“Positive. With any luck he stumbled into the hungry shark section. Who is he anyway?”
“Seamus. My bodyguard.” She whips her head to the left again to check for herself. “He only gives me ten minutes while he smokes in the courtyard at the back of the building. I-I saw you outside.”
“I’m always outside. Always the one looking in.”
She traps her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to make sense of my words. “I can’t talk to you. Can’t talk with anybody. He’ll kill me… He’ll—”
“Your bodyguard? Is he the one who hurt you?” I feel the weight of the switchblade in my back pocket as her green pools turn stormy and sad.
“Who are you?”
“Frankie. You?”
There’s a pause. “Ada.”
Ada.
Ada
Ada
Heavy footsteps start approaching. Her ten minutes are up already.
“Put the books back,” she urges, panic pinching at her mouth again. “If he sees you…”
“How often do you come here?” I say, thinking fast. Thinking how much Aiden would crucify me for using this kind of cheesy pickup line.
But with Ada, it’s not a pickup line. It’s a lifeline. It’s clear from the state of her that O’Sullivan has turned his evil onto his own.
It makes us equals.
Two victims.
Two survivors.
She hesitates. “Every Thursday afternoon. It’s the only time I’m allowed out of the house.”
I let those words sink in, until they’re heavy and stale. What is she? A prisoner?
The footsteps draw even closer.
“Please go,” she urges again, her voice trembling with fear.
Now, it’s my turn to hesitate. “Let me help you.”
“You can’t. No one can.”
“Then, I’ll be here, Ada… Next Thursday, I’ll be here. I fucking promise you, okay?”
“But you don’t even know me.”
I do, Ada, but not half as much as I want to.
“Whatever happens, keep dancing for me. You hear?” My plea is out before I can stop it and Ada looks stunned.
Reluctantly, I start shoving books up as fast as I can as her bodyguard steps into the aisle.
“Time’s up,” I hear him say, sounding more Irish than a fucking leprechaun.
“But I’ve only had a few minutes—”
“You want me to call your father? You know the rules, Ada. Get your coat. We’re leaving.”
I hear her sigh of resignation, followed by fading footsteps.
Resting my head against the bookshelf, I close my eyes, breathing in the last lingering trace of her scent beneath the dust and the damp, our conversation playing over and over in my head.
Zaccaria never mentioned that revenge would come with these kinds of complications…
He never warned me about the colour green.
CHAPTER 6
FRANKIE
Aiden springs away from the wall as I exit the library. “What happened in there?”
“Nothing.” Zipping up my leather jacket, I yank at the collar and start walking down the street. He falls into step beside me, but I don’t turn and look at him. I’m too stuck on the face of an angel, a name like heaven, and a problem straight out of hell.
“Nothing?” Aiden stops dead. “It’s about her, isn’t it? Miss Cute Domestic Abuse?”
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Did you kiss her up against a wall of Fifty Shades? If not, I dare you to go back in there and—”
“Shut your mouth!” I roar, heat blasting in my veins as I take a swing at him.
Caught off guard, my fist connects with his jaw, and he goes spinning into a nearby telephone box. “Jesus Christ, you hit like a girl,” he mumbles into the back of his hand. “Do you have a dick or a pussy?”
I’m contrite as hell when I see the blood spilling out of his nose. “Shit, Aiden. I’m sorry. Here, let me see.” I take a step towards him, but he matches it with a couple of fast ones in the opposite direction.
“I’m good thanks, Mike Tyson.”
There’s another beat of regret, and then he’s dropping his hand from his face and flashing me a bloody grin. “Chicks dig broken noses anyway, right?”
Groaning, I roll my eyes. “Do you always think with your dick?” Closing the distance between us, I grab his head and pitch him forward into my shoulder, and then clap him a couple of times on the back with affection. No harm done. Truth is, I love the mouthy little fucker. I never expected to, but there it is. He’s the last person I want to take my frustrations out on.
“Yeah, well, it turns out that only one of us actually has a dick, so it needs to work double-time,” he says, his voice muffled by my jacket.
I grin and push him away. “You still got that fake ID I made you?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because I want a couple of strong drinks, and you’re buying.”
An hour later, I leave him standing at the bar, three pints down, and nose to cheek with some girl.
Stepping outside, I reach for my phone and message a number I know off by heart.
Been a while. Need to talk.
He replies right away.
8pm, kid. Usual place.
Pocketing my phone, I tip my head back to gaze at the smoky, starless London sky. I’m standing on the precipice of something again, just like I did when I was twelve years old—only this time it’s stronger, and it comes with a scent too delicate for this road to perdition.
Reluctantly, I replay the events of that night, each one unfolding with a dangerous clarity:
The moment my father died, and my life as I knew it died with him.
The moment I stepped into Zaccaria’s car and took his oath.
The moment I saw Ada.
My head drops, bringing me back to the dirty pavement outside the bar, with a couple of old drunks stumbling past and a whore on the corner flashing her tits at passing drivers.
I’m done waiting. I’m done turning my own tricks for survival. I was born an underworld prince, not some petty thief who robs ATMs for beer money and rent. O’Sullivan has to pay for what he did, and it’s time to restore my father’s honour…
And Ada?
I need to figure out a way to set her free before her wings get crushed in the crossfire.
CHAPTER 7
ADA
Dreams don’t happen in the middle of nightmares.
They occur on the edge of darkness, right before your worst fears trap you in a dirty hole full of muddy screams and bad regret.
Or so I thought.
Did he sense how close I was to giving up? Is that the reason why he followed me into the library? Did he see the bruises on my neck that I tried so hard to hide, or did he guess my plan to slip into a bathtub later with a stolen razorblade between my fingertips?
I spend the rest of the afternoon in my room, hugging my knees to my chest, playing our conversation over and over until my mind is scratched and worn.
By nightfall, he’s not so much an enigma, as the only reason I can think of not to slit my wrists. I know it’s crazy to put so much onto this. Onto him. I blame my heart. I blame my desperation. But something tells me that this teenage boy is different. He isn’t another of O’Sullivan’s tricks to make me think that the world has doors instead of bars.