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  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 motherfucker, 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.

  “I’ll take them. Do they come in lavender?” the woman asked.

  Peyton glanced toward me with a little kinder expression this time. “I’m certain we can order that color for you. Right now we only have them in gray, cream, and light blue.”

  “Oh, I didn’t see the light blue,” the woman said.

  Peyton rounded the table. “It’s right here.”

  “Very nice. I’ll take them.” The woman was practically giddy.

  I rang her up and then handed her the beautifully wrapped package, tied with our signature red ribbon and adorned with a red bow.

  Once she was gone, I turned to Peyton and shoved Logan’s deliciously deep voice from my mind. “What else do you know about the Blue Hill Gang?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “They swept the streets of Boston in the seventies and focused their efforts on racketeering, loan-sharking, and illegal gambling. Years later they merged with the Dorchester Heights Gang. Lots of rumors as to why, but no one knows for certain. Now some guy named Patrick Flannigan runs the gang and they own most of the strip clubs in Boston. I don’t really know anything else. I’m sure you could Google them.”

  Google them!

  I didn’t have to. I felt like I knew too much already. I was worried Michael was involved with them, and the thought scared the living shit out of me.

  “Hey, who knows, they might not even be related,” she said, brushing past me and making a beeline to the table with the scarves. It was in disarray and her OCD must have kicked in.

  Patrick. Logan mentioned him yesterday. Patrick, the head of the Irish Mob, had something to do with my sister.

  I felt sick.

  As Peyton folded scarves, I thought about what she’d said, but I already knew Logan had to be related to him. It was the only thing that made sense over the past twenty-four hours. I stared at the intricate golden design of the cash register as my thoughts overtook me. This was so much more dangerous than I had thought. What had my sister gotten her family into?

  “Elle, it’s Michael.” Peyton held out the phone that was right next to me.

  I hadn’t even heard it ring.

  I took it. “Hey, Michael, how’s Clementine today?” My voice was shaky.

  “She’s fine.”

  “Oh, good. I need to—”

  “Listen, Elle, there’s been a slight change of plans, though. I had to drop her off at Erin’s house earlier today and I’m in New York.”

  “New York?” I asked, leaning back on the counter.

  “Client emergency. Do you mind picking her up and staying with her at the house? I should be home tomorrow afternoon, or early evening at the latest.”

  Feeling restless, I moved to stand behind the cash register. “Yes, sure, of course. You should have brought her here, though. You know your sister has her hands full with the new baby.”

  “It was so last minute that I hated to bother you. After I tried the nanny and she didn’t pick up, I called Erin. I have to run. I’ll be unreachable most of the night. Leave me a message if anything serious comes up.”

  I searched for a pen. “Sure thing. Where are you staying?”

  He had already hung up.

  I felt my body slump in exhaustion.

  “Everything okay?” Peyton asked. She had moved from the scarf table and was now straightening the sample bottles of perfumes and lotions lined up on the glass shelves next to the empty cabinet that had displayed the sex toys. Logan was right—they’d sold quickly.

  I felt like I was in a daze. “Yes. Michael had to drop Clementine off at Erin’s and wants me to pick her up there.”

  She spritzed the air with one of the scents. “I thought you said Erin doesn’t like to keep her.”

  I breathed in the Jo Malone white lavender scent—it was my favorite. “It’s not that
she doesn’t like to keep her. I think it’s more that she has a lot on her plate.”

  “Why didn’t he just bring her here?” Peyton asked, sounding shocked that he hadn’t.

  My temper was short and snapped. “I don’t know—maybe because it is our grand opening and he assumed we’d be busy with customers.”

  She ignored my response and pressed on. “What about the nanny? Do you think he’s screwing her?”

  Straightening my shoulders, I walked over to the empty cabinet beside her and locked the door. “No, I don’t. He said he tried her first but she didn’t answer.”

  She twisted her lips. “See? He is screwing her.”

  I rubbed my tired eyes. “No he’s not. You’re watching too much television.”

  “Miss, how much are the rugs?” An older gentleman held two in his hands.

  “I got this,” Peyton volunteered.

  I pushed up from the counter and took a few deep breaths. I hadn’t even gotten to tell Michael about what happened last night. And now I had the whole have you been keeping me in the dark because the Mob is involved thing to discuss with him.

  “I’m back.”

  I turned to see Rachel holding a cardboard tray of caffè lattes and couldn’t be happier.

  “You’re the best.” I smiled as I took the one marked Elle.

  Rachel was a bubbly, determined, petite blonde with a lot of spunk and sass. Almost as much as Peyton, but not quite. She was still in college, had a serious boyfriend, a 4.0 average, and was pretty funny. I hired her to work part-time after three minutes of speaking with her.

  She set the tray behind the counter. “I need to sweep up the coffee beans that spilled on the floor before Peyton sees them and blows a gasket.”

  I laughed at that and took a welcome sip of my latte.

  The store was quiet for the first time all day and I took a moment to think about everything that was happening in my life. There were so many strange things going on that the simple fact that a guy I’d just met might be involved with the Mob didn’t really faze me like it should have.

  The old butler bell Peyton had affixed above the door to alert us when someone was coming in chimed, and I glanced up to see a man in a blue quilted jacket walking in.

  My car. I had completely forgotten about it. Thankfully, Michael must have at least gone to the garage before he had to leave to sign off on the additional repairs.

  “I have an auto delivery for Elizabeth O’Shea,” he said.

  “That’s me.”

  In this moment, it felt more wrong than ever pretending to be my sister. What if that was her in my yard last night? What kind of trouble was she in? Where was she? Did she need me?

  “It’s parked up the street,” he said.

  I took the keys he was handing me. “Thank you.”

  A crowd of women walked in as he left, and the rest of the afternoon sped by with so many customers. Peyton and I never had a chance to talk privately again.

