Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (30 page)

“Go, Sweet P.” Parker’s voice breaks. “Don’t give this fucker what he wants.”

I ignore him, staring straight at Cormack.

“Take me,” I say, voice empty.

“No!” Parker yells instantly. “Fuck no, Phoebe.”

I don’t look at Parker. I can’t. If I look at him right now, I’ll fall apart.

“He’s injured. He won’t be a good hostage if he bleeds out before you get your ransom.” I swallow. “Take me instead.”

Cormack stares at me. “Maybe I’ll take you both. Or maybe I’ll put a bullet in your pretty little head instead, and leave you here for your boyfriend to find.”

I go completely still.

Cormack’s smile widens. “He’s been making life difficult for me. Asking lots of questions, digging into my past, talking to the FBI about me. Maybe I should make things difficult for him, too.”

My mind reels. “You don’t want to do that. My father won’t give Mac his cut if you kill either of us.”

“Maybe.” Cormack shrugs, as though he couldn’t care less either way. “Maybe not.”

“You’ll let my brother and Nate live. If I go with you, you’ll let them live.” The words are almost steady as they pass my lips. Almost. “I won’t fight you.”

“No!” Parker yells.

“Deal,” Cormack agrees, smiling at me. “Now step away from him and put your hands up.”

I look at my brother for a long moment before I comply.

“I love you,” I tell him, tears blurring my eyes. “Tell Nate….” I search for the right words as I listen to the guns firing fifty feet away and wonder if he’s even still alive. “Tell him…”

Tell him he’s the love of my life.

Parker’s eyes flash with something I have trouble deciphering.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” I finish lamely, trying not to let the tears escape.

“Phoebe, don’t do this!” Parker’s voice is anguished. “Sweet P!”

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, pull my heel from Petey’s temple, and lift my hands into the air.

***

No dank basements or rope-burn this time — that’s a positive, right?

Not that there are a lot of positives to being kidnapped. By the mob. For the second time in a week. But I’m trying to look on the bright side.

This time, I’m brought straight to the source — the infamous Keegan MacDonough. The big kahuna. The King of Evil himself.

I’d be flattered I merit a meeting with a veritable mob boss if, you know, my heart wasn’t racing three times its normal speed, my legs weren’t trembling with each step, and my palms weren’t coated with a sheen of sweat so slippery I could slick down a stripper pole.

I try to straighten my blouse and brush some of the dirt off my jeans as we move through the abandoned warehouse toward Mac’s office, but there’s not much of a point. I have a feeling I won’t make it out of this meeting alive, anyway.

As a general rule, evil-doers don’t bring you to their lairs without a blindfold unless they’re going to off you afterward.

At least, not according to the many, many hours of
Nikita
I binge-watched on Netflix last month.

Sigh
.

Petey’s got a firm grip on my arm as he pulls me down the hall, so tight I’m sure I’ll have a cuff of dark bruises around my bicep in an hour or so. He’s a wee bit upset about the whole
getting-the-shit-kicked-out-of-him-by-a-girl
thing.

The thought makes me smirk as I replay those last moments in the parking lot.

As soon as my hands hit the air, Petey scrambled to his feet and backhanded me across the face so hard, the world went out of focus for a few seconds. Parker tried to fight to get to me, but Cormack punched him hard in the shoulder where the bullet was lodged, and I watched in horror as my brother crumpled to the ground, incapacitated by the pain.

“Nate!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, earning another slap from Petey. “Help!”

He was too far away. Still holding off the rest of Mac’s boys on the airstrip. Every few seconds, the sound of a shot rang out in the distance.

Please don’t die.

Cormack grabbed my chin. “Keep fighting, make another goddamned sound, and I’ll shoot your brother in the head.”

All the fight went out of me. I stood there, staring at Parker’s limp body, wondering if I’d ever see him again.

