Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

M iranda

When the doorbell rings, it scares the shit out of me. I can't remember the last time it happened. The simple fact is that I have few friends and even fewer people who would come to my home. It was only delivery who rang the bell in years unannounced, and I haven't ordered anything in weeks. Maybe one of my few neighbors I traded getting packages with thought something was delivered to me.

A quick check of the clock tells me it's a little after nine-thirty. My neighbors rarely came by so late. Pulling a very large knife from the butcher block, I go into the living room. I'm cursing myself for not getting the camera doorbell thing everyone else has so I could see who it is.

Above the diatribe the king of hell is giving to the two brothers and an angel who never listen to him, I hear someone calling out my name. The voice should have reassured me. It doesn't. That voice has only ever brought me trouble .

Back in the kitchen, I slide the knife back into the block. I take my time, hoping he'll be gone when I go from the kitchen to the front door. Before I open the front door, I take a deep breath.

Leaving the chain on only gives me four inches to see him by—it's more than enough for me. "What do you want, Peter?"

There isn't much difference in him since the last time I saw him more than two years ago. His clothes look as if he slept in them. He's too thin, he needs a haircut, and his brown eyes squint against the soft porch light above him. "Aw, come on, Miranda—you aren't even going to let me in?"

"Absolutely not. I don't want you in my home or my life."

He loses his cajoling smile. "What the hell kind of sister are you? I haven't seen you in years and?—"

"I'm the kind of sister you made me. The kind that doesn't trust you in my home. Tell me what you want so I can tell you no, and you'll go away." I refuse to acknowledge the ache deep down in my heart as I realize I mean every word.

"Miranda, please, this isn't a joke." He pleads with big eyes.

Those big eyes remind me of him as a child. I didn't play with dolls growing up—I had Peter. He was better than any doll. Feeding him, changing him, reading to him, I did them all with glee. Growing up, I thought… It doesn't matter what I thought because I was wrong.

"I never joke about the clusterfuck you have made of your life. I told you two years ago never again would I give you another dollar to help you out of a mess you made. I told you that I didn't want to see you again. I said it, and I meant it. I want you to leave now. "

"Miranda, this is life or death here. It's almost a week overdue. The vig is adding up every day?—"

"Vig? What the hell are you talking about?"

His hand wraps around the door, and for a moment, I wonder if he'll try and push his way inside. "It's the interest on the loan. All I needed was ten grand for this in-and-out job, but my partner skated on me and took all of the money. I've tried to get the money myself, but I can't. I'm into him now at almost twenty grand. He told me today he wants his money tomorrow, or he'll come looking for me."

I shake my head. Jesus fucking Christ.

"My time is up. You are my last hope. If I don't pay him back, he's going to kill me. These aren't the kind of people you play with. It's the Irish mafia. I fucked up. I went to someone who won't just be satisfied with a little roughing up. They call him the Irish Devil. He's not to be fucking played with. The last person who didn't pay back Declan Kelly, now walks with a limp. I swear, I wouldn't be here if I had any other options." His voice breaks with stress.

"You borrowed money for a job? What kind of job? Let me guess: a little breaking and entering and theft in a jewelry store. Like the last time you got caught. Or were you going to break into someone's home and steal from them the way you stole from me the last time I let you into my home? What the fuck is the matter with you? Every day, you were in the garage with Dad. You were so good you could have opened your own shop."

I'm not going to go into how hurt Dad was when he refused to take over the repair shop my dad started and ran for more than fifteen years. "I can't even believe I'm saying this, but with all your knowledge of cars, why didn't you go into ripping off cars? You have to break into a business with people involved and try and carry off empty fucking safes."

Face red at the reminder of how he ended up serving time for the theft that netted him nothing. He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, all right. I'm fucking sorry I stole from you. And I'll pay you back. Declan Kelly scared me straight. The threat of death has a way of doing that. If you help me, I'll never even get a parking ticket again. I swear?—"

"First, you're going to be killed, and then you're going to walk with a limp. Which one is it? I'm done. I am so done with dealing with you, and this conversation is over." Closing the door, I sag against it.

It might seem to him that I'm mean or being cruel, but he'll never understand how much it hurts me to push him away. That I had to push him away to protect myself from my little brother. This wasn't what I imagined our relationship could ever become.

Peter bangs on the door hard enough I feel it through the thick wood. "The Irish Devil knows about you! Declan Kelly knows all about you and that you have the money. If you don't give it to me, he'll come for it himself!"

Anger fires through me. Is he fucking serious? He's giving my name to fucking loan sharks? I open the door, needing to see his face to believe it.

His smile is back. He thinks I'm giving in. It only enrages me more. "What the fuck do you think you're doing dragging me into your bullshit? I'm not giving you or him a dime. Not now, not ever ."

