Page 53 of Velvet Betrayal
He turned, finally looking at me. One of his pupils was huge, the other barely there. There was a tar-black smear of dried blood under his ear. “Not joking. I just don’t want to go in.”
“Because the Crew will find you?”
He nodded, slow. “Because they’ll log it. Too many eyes. Every ER in Boston is crawling with badge-chasers and bored interns.”
I risked a glance at him. “If you’re about to die—”
He peeled another strip of napkin, voice thin. “I’m not. Just let me sleep it off.”
I slammed the brakes at the next red light. He jerked forward, caught himself on the door handle, and winced. “If you go under, I’m calling the DOJ and telling them you’re a terrorist. They’ll have you sedated before you can blink.”
He let out a low, shaky laugh. “How about you take me to Tristan instead?”
I shot him a look. “Your brother is not a hospital.”
“Better than an ER. If you bring me in, I’m dead before triage. At least Tristan will keep me vertical long enough to buy us some time.” He slouched down, voice trailing off. “Also, his couch is better than yours.”
“You’re concussed. You’re probably bleeding into your brain.”
He managed a lopsided smile. “Always been like that around you, babe.”
I gripped the wheel harder and did the math—hospital meant paperwork, meant records, meant another set of eyes on us. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was just too tired to argue.
“Fine,” I said, taking the next exit toward the North End. “Is he home, or do you want to bleed out on the curb?”
“Club. End of Endicott. Just follow the neon,” he slurred.
“You are not bar-hopping with your skull split open,” I snapped, but the adrenaline was already kicking in, the weird high you get from dragging a half-dead man through city traffic. “If you stain my seats, I’ll make sure your next of kin gets the bill.”
He blinked, slow. “You can leave me on the sidewalk. Just text Tristan. He’ll roll a guy out.”
“I’m not leaving you anywhere,” I said, and meant it.
I kept checking his breathing, which went shallow, then weirdly ragged, but he clung to consciousness. By the time I pulled up to the club, he pushed himself off the dash and gave me a shaky thumbs-up.
“Nice parking,” he muttered.
“Can you walk?”
He snorted, but it sounded painful. “I can kill a man for you, but walking’s a challenge.”
He shoved open the door, feet hitting the curb on the third try. For all his tough talk, he looked like he might fold in half if I so much as poked him.
So maybe it was a mistake…but I got out and rounded the front of the car.
Then I–the District Attorney of Suffolk County–walked into a Callahan business without meaning to prosecute them.
The place had valet, but the real staff was the muscle on the steps. The bouncer took one look at Kieran’s face and recoiled.
“Jesus, Callahan. You get hit by a truck?”
Kieran bared his teeth, bloody and bright. “You should see the truck.”
The bouncer just shook his head and held the door—though his eyes flicked to me with something between disbelief and suspicion.
Inside, it was too warm, too dark, the air thick with wine and old secrets. A dishwasher rolled silverware at the bar, and a table of suits clustered in the back. One of them paused mid-laugh when he saw me.
We didn’t stop. Kieran led us down a side hallway, the kind you only see in crime shows—cold, echoing, meant for business that didn’t want daylight.