They dragged me off to one of their cars, a nondescript tan sedan stashed out of sight in the bushes behind the hangar, leaving Parker and Boo lying on the cold ground mere inches from each other.

I was too far away to tell if their chests were moving.

I’d lost them all — Parker, Nate, Boo.

As we rode away from the airfield, sounds of gunfire fading into the distance behind us, I thought of Nate, wrapping the memory of his words around me like a blanket.

We’re worth everything
.

You and I mated for life about a million years ago, little bird.

I love you.

I keep those words close to my heart now, as we come to a stop outside a black door.

“When Mac’s through with you, you and me are gonna have a meeting of our own,” Petey says, his mouth so close to my ear I can feel his hot breath on my neck.

I try to stay still, to show him he doesn’t scare me.

He chuckles darkly, hands slithering down my body as he checks to see if I’m wearing a wire or concealing any weapons. Or maybe he just wants to cop a feel. Who knows.

“Proud little bitch, aren’t you?” His hands roam beneath my shirt and I try not to react. “We’ll see how proud you are when you’re sucking my dick.”

I keep my eyes on the door. “Sorry,” I murmur, voice sweet. “I was warned never to put small objects in my mouth. Choking hazard, and all.”

“Bitch!”

I wince as I see his hand pull back in my peripheral, anticipating the pain of another strike. To my surprise, his fist never connects. From the corner of my eye, I see Cormack’s got his hand around Petey’s forearm, halting it midair.

“Mac will be pissed if you hit her again,” Cormack says, eyes on his partner. “Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

Petey growls in displeasure, yanks his arm free, and scowls. “Whatever. She’s clean. No wires, no cell, nothing.” 

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t wilt as relief washes through me.

It’s short lived.

The door swings open and I’m shoved into the office of Boston’s most notorious crime lord.

I’m pretty into watching sports.

By
sports
I obviously mean David Beckham.

Phoebe West, detailing the best attributes of soccer. 

“Miss West. Please, sit.”

I’m stunned to find myself face to face with a pleasant looking man in slacks and a button down, his sandy, red-blond hair well groomed and his lithe, athletic stature non-threatening. I’m not sure what I was expecting Keegan MacDonough to look like (maybe someone with massive muscles and a perpetual scowl and possibly even fangs or claws) but it certainly wasn’t
this
— an unexceptional middle-aged man I wouldn’t glance twice at if I passed him on the street.

His eyes are light blue and hyper-intelligent, tracking my every move as I step further inside. There’s hardly any furniture — just a heavy-looking metal desk and two steel-backed chairs, bolted to the ground. The windows are blacked out with dark spray paint. It looks more like an interrogation room than an office.

“Sit,” he repeats, authority ringing in his tone.

Anyone who underestimates this man based on his appearance is a fool; it’s clear from the first two seconds in his presence, he’s not someone to be trifled with.

I sit.

He does the same, settling on the other side of the industrial desk. His hands steeple in front of him as he stares at me.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks, after a long silence.

“I’m assuming it’s not for a chick-flick marathon with popcorn and hair-braiding.” I’m proud my voice doesn’t shake. “Which is a shame, ‘cause I do a mean fish-tail.”

He doesn’t smile or laugh. His lips don’t even twitch.

“Your father broke the terms of our agreement. So long as he pays me, you won’t be harmed.”

I swallow. “The way he tells it, you’re the one who broke the terms.”

“So you know about our arrangement.”

“If by arrangement you mean mistake, then yes. I know about the mistake my father made, dealing with you.”

“A mistake?” His head tilts. “No, I don’t think so. Mistakes imply you don’t know what you’re getting into. Your father knew exactly what he was doing, when he decided to negotiate with me. That’s not a mistake. You may blame me for how things turned out, but he’s as much at fault as anyone.”

“You’re the criminal, here. Don’t turn it around on my father.”

“You call me a criminal because I make deals in a seedy bar in Charlestown; you’d call me something else if I made those same deals from a corner office downtown.
Entrepreneur
.
Businessman
.” He leans back in his seat. “Criminal is just an arbitrary label, Miss West. A state of mind.”