"I didn't have a choice. Kelly was the only one willing to lend me the money, but he's different than the other loan sharks. He makes sure the person has something that, if it came down to it, would have the value to pay him back. It's nothing for you. I know you got this house in the divorce, all paid off, and that Michael gave you cash to go away. You make what, ninety thousand or a hundred grand a year? And you still sock everything away. I know you have it. He knows you have it. For fuck's sake, just give it to me, and I'll go away."

"You had plenty of fucking choices, and you picked the wrong one every damn time. How dare you expect everyone else to pay for the choices you made. Get the fuck off my porch and stay the hell away from me. You have thirty seconds to get off my property, or I'm calling the cops and having you arrested."

At the threat of police, it finally sinks in that I'm not giving him money. "You'll regret this. Declan Kelly will make sure of it."

Slamming the door closed on him, I refuse to acknowledge the tiny part of me that wants to give in. Yes, I could write a check for twenty thousand without it adversely affecting my current finances. But I worked too hard for too long to give money away like it was nothing.

I've worked my ass off to have the life I do. Peter has never worked a day in his life. When our mother died from breast cancer, I was thirteen, and Peter was ten years old. At twelve, he began smoking everything he could get his hands on and skipping school. By the time he turned fourteen, he was sentenced to two years in juvenile detention with the hope it would scare him straight. It didn't matter that he had already spent a summer in some sort of boot camp with the same thought.

I understood Peter was only sixteen when my father was diagnosed with lung cancer, and with me at college already, he probably felt alone. Yet, as our father grew ill and was dying of lung cancer, Peter didn't help me take care of Dad. I had to beg him over and over to so much as warm up food for Dad or get prescriptions from the pharmacy.

Peter acted like he didn't care if our father lived or died. He was already checked out and living with his best friend and his friend's single mother. The mother said she understood what Peter was going through, and he'd always have a home with her. By the time Dad died after a week in the hospital, Peter was already moved in with his friend.

Despite being disgusted and resentful of how he let me and Dad down in the last few months, once our father died, I gave Peter my share of Dad's small estate. Since I had just married Michael and didn't need anything, it didn't feel right keeping it. And considering the cost of the funeral and paying off the last outstanding medical bills—it wasn't much.

He didn't call or respond to my calls or texts to him. And he told his friend's mom not to answer any of my calls or texts either. Suddenly, almost a year later, he was back begging me for more money. I knew he was lying about why he needed the money, four thousand dollars. Except I didn't dare call him out in front of Michael—too embarrassed.

Michael wasn't happy Peter was in our home again. He was still annoyed that I gave Peter all of the money after my dad died. At the same time, he made it clear Peter staying with us wasn't an option. And the money was coming from me—not our shared account.

I warned Peter it was the last time. He swore he understood and he'd never ask me for money again. There were no calls or texts…nothing from him. I often wondered if he was okay. And I regretted what I said, sure he hated me for telling him that I would never help him again .

A few searches online brought up nothing on him. Once, I even considered hiring a private investigator. Michael reminded me that Peter was simply doing what I told him and that Peter was a user. Since I was of no use to him, then he wanted nothing to do with me.

It hurt because I knew he was right.

Then, one day, he appeared at my door with yet another need for money. He admitted those quiet years were spent in prison. At the time, my marriage was falling apart. I did my best to get Peter out of the house before Michael came home. I hadn't succeeded.

I did what I became so adept at in the last year of my marriage—pretended nothing was wrong. Peter talked his way into staying for dinner which somehow turned into him staying the night. In the morning, Peter slunk out of the house with a shrug and a weak hug. I should have known he went too easily.

Almost a week later, I found out what my pride cost me. Over four days, Peter cleaned me out—he'd stolen almost sixteen thousand dollars.

A week from hell followed as I closed every single account I had. Michael also closed his own accounts—just in case. I got the silent treatment from him for weeks. Our marriage was over. There was no coming back from the things said when he finally started talking to me again.

Weeks later, Peter knocked on my door, smiling from ear to ear and with a roll of bills. It was only three thousand dollars. He seriously expected it to be enough to make up for everything he did. I took the money and told him that I never wanted to see him again.

Inside, I was devastated that I meant every word. Peter only shrugged and walked away. Now, here he was again, only caring about what he could get from me. It shouldn't hurt so badly, but it did.

Long after he's gone, I'm stewing in bed, wondering where everything went wrong for us to get here. What did I do wrong to bring him to the point of using me as a… What, am I collateral?

The Irish mafia, the words don't make sense to me. I didn't know there was an Irish mafia. However, the more I think about it, it shouldn't be a surprise. The Irish Republican Army used the resource of the second largest population of Irish in America here in Chicago to make money to buy arms for their cause. It wasn't exactly a secret either.

