He Crawled Into a Diner Bleeding and Clutching His T

Officer Callahan slid off his stool with agonizing slowness, his hands raised in the universal gesture of I don't get paid enough for this, and backed away toward the front windows, keeping his eyes glued to the floor.

Victor Vance didn't flinch. He didn't drop his smile, though the muscle in his jaw twitched violently. He slowly turned around, his hands resting casually inside the pockets of his black wool overcoats, as if he were greeting an old college roommate instead of the most feared enabler of corporate and underworld violence in New England.

“Connor,” Victor purred, his voice smooth as oil. “We thought you bled out in the harbor. Boss was beginning to think he’d have to throw a very lonely memorial service.”

“Vance is a coward who throws parties to celebrate other people's graves,” Connor said, his stride measured and lethal as he walked down the center aisle, closing the distance between them. He didn't look at me, but his peripheral vision never left Victor’s hands. “And you’re his lapdog. I told you what would happen if you ever came near my children.”

“Your children?” Victor laughed softly, a dry, mocking sound. “You mean the heirs to the Vance shipping empire? The bloodline you abandoned when you decided to play Robin Hood with our logistics networks? Arthur Vance wants his grandchildren back, Connor. And he wants his traitorous nephew permanently retired.”

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Vance Shipping. Arthur Vance. The billionaire shipping magnate who owned half the port of Boston, half the city council, and a private army of fixers like the man standing five feet from me.

Connor wasn't just a fugitive. He was the black sheep heir to a criminal dynasty, running for his life with his own flesh and blood.

“Arthur can have his empire,” Connor said, his voice dropping into a register so cold it made my teeth ache. “He can burn it to the ground for all I care. But Liam and Nora stay with me.”

“You can’t protect them forever, Connor,” Victor hissed, his shark-like eyes narrowing. “You’re bleeding from the gut. You look like hell. How long do you think you can run through New England winter with two infants strapped to your chest? A week? A month before you collapse in a ditch?”

Connor didn't blink. “Long enough to bury you.”

The movement was too fast to track.

Victor’s hand whipped out of his pocket, a snub-nosed revolver flashing black against his coat.

Bang.

The suppressed crack of Connor’s Sig Sauer was deafening inside the small enclosed space of the diner.

Victor staggered backward, dropping his gun with a wet clatter as a crimson flower bloomed instantly across the expensive silk of his shirt. He stared down at his chest in disbelieving shock, his knees buckling beneath him. He hit the linoleum hard, sliding three feet before coming to rest against the counter near the pie case, his eyes glazing over as the gray light of Boston faded from them for good.

I screamed, clapping both hands over my mouth, stumbling backward until my thighs hit a booth table.

Connor didn't look down at the body. He swept the room with his gun, checking the corners, his breathing only slightly elevated. When he realized there were no other shooters, he finally turned his icy blue eyes toward me.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his voice sharp with adrenaline.

“You… you just killed a man,” I whispered, staring at the spreading pool of dark blood inches from Mr. Higgins’ old stool. “In my diner. On my floor.”

“He was going to kill you the second he got the answers he wanted, Ella,” Connor said, stepping over the body with practiced indifference. He reached out and grabbed my arm, his grip firm, warm, and entirely unyielding. “We don't have time for hysterics. Arthur’s tactical team will be tracking Victor’s GPS ping. We have three minutes before they descend on this block.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” I snapped, trying to yank my arm away. “I have a life here! I have a lease! I have a—!”

“You have a target on your back now because you helped me,” Connor interrupted, leaning in close enough that I could smell the gunpowder and copper on his skin. “Arthur Vance doesn't leave loose ends. The second his men find out you bandaged my side, they’ll burn this diner to the ash and put you in a shallow grave right beside Victor. Now: are you coming voluntarily, or do I have to carry you like a sack of flour?”

I looked down at the dead man on the floor. I looked at Officer Callahan, who was already shaking his head frantically while backing out the front door into the rain. Then I looked at Connor—at the fierce, desperate protectiveness burning in his eyes.

My life in Southie was already dead. It had just taken three minutes for the bill to arrive.

“If we die,” I hissed, grabbing my heavy canvas coat off the wall hook, “I am going to haunt you forever.”