“Says the criminal,” I mutter.

“Your father is a wealthy man. You think he’s gotten that way by following the law? You think
he’s
not a criminal, for the things he’s done?” His eyes narrow to slits. “He’s greased the palms of every zoning official and city surveyor since he started building his little green-development empire. And before then, a decade ago, when he laid his submarine communications cable from Boston to England and made the bulk of his fortune… You think that project would’ve passed regulations, if he hadn’t bribed everyone standing in his way? Silenced every environmental group and opposer with threats and defamation lawsuits?”

My heart is pounding a sharp staccato inside my chest.

For the first time, a hint of a smile crosses Mac’s lips. “Bribes and threats — that’s what makes the world go round. Your father knows that better than anyone.”

My mouth presses shut. I don’t know what to say — how do I defend my father when my own faith in him has crumbled like stale bread? When he’s just as untrustworthy as a mafia lord?

“You’ve been dealing with my father for years. He knows your secrets. You hurt me, he’ll go to the police,” I bluff. “He’ll testify against you.”

His lips twist in a cold almost-smile. “The police won’t move against me.”

“The FBI will,” I say, desperate to believe my own words.

“Miss West, your father can’t take me down without incriminating himself as well.” He smirks. “I don’t see him voluntarily destroying his own life, throwing away everything — his family, his company, his fortune — and spending his final days in a federal prison just to take me down. Do you?”

No. No, I do not.

I don’t respond, though I have a feeling my silence is answer enough for him.

“You know it, I know it, Milo knows it. And yet, he won’t pay me. So you see my problem.” He lays his hands flat on the desk. “He’s not an easy man to deal with, your father.”

My throat is too dry to respond so I just nod my head, feeling somewhat dazed.

“Any suggestions for me?” he asks, amused.

I cough to clear my throat. “You could let me go.”

He laughs, at that. A real, genuine laugh.

“You seem like a nice girl, Miss West.” He sits back in his chair. “It’s a shame I’ll have to kill you, if your father doesn’t pay me.”

Frack
.

“So, that’s a no on the hair braiding, then?” I ask.

“If I ever had a daughter, I’d have wanted her to be like you,” he says, surprising me. “Brave. Perhaps too reckless, but brave.”

“It’s not too late.” I shrug. “You could do it.”

“So I can suffer the same fate I’ve inflicted on your father?” He shakes his head. “When you have as many enemies as I do, Miss West, you can’t have a family. Any child of mine would be a target from the moment it took its first breath.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it.

Something like surprise flashes in his light blue eyes. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“I’m not exactly in a position to lie.” I shrug. “And yeah. No family, no one to trust… it sounds lonely. I know what that’s like, and I’m sorry for anyone who feels that way. Even if they’re a mobster crime lord who’s killed a zillion people.”

“I haven’t killed a zillion people.” His mouth twitches. “Only a hundred or so. And most of them deserved it.”

A chill zips down my spine at his casual tone.

Great, Phoebe. Just great. Sympathize with the psycho mob boss who readily admits to murder.

“Um,” I say intelligently. “What about the ones who didn’t?”

His eyes get distant. “I try not to think about those.” 

“Does it work?”

“Most of the time.”

I stare at him. “I don’t believe you.”

His gaze moves to mine. “Smart girl.”

***

Cormack comes in, calls Mac out into the hallway, and for a while, I’m left in the office alone. I hear the click of the lock turn over, so I know I can’t get out. There’s nothing I can use as a weapon. The desk surface is empty. There’s not even a damn pen. Every drawer is locked tight.

I sigh.

Honestly, being kidnapped is a lot more waiting around than I’d have imagined before all this mafia drama went down — if you’re not waiting to be killed, you’re waiting to be rescued or waiting to get a chance to go to the bathroom… Always waiting. This time is even more boring than the last, but at least I’m not tied to a chair.

