Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

THOMAS

T he alley smelled of piss, pizza, and desperation.

It was a vile combination, even when muted by the biting cold of the sharp wind.

The city had always been swarming with sinners, all pretending to be good people. As if the dollar a man dropped in the collection plate absolved him of the adultery staining his soul or rid his wife of her demons.

Maybe it did.

But as she walked out of the church, popping one of her kid’s Ritalin pills followed by an oxy and a drink out of her overpriced fashionable tumbler so that she could keep up with the Joneses, all while pretending she didn’t know her husband was screwing the nanny in the next room, her demon was alive and well before she reached her car. And her husband’s soul would be soiled just as soon as his kids went to bed.

The same people showed up every week, not because they believed in God’s mercy or the salvation the church provided, but because that was what “good people” did. They were ones to talk about the godliness of their charitable acts but would kick a homeless man who dared to ask for a buck.

God, I missed New York City.

A muffled scream came from further in the alley, and I followed the noise, a dark excitement buzzing in my veins.

“Hey, you get your hands off of her,” I yelled as I saw four men, all dressed in black, wearing matching ski masks—as if the bright red hair sticking out, freckles on their exposed skin, and green-and-black tattoos peeking out from their sleeves didn’t identify them as Irish mob.

Usually, I wouldn’t care.

My family had spent enough time in bed with the Irish mob for me to know that crawling in myself wasn’t worth the hassle. But the girl in their possession wasn’t some Irish street rat.

She was a means to an end.

My means for my ends.

They could pursue other avenues of retaliation.

“Mind your business,” one of them yelled.

“She is my business,” I said calmly. “Leave now.”

“He ain’t going to do nothing,” one man said.

“I could call the police,” I bluffed.

There was no way I would call the police. They would only get in my way.

They laughed again, and one broke off from his little group and moved toward me. I got a glimpse of the girl who was still between them. Her eyes were wide in terror, her face red, probably from being hit, and one of them had their hand on her breast.

She should be scared.

The man coming in my direction had a cocky gait to his step and a wide smile as he told me how he was going to teach me how to mind my manners.

Pride cometh before the fall.

He didn’t even attempt to hide what moves he was going to try. He took his sweet time to wind his arm back and put all his substantial weight behind his fist. Had no one trained these men at all? He swung, and I stepped to the side, clearing the path of his fist so his force made him stumble. Before he could regain his balance, I kicked at the back of his weight-bearing leg and he face-planted on the hard, dirty pavement.

His friends roared with laughter while he got back to his feet.

“You’re going to regret that, asshole,” he snarled, blood already trickling from the corner of his twisted mouth.

“I’m ready when you are, princess,” I taunted. He seemed like the kind to get mad quickly.

Goading your opponent into an emotional response was always the surest way to win any match. Emotions clouded people’s judgment, turning them sloppy and rash.

Sure enough, his ghastly pale skin turned bright red under his mask, and he lashed out again, this time crouching down and running at me like he was a bull.

Nothing about how this man acted before this display of anger led me to think he was intelligent, but this was a stunning example of “too angry to think things through.”

Another step to the side, and the man head-butted a dumpster. My ears ached from the resulting bang, so I could only imagine how he felt.

He was out cold, so I turned back to his friends. They weren’t laughing anymore. Instead, two of them came at me, the last one holding the girl.

These men were smarter, or at least more cautious.

“You’re going to pay for that,” one seethed.

“I didn’t do a damn thing. It’s not my fault you inbred Irish sheep fuckers are simply too dumb to know not to ram your head into a dumpster.” I dropped my jaw and raised my hand to my face as if some brilliant thought had just occurred. “That’s it, isn’t it! His dad fucked a sheep, and now that asshole is part ram. It all makes sense now.”

I would admit I was a little disappointed they all took the bait so easily. But I knew how to piss off the Irish, being of Irish descent myself.

The first of the two reached for me, trying to grab my collar. I latched onto his sleeve and pulled him close, my fist and his face meeting somewhere in the middle.

He swore while covering his face, blood flowing freely from the cut my signet ring made just under his eye.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, or does she only understand bleating?” I asked.

“That’s it,” the second of the two said, in what I was sure was a stunningly witty retort for the dolt.

He lunged for me, his fist coming like a freight train. I ducked, barely missing the fleshy hammer. While low, I hit him twice in the kidneys and then stood to my full height to punch him in the face, blood spewing from his nose.

There was no time to celebrate. The other one was coming back at me fast. He was quick, but not as quick as I was. I sidestepped the punch and then grabbed the back of his head, forcing it into the side of the dumpster as hard as I could. If it were open and I had used the lip, I could have very well killed him. As it was, he would be concussed, and the only thing I killed was one of his last two brain cells.

He moaned and collapsed on his friend, out for the count.

His pal let out a roar of fury like a battle cry would help him. He threw punches that were easy enough to block. The local mafia had clearly stopped sending their men to the same boxing gym.

I was bored, and it was time to get on with it.

One hit with enough force and accuracy was all it was going to take. I shoved him back and threw all my power behind my fist, aiming for the spot where his jaw met his skull. He went down like a sack of sheep-fucking potatoes.

The girl let out another muffled scream, and I saw the last man trying to drag her away.

“Put her down now,” I said. Part of me was hoping he wouldn’t. This guy was smaller, so maybe he was scrappy, would need to use technique over brute force.

“I’ll… I’ll,” he stammered, backing away with my prize in his arms.

“You will let the girl go, and you will run.” The threat was clear in my voice, and as I watched his eyes widen, I knew he would do something stupid.

The stupid ones never disappointed.

He turned, still gripping her, whipping her around straight into another dumpster. She crumpled, and he let her go as he ran away like the little coward he was.

I walked over and sure enough, little Rose Astrid, the delicate flower of the Astrid family, was lying on top of a trash bag piled next to the dumpster. A lump was forming on her temple, and a few fingerprint-shaped bruises were on her neck and jaw.

Her emerald-green eyes blinked up at me before she passed out.

Of course she did.

I rolled my eyes and bent down to pick her up, grateful the bag she landed on wasn’t filled with dirty diapers or worse.

She was so much lighter than she should have been. She wasn’t particularly short, about average height for a woman, but she felt so small and frail in my arms.

I carried her out of the alley and through a hidden back door. Down the dark back hallways to my private sanctuary. At some point, she woke up. She said nothing, but her body stiffened as I brought her into one of my favorite rooms. The library was quiet, comfortable, lavishly decorated, and, best of all, forgotten about. No one would be disturbing us here.

I set her on the overstuffed leather couch and went to light a candle.

“Thank you for saving me,” she said, her words timid, like she feared I would scold her for being attacked.

No doubt her harpy mother would do just that. Screaming and wailing that she was battered and bruised. Not out of any concern for her, but for what people would say. And how would she look in photos?

The scandal would be the talk of the town, as if Mary Quinn’s recent behavior didn’t set enough tongues wagging.

I gave her a tight smile and looked her up and down, slowly taking in the sweaterdress that clung to her delicate curves. I would never understand why women starved themselves to be so rail thin.

It couldn’t be to please a man. Still, I could see how her curves were determined to give her some shape, even if she starved them. She couldn’t starve her full breasts away, or the curve of her hips.

She continued to mumble her gratitude or apologies. I wasn’t really listening, anyway. I cleared my throat to get her attention. Her brilliant green eyes flickered up, meeting mine, and just as quickly went back to the ground, waiting for me to say something.

“Take your clothes off.”