bridge. I hope you save her, lad. It can take two hours just to get out o’ the city on a bad day.”
The owner brings us our beer and I chug mine down in three big swallows, as does Wolf. “Thank you, O’Crowely. I’m forever in your debt.”
“Your debt is paid with this.” He waves the number in front of him. “Clock’s running, Kings. Adh mor ort. May the luck o’ the Irish rise to you.”
Kimmy asked me one time if I were a superhero, what superpower would I have and why.
I’d want the ability to pause time, so I can save the people I love.
But time can’t be paused. And the only superpower I have is this gun.
I sprint out of the restaurant with Wolf hot on my heels, pumping my arms as I bulldoze through people to get to our bikes. It’s time for reckless driving, sidewalks, zigzagging through cars. It’s time to break the law.
My lungs are screaming by the time I get to the bike.
I’ve already lost fifteen minutes running to my bike.
I’m going to crash that wedding.
And then I’m going to burn every single rat there alive.
This cannot be happening.
There’s a makeup artist here covering my bruises and a hairdresser curling my hair. This is actually happening. I’m being forced to get married to some fucking guy named Malcolm and I don’t even know why. He doesn’t gain power or money. There is nothing beneficial for him being married to me.
I think he might really just want me. He saw something he liked and he decided he wanted it. I don’t understand. It confuses me. He must have women in his bed constantly.
“Are you bitches almost done?” Vince yells from behind the door before swinging it open. He stops in his tracks when he sees me, a look of surprise on his face, and for a moment I’m taken back to when his brother looked at me the same way.
A time that I loved a man before he changed for the worse.
I meet his eyes with a steely glare of my own, and the shock disappears, along with the resemblance of his brother.
“We’re almost done,” I state, since the girls were ordered not to speak a word to me. I’m assuming they are getting paid a pretty penny to keep their mouths shut. I have to say, I don’t blame them. It wasn’t so long ago that I’d have done anything for money.
Vince slams the door shut and the women help me to my feet. The hairdresser sprays my hair and then grabs the pink bag hanging on the door. I feel like I’m in some underground castle of sorts or maybe an abandoned prison. I don’t know, but everything is made of stone and the few windows are dusty and broken. It’s cold, drafty, and the smell of the sewer isn’t far behind. There’s always a rotten smell in the air. I can’t tell if it’s bad intentions or dead bodies decomposing in the actual sewer beneath me.
Probably both.
The sound of a zipper lowering yanks me back to the present and a simple white gown hangs there. Nothing special. Nothing I’d ever pick out or wear.
I’m not wearing this, am I? There has to be a way out of this without my life being at risk.
The woman who did my makeup unties my robe and it drops to the floor around my feet. I step inside the gown, the satin form-fitting as if it were made for my body. The sleeves hook around my shoulders and the neckline is modest, forming a simple V.
I hate it.
I hate everything about my life right now.
Yeah, I’m going to cry about it.
It’s my party. I can do what I want.
The door swings back open and Vince is there again, but this time he’s in a nice suit jacket. Huh. Looks like this is the real deal. I don’t know how that happened so fast. “Ready? Good.” I barely have times to slip my shoes on before he drags me out the door.
My heels click across the stone floor, echoing through the prison. I may not be held in a cage, but I know this place will cage me for the rest of my life.
If I could turn back time, I would tell my old self not to be afraid, to not waste time not being with Quin. To hold onto him with both hands and never let go.