It’s the little things.

I run my finger along the pointed edges of the sun necklace Nate gave me as my mind turns over thoughts of him and Parker and Boo. I pray to god they’re all still alive.

If I listen hard, I can almost make out the conversation in the hallway. I creep to my feet and ease toward the door, pressing my ear flat against the wood so I can hear better.

Cormack’s voice is rising with anger, a stark contrast to the measured tones of his boss. Straining, I catch fragments every few seconds.

…West…

…may have flipped on us…

…FBI…

…get you out of here…

…take care of her…

…body at the marsh….

None of that sounds good. In fact, all of that sounds pretty fucking terrible. I can’t make out Mac’s words, but a few seconds later I hear the sound of footsteps. My ass is barely back in my seat when the door swings open and Cormack steps into the room.

His smile gleams as darkly as the gun in his hand.  “Just you and me now, Phoebe.”

I gulp.

Somehow, I felt safer with the mob boss.

***

“Where are you taking me?” I ask for the twentieth time.

Cormack doesn’t answer as he pushes me through the empty warehouse, using the barrel of his gun like a cattle prod whenever I’m not moving fast enough for his liking.

“Where’s Mac?”

“Why? You think he’s gonna save you?” Cormack snorts. “He’s the one who ordered the hit.”

The hit? As in….

Crap on ciabatta loaf.

“You can’t kill me.” I swallow. “You need me.”

“Apparently not anymore.” His voice is casual, like we’re discussing the weather. “Your father surprised us. Didn’t think he had the balls to go to the FBI about Mac, but we just got word he flipped.”

Dad went to the FBI?

Cormack’s feeling chatty. “He must love you. Thought it’d save you, probably. That the boys in blue would find you in time.” He laughs, like he’s told a great joke. “Stupid of him, really.”

My heart clenches.

We reach the end of one hallway and turn down another. I see a doorway up ahead, light shining in around its edges, illuminating dust motes in the stale air. We’re headed outside.

Cormack’s still taunting me as his gun barrel presses between my shoulder blades. “Not only will he fail to help you, he’ll go to jail for his trouble. The amount of shit Milo West has done — collusion, blackmail, extortion — even a testimony won’t get him off scot-free.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Still, we can get to him. Mac’s reach extends far. Even to federal security prisons. Your daddy’s days are numbered, whether he walks or does time.”

I clench my hands so tight, my fingernails cut into my palms like knives.

“All for nothing, too. They won’t be able to make any of the charges against Mac stick. Never do.” He chuckles. “Witnesses have a way of… disappearing.”

“You don’t have to kill me,” I say, breathing too hard. “I don’t have anything to do with this. My father will go to jail, you just said that. His life is over. So, you already have your revenge. Please… you don’t need to hurt me, too.”

We reach the door. Cormack steps around me to haul it open with his free hand. He uses his gun to gesture me outside.

I squint against the sudden brightness. It’s around noon, judging by the sun’s position straight overhead, and after my eyes adjust I see nothing but swamp. Dried mud and tall grass form a bog for at least a mile in every direction. My heels sink in with each step.

I know immediately that we’re somewhere far outside the city limits — an old abandoned mill or factory, somewhere long-forgotten by everyone except Mac and his boys. There are no other buildings anywhere in sight. The tan sedan is the only car left parked beside the warehouse.

“Keep walking,” Cormack orders, eyes cold. “Toward the marsh.”

With his accent it sounds like he’s saying
toad tha
mash
. 

I turn to look at him. “Please don’t do this.”

He takes a step closer and his voice gets even harsher. “Walk toward the marsh and get on your fucking knees.”

I swallow. “No.” 

He smiles a scary smile. “No?”

“If you want to kill me, you’re going to have to do it looking into my eyes, you bastard.”

He raises the gun toward my head. “Fine by me.”

My eyes press closed when the shot goes off.