Page 102 of Black Sheep

I draw her close, plant a hard kiss on her mouth, and turn to Fionnella.

She’s watching me with half-sad, half-indulgent eyes.

That looks stays on me for a few floors until I ask. “What?”

One eyebrow spikes. “A McCarthy and a Rutherford? Two competing mob families? Really?”

I’m not surprised she knows about my history. I hadn’t expected her to show her hand though. “Yes. Really. You have a problem with that?”

She carries on staring at me.

“What?”

“You remind me of my son.”

“Damn, you have my sympathies.”

She laughs, and she’s transformed into a Sunday school teacher. I’m not fooled for a second. There’s hardcore titanium behind the maternal demeanor.

“Ah, you all think you’re badasses. Then you find the right woman and suddenly you’re like adorable puppies.”

A huff barks from me. “Jesus, I’m no one’s puppy.”

“Don’t get me wrong. Your teeth are sharp when you need them to be, but I’m willing to bet you were happy to remain steeped in your…issue until recently? Am I wrong in thinking that ninety-nine percent of why I’m here is because of that woman downstairs?”

“And that makes me soft?”

“No. That makes you badass in a completely different way. A way that isn’t headache free, but then where’s the fun in that?”

I frown, wondering just who the hell Quinn saddled me with. “Tell your son he has my sympathies.”

Her smile dims. “I can’t. He’s dead.”

I inhale sharply. “Hell. Sorry.”

She nods. “He would’ve liked you. And before you self-deprecate, trust me, I know a lot about you.”

I believe her. “But not everything.”

“Everything is a tall order, son. But try me.”

The emotion expanding in my chest isn’t one I feel often. It isn’t one I trust well. At all. But it keeps growing as we leave the elevator on the sixth floor.

She stops a few feet into the room, her gaze taking in the austere chair, the chains and cuffs, the black walls, the multiple screens. “Now this punishment I understand. Not the frill-fest going on downstairs.”

She moves towards the chair but doesn’t sit in it. Instead she drops her purse on the floor and crosses her arms. “Whenever you’re ready, Axel.” Her voice is soft. Sympathetic.

As if she’s already on my side. The side of evil.

I don’t have time to ponder that. I lock the door, pick up the remote, and stand on the other side of the chair. Deep breath. Stomach clenched tight, I hit play.

She watches the video from beginning to end, her expression not once changing.

Then she turns to me.

“Jesus, son. You’re fucked.”

My fingers curl around the remote. “Is that your professional opinion?”

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