  At six thirty, Rachel, Peyton, and I finally walked outside, all complaining that our feet were killing us. Rachel’s boyfriend was waiting for her in his car and as soon as she spotted him, she fled, yelling, “See you Tuesday,” as she got in.

  Peyton and I both stood there smiling at her.

  I turned to Peyton. “Wow. What a great day.”

  “High five.” She raised her hand.

  I slapped it. “You were amazing today.”

  “No, you were.”

  Feeling smug, I lifted my chin. “I do know my shit.”

  She threw her arms around me and gave me a tight squeeze. “You are great at this. The soft opening was amazing. Now you have two days off—take the time and relax. You deserve it after the hours we’ve put in getting ready for the opening. I don’t expect to see you here until we reopen on Tuesday. There is nothing for you to do until then. You need a break. You’ve been going nonstop for weeks. I’ll come in tomorrow and restock, and then stop in on Monday to check the deliveries.”

  “You sure?” I asked, feeling guilty leaving her to do all the cleanup.

  She nodded. “I’m sure. You got any plans?”

  “No,” I said emphatically.

  “Not going to see Mr. Big Dick?”

  I gave her a little shove. “Stop calling him that.”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea.”

  “Hey, he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to be involved with the Mafia, so I wouldn’t worry about that.”

  I smiled at her and answered, “I’m not.” I wasn’t sure if that was true, but wasn’t sure it wasn’t, either.

  Peyton had no idea what was going on with my sister. In fact, I’d told her she was in rehab for drug use, like I’d told everyone else. I felt bad lying but knew it was for the best. The fewer people involved, the better.

  “Good. If he asks you out, go.” Apparently, Peyton wasn’t finished with the conversation about Logan.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I mean it. Just ignore what I said earlier. That was stupid of me to bring it up.”

  “Already forgotten.” I winked.

  She gave me another squeeze. “Have a good night.”

  “You too.”

  Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “I plan to.” She made a rather vulgar movement with her hips.

  “Not that good,” I added with another wink.

  “It’s our first date, and it took him a month to ask me out, so I won’t get my hopes up.”

  I had to laugh. “You’ve gone on more first dates in the short time I’ve known you than I’ve gone on in my entire life.”

  Not that dating had ever been on my mind.

  She responded with a hearty dose of laughter. “What can I say, I love men—just not the same one for long.”

  As we started to walk in different directions, I half turned. “Oh, and you’ll call me if any good deliveries arrive?”

  There was a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Yes, I’ll call you if the sex toys are delivered. Are you antsy to check them out?” She winked.

  “Peyton,” I admonished. “No.”

  She shook her head. “Whatever you say. Oh, and Mr. Big Dick would be a great place to start.”

  No words. I had no words.

  “I’m talking about the dating scene.” She tossed the words over her shoulder with a giggle. “Not the sex toys. But both would work.”

  The thought hadn’t escaped me.

  But it wasn’t going on a date with him that had been on my mind.

  LOGAN

  It wasn’t the same table.

  The floor had been ripped up and replaced.

  Yet the kitchen still held the ghosts of that night.

  My father set his fork and knife down. “Logan. What’s on your mind, son?”

  I’d been silent about Elle and O’Shea since I’d arrived over an hour ago. I’d even agreed to eat dinner with him, which I never did.

  Not here, anyway.

  I pushed the plate of chicken and rice away and tried to pull my shit together. I needed to man up. I couldn’t sit at the fucking kitchen table in my father’s house and eat dinner?

  I lifted my eyes to his but kept my head bowed. “That it’s time for a face-to-face with Patrick.”

  He slid my plate back toward me. “That’s not a good idea.”

  Man up, I reminded myself. I raised my fork to my mouth but with each bite I chewed, I felt more and more like I might explode. “Why not?”

  He plowed a hand through his hair. “You know why.”

  My fists clenched under the table. “So what? His prick son has a hard-on for me. It’s not going to change anything.”

  In frustration, my father shoved his chair back and pointed his finger at me. “I’m warning you, Logan: you go anywhere near Patrick or Tommy after all these years and mention O’Shea, it will set off all kinds of warning bells.”

  I stood up. Paced to the counter. To the refrigerator and opened it. To the sink to pour a gla
ss of water. Fuck, he was right. Besides, he was stuck in Boston for life for what I’d done; I couldn’t risk getting him into trouble either.

  His eyes were on me.

  Tracking me.

  I could tell.

  Finally, I asked, “What if I give you the money to deliver to Patrick?”

  My father practically choked. “You know we’re talking about ten million to settle the score?”

  I leaned against the counter. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Even if you had that kind of cash handy, why would you give it up for someone you just met?”

  I shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”

  “Do you have that much?”

  Uncertain, I shoved my hands in my pockets. “No, but I should be able to get it.”

  With slow strides, he crossed the kitchen and stood next to me. “Involving your grandfather Ryan will come with all kinds of strings. And even if you get the money, I don’t know if it will help, son. It could backfire. We don’t have a clue what O’Shea is up to or what it is Patrick is really after. I have to say, I’m almost certain Patrick is looking for something more than the cash.”

  Hiding my surprise that he didn’t dismiss me right away, I pressed on. “But, if nothing else, you think it could be an option?”

  He tapped his fingers on the counter. “It’s a risky option. I have a meeting set with Patrick on Tuesday to go over operations. Let me see what I can get out of him. If it’s the girl or the source he wants, there’s a chance not even the full kitty will suffice to settle the score.”

  “You really think he won’t take the ten million as settlement?”

  Another shrug. “Like I said, I just don’t know. In the meantime, I’ll ask around to see what kind of operation O’Shea or his wife might have had going on. How big it was. What, if anything, anyone knows.”