Chapter One

 Lia

Bass thudded against the steel door. It was an ominous, rapid-fire heartbeat locked underground that too closely matched the rhythm of my own. I closed my eyes to breathe in the city—the sharp bite of the coming winter, the sultry tang of cigarettes from the smokers that huddled at the next doorway, and the overpowering cologne that came off the massive bouncer guarding the door.

I opened my eyes and mentally vowed you will let me in, Mr. Bouncer.

But, despite my furrowed brow and grim concentration, I couldn’t believe Mr. Bouncer’s dedication or the fact he was using the world’s tiniest flashlight. As I stood there watching, he had the pinprick of light aimed at the ID of an Irish tourist in the group in front of us. The tourist’s accent lilted with a joke, but Mr. Bouncer didn’t so much as smile.

I released the breath I was holding, my eyes almost watering, when the bouncer finally waved the tourist in and moved on to his friend.

Almost there. He’ll let me in. He has to… But maybe Sara should wait out here.

Glancing over at my best friend, I saw that her usual smile had pressed into a thin line, and her eyes had narrowed at the bouncer. Just beyond her, one of the Irish guys in the group in front of us gave Sara a hopeful and dopey look, which she ignored.

She was a drop-dead gorgeous Korean woman with high cheekbones, flawless gold skin, and a perfect sheaf of black, silken hair. She could turn heads when wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie and leggings. However, tonight she’d outdone herself, embodying the wintery night in a silver jumpsuit and a trim leather jacket.

On the other hand, I should’ve tried harder with my outfit. Compared to Sara’s big-budget, Hollywood look, I looked like an unpaid extra from an indie film. I’d worn my favorite—albeit paint-splattered—jeans, a beat-up, and patched-over vintage air force jacket I’d found in a thrift store in Cambridge, and my combat boots. I’d thrown on a little mascara, but my wild honey-blonde hair had been thrown up in a careless bun that threatened to unravel at any moment.

Sara turned and made a face at me. I knew that look and braced myself for a dose of her common sense to kick my butt into gear.

“Not a good idea,” she hissed. I bit the tip of my tongue and shrugged, watching Sara’s gaze turn ferocious. “Lia. Let’s get out of here before you get your ass booked.”

“You didn’t have to come with me,” I said, but my tone was gentle. I appreciated that she had come, after all. Sara always came along, no matter how many times things went sideways or upside-down. She never stopped letting me drag her along on one of my harebrained schemes.

That was probably why she scoffed and tapped a dainty boot at me. “I did have to come,” Sara retorted, then frowned and added, “I don’t think my fake will fly here.”

“Okay.” I leaned into her and whispered, “Why don’t you wait here? I won’t be long.”

“Because look at this place!” Sara hissed back. “It’s bookie central.” She nodded at the group in front of us. “These Irish dudes were obviously conned into coming here. You know, I read an expose in the Globe about tourism scams—”

“Next,” the bouncer boomed.

“Lia.” Sara caught my elbow. “Please don’t… Let’s just go!”

Her unspoken words pulsed in the air between us: there’s still time to walk away.

“I can’t.” I could feel my sadness leak through my smile. “I need money, and this—” I swallowed hard, “this has to work.”

With a sigh, Sara let me go and stepped out of line. She gestured at the wall while I pulled out my fake ID and handed it to the bouncer. He barely glanced at it and waved me right in, to my surprise.

Wondering why that somehow felt even more troubling than if he’d given me a hard time like the tourists, I hurried inside and almost fell into darkness. A second later, the motion-sensor lights kicked on, illuminating each step I took. As I descended, the bass grew louder.

I’d never heard such urgent and hungry music, as though each note was seeking a willing soul to sign itself over. Or maybe it just wanted me.

At the bottom of the steps, a tunnel snaked and curved until I emerged into a large underground bar. Its entirety stretched backward beneath the street, and I realized I must have been hearing the sound system through the concrete.

It had the feel of an old speakeasy, from the curved and bricked-over ceiling to the 1920’s-themed attire of the servers, and the sense of being locked away from the humdrum city above. Smoky glass lamps swung over the alcoves of plush, red seats and glossy wood tables around the room’s edges. The rest of it was filled with the writhing bodies of the drunk, dancing crowd.

As much as I wished the music would snatch me away and let me leave my problems at the door, my reason for coming here was the furthest thing from pleasure. I was here on business; for information. Pushing through the crowd, I traced my gaze along the fully stocked bar, searching for a particular bottle. It was a bit difficult since the glass shelves stretched to the ceiling, but I didn’t think it would be down here, in the crowd.

Hurrying to the far and empty end of the bar, I scanned the wall. My heart leaped when I saw the black bottle I was looking for, with the lightning bolt on its label. Sauntering up to the polished marble counter, the bearded bartender finished polishing a glass, before setting it aside and nodding at me.

