Sparrow

I folded my arms over my chest. “Is that a request or an order?”

“That depends on your answer.” He tipped his shades down, the storm behind those frosty blues threatening to sweep me off my feet.

I took a step back and watched my husband tapping his palm over the headrest of the driver. Anger boiled beneath my skin, and I held my lip between my teeth.

Don’t lose it, Sparrow. That’s exactly what he wants.

“Semantics.” He shook his head in amusement. “You women just love it. We’re outta here.”

The cab rolled back into the traffic jam ahead, leaving me with our suitcases and a sour mood. But this time, I wasn’t going to just take it. I was going to up my game.

In true Brennan fashion, I turned around, took out my purse and shoved a few bills into the hand of the nearest bellboy. I didn’t have much money, but whatever I had, I gave him.

“Keep the suitcase somewhere safe until I’m back and get me a taxi. Now, please.”

A minute later I was sitting at the back of a bright yellow sedan, an elderly Cuban driver asking me where I was going.

“Wherever they’re going.” I pointed at Troy’s cab. The other yellow car was still buried deep inside a traffic jam. We’d have no trouble tailing them—they wouldn’t even notice.

Oh, yes. If Troy was going to treat me like a prop, I wanted to find out why. Why we were here, what was he up to and especially, why the hell I was his.



TROY



I WAS GOING TO make the most out what was left of Paddy Rowan.

I hated the man with a passion, and if there’s one thing I knew, it was that passion never fails. Passion always f*cking delivers.

Back in the days when the Irish ruled Southie, Paddy shaved some serious commission money off of my dad. Protection money, mostly. He was in charge of the bookkeeping, just like Brock, and just like Brock, he was not to be trusted.

I didn’t discover the truth until after my father was dead. Rowan had skipped town months before. Of course, by then the Armenians were after him, too. That’s why I’d let Paddy alone when I set out to avenge my father’s death and chased down everyone who had wronged him over the years. Rowan’s theft was ancient history and he had reason to lay low after he fled. He was, therefore, pretty far down on my list.

Then Red told me about what Rowan did to her, and it reawakened all kinds of dark thoughts I had about this man and put him straight up on that list again. He may not have been responsible for the death of my father, but he still stole our money.

He touched a girl.

He touched my girl.

Of course, killing Rowan was pointless. The man was already half dead and I wasn’t dumb enough to be that impatient. All the same, I couldn’t wait to get to Miami, especially after the news Jensen – a private investigator who was on my payroll - had sent while we were waiting to take off. Red was in for a hell of a wedding gift.

I also wanted her around just to make sure my cock wasn’t doing anything overly stupid, like getting itself buried in other women. Even though I had no illusions about my icicle of a wife, taking her with me guaranteed I wouldn’t find myself getting up to any old bad habits. The emptiness of the aftermath was intolerable. Case in point, tapping Cat today was about as fun as doing my own taxes.

I was getting too old for this shit, and frankly, the only woman I was vaguely interested in screwing right now hated my guts and happened to be my wife.

Paddy Rowan lived in Little Havana. A Cuban neighborhood where nobody knew him or gave a shit about who he was, so I figured that’s exactly why he chose it in the first place. Laying low was easy in a place where no one had the slightest interest in you. In Little Havana, he was just another old dying senior with no history or future to speak of.

He lived in the nicer part of the neighborhood, though definitely a downgrade from his upscale house back home. It was a yellow, Spanish-style house with arches and all that jazz. The stucco was clean, the yard looked remarkably well tended, and there was a young Latino woman sweeping the floor of the walled front courtyard, humming to herself. She wore a cleaning company’s uniform and looked up at me when she heard my footfalls. Her smile faltered, and her humming and sweeping stopped. A gust of hot wind blew on her face and a strand of dark hair teased her forehead.

The innocence of her expression reminded me of Red. Then again, pretty much every f*cking other thing in the world reminded me of my wife nowadays. Focus, *. Revenge first, * later.

“Can I help you?” she asked, cautious and scared. She flinched when I sauntered toward the door without acknowledging her. I didn’t have time for a chit-chat.

“Sir!” she objected behind me, leaning her broom against the yellow archway and stalking my footsteps.

The front door was locked, so I kicked it open. Most people don’t realize that kicking-in a door is a f*cking walk in the park to anyone over 150 pounds. I didn’t even break a sweat. I marched into the house, the door behind me swinging on its hinges, not stopping to admire the Spanish artwork on the walls or the nice interior design Paddy has decided to go for in his retirement. He’d always liked pretty things.

Shame one of those things belonged to me.

“Where’s Paddy?” I growled in her direction. It was a two-story house, traditional, vast, with a shitload of doors. I wasn’t going to play hide and seek with the motherf*cker.