This is Chicago, after all. The city was built on the backs of immigrants controlled by either the Outfit—the Italian mafia, or the Irish mafia. I thought the Outfit was the only thing like that still around. When I was young, I heard my dad and mom talking about a particular capo, Tony Sabatini, he liked and trusted. Dad laughed when I asked him if he was scared of Sabatini. If he was going to hurt my father.

Dad said not to worry. Since this is Chicago, he'd rather I get help from Sabatini than the police. If I went to the Outfit, I'd actually get something done—at a price. Cops were as bad as the bad guys, except they had badges to hide behind, my father said often.

Yet it was only one conversation he ever spoke of the mafia. Anything else I knew came from the news, more than I wanted to know.

Whatever. It's over. Peter might be my brother, but I'm done. I'm not paying for anything, not now or ever. Fuck him, and fuck Declan Kelly.

A Week Later

Walking home from the El, I'm turning over the audit I worked on today in my mind. I'm nearly done and going through my mental checklist if there's anything I'm missing. I wonder if I should simply finish it tonight since I'm so close to being done. After all, it's Friday, and I'll have a better weekend without it hanging over my head.

Lost in thought, I'm almost to my porch before I notice two men are waiting, blocking the door. One of the men is huge, well over six foot, with a large barrel chest, dark, curly hair, and brown eyes. He's every bit as intimidating as he's trying to be.

The other man is a few inches shorter and isn't nearly as broad. He's as fair as the other man is dark. His blue eyes are a light blue, a perfect match for the tousled, dirty blond hair.

The blond man is smiling. "Ms. Beckett?"

If I wondered if I was wrong, the Irish accent confirms my first thought. "Is that really supposed to be a question? It seems clear you know who I am. Declan Kelly?"

The blond man laughs and shakes his head.

"Then you work for him?"

The blond man nods.

"Fine, I can tell you right now, I have no intention of paying my brother's debt. Now leave before I call the police." I'm intent on ignoring them, refusing to send another glance at either man.

The three steps up onto the porch bring them within a few feet of me.I would have said before now the porch was large—they make it feel tiny .

They both take a step forward. "Mrs. Beckett, we are asking you to please come with us. Mr. Kelly would like to speak with you." The blond is firm.

"I believe I just gave my answer to any discussion Mr. Kelly would want to have." I pull my cell phone from my purse, intent on using it.

It's just after eight, andtwilight has set. The street isn't very well-lit, and it's empty of anyone. There is little traffic, which is what attracted me to the house. If I screamed for help, would someone hear?

"Ms. Beckett, you have no cause for concern about your safety. Declan needs only a few minutes of your time, please. If you do not come to him, he will come to you, and he will not be as pleasant." Thelargerman is a stone wall. If he wanted to take me somewhere, he could—even though I'm a fat ass at a size eighteen.

The threat works. I don't want the man in my home. All I want is this over. "Fine, if he wants to be told to fuck off to his face, I'm willing to do that."

Smiling widely, the blond man leads the way to a black Lincoln Navigator parked in front of my home. He opens the door to the back seat as if he were a chauffeur.

I get in with a blank face.I'm doing everything I can not to showhow scared I really am.My hands are slick with sweat, and I'm working to force deep breaths to keep calm. If I ever see Peter again,he's going towalk with a limp—that I give him.

I'm being summoned by afreakingmobster because of Peter and his stupidity. Would he be a kindly-lookingold manor an overweight middle-aged man used to throwing his weight around and being a dick about it? A man who thought he was above showing up himself to my home for whatever he wanted sounds like an asshole. I check my purse to confirmthe mace I haveis in the inner pocket and open the zipper—just in case.

A glance up to ensure the men up front can't see takes me out of my head enough to only now realize I have no idea where we are. Before I can get oriented, the car comes to a hard stop. The blond man opens the door for me.

I have no idea what neighborhood we're in. It's a very quiet street, with only five houses lining the block on one side and four on the other, yet it wasn't far enough to be out of the city even though the lots were much larger than the ones on my block.

The home is a beautiful, red brick Prairie-style, with a large front porchthat helda porch swing and two gliders. The door is a large, thick oak door, and it swings open without a sound.

I'm ushered into a foyer of light, golden wood. It's not only on the floor, it's also around the doors. On one side of the foyer is a formal living room that looks like no one goes into it, andon the other side is a more casual living room with a large flat-screen television and softer furniture.

There are two other rooms on each side. Those doors are closed. The large man knocks on a closed door. A muffled confirmation to enter is given. He opens the door and motions for me to follow him.

Taking a deep breath, I enter.