He drawled in a thick Boston accent with a slow grin, “What’ll ya have, blondie?”

Setting my jaw to stone, I had to take a moment to keep my adrenaline in check so it didn’t explode in an inadvertent temper… But fuck if I hated when dudes called me blondie. Finally, I got out, “a Taranis, please. On the rocks.”

His smile slipped, and his pale green eyes narrowed. Suddenly, he imitated a perfect Irish accent, “Aye? The Celtic god of storms for the lass?” I nodded, and he swung around, picking up the bottle and pouring three-fingers worth of strong whiskey. “And what does the lass wish to know from a poor wretch like I?”

I curled my fingers around the drink but didn’t sip it. “You’re Dean, right?”

“When it’s convenient,” he said.

Now his voice was plain old middle America. My scalp prickled, and I tried not to swallow my own tongue. Dean’s ability to change his voice like that bordered on supernatural. For a second, I couldn’t even remember why I was here.

He tugged on a thick beard and eyed me. “If you’re not askin’…”

“Where can I find Ryan White?”

Dean leaned on the bar and gazed at me. “If you know to ask for Mr. White’s location,” he said in a low voice I could barely hear, “you know it doesn’t come cheap.”

Swallowing, I fished in my purse and slid a wrinkled fifty-dollar bill across the bar. Dean whisked it into his pocket and flicked his eyes around the room. For a moment, I wondered how he’d ended up as a part-time bartender, full-time informant for this Ryan White.

I also wondered how many others had come in here, desperate and down to their last dollar, asking for the kind of help you could only find in a place like this.

I’d heard all about the underground bar, Dean the job dealer, and the drink through my cousin Ricky. He’d explained that placing an order for a Taranis on the rocks and paying a small fee of fifty bucks could get you Ryan White’s location. And this Mr. White, according to Ricky, could give you a job—“not just under the table but underground.”

This came from Ricky, who I’d barely seen in the last ten years and now had no choice but to trust. He’d shown up out of nowhere three days ago with torn clothes, a black eye, and bad news.

“Your dad really fucked up this time, kid,” Ricky said by way of hello. “But he’s long gone overseas. The Sons know you’re his daughter, and they’re coming for you.”

Blood drained from my face as I swayed in the doorway, sure I was about to wake up. My long-lost cousin Ricky couldn’t be standing on my doorstep next to frosted-over flowerpots explaining how my father had managed to ruin my life.

Again.

Only, this time I might not survive. Dear old Dad had managed to land me thousands in debt to the most dangerous mob in Boston―not even the mob, but their muscle, The Sons of Celt. Brutal and relentless, the byword on the streets was that they always got paid.

If someone tried to skip out—or, as in my bastard father’s case, managed to skip out—the debt went to the closest blood relative. Of course, when Ricky had suggested I come to one of their bars and ask for a job, I’d balked. That had seemed as naïve and suicidal a move as it got, but he’d persuaded me that it would be ballsy.

And then there was the little matter that I had no other options.

“You’re Ricky’s cousin. He told me you would come,” Dean said, and I jolted back to the underground bar, the music settling to a slower beat, no less dangerous. When I nodded, a flicker of sympathy went through Dean’s eyes, and he pulled over a Guest Check Pad, then scribbled something down with the pen he’d fished from behind his ear. “He’s in Eastie, 336 Border Street. Cut across the parking lot and look for the building about to fall into the river. ‘Got a white door.”

I slowly accepted the torn piece of paper with shaking fingers and nodded. “He’ll have a job? Quick money, and lots of it?”

Dean shrugged. “Every night’s different. And by the way, blondie, you can’t miss it—it’s the only doorway with a working light.”

“What?” I asked. But someone called Dean’s name, and he was gone.

Resisting the urge to throw the drink at another douchebag bailing on me instead of answering a simple question, I instead pushed it away and turned around, shoving my hands into my hair without thinking. My bun came apart, and I ripped out the elastic, almost yelping when it snapped against my fingers. Gold hair fell around me in a torrent, and I made a face, wishing I would have gotten a haircut.

Then I paused, going cold all over, and looking back at the glass of whiskey beginning to sweat on the bar. That fifty for a drink and Ryan’s address had been my last savings, plus what Ricky had given me. I had nothing left, not a nickel to my name, and nowhere to go.

Besides Sara, no one left who gave a damn if I couldn’t afford to pursue my only dream, if I ended up on the streets, or if I died. If this didn’t work out, if Mr. White couldn’t give me a job, I’d be more than screwed. I wouldn’t be able to pay my bills, I wouldn’t be able to get into art school as I’d scrimped and saved for the last year, and I wouldn’t be able to pay back the Sons of Celt for my dad’s idiocy. They’d at least accepted the twenty-five thousand I’d had saved and what Mom had left me.

For a second, my eyes closed, and the bar swirled away into black nothing.

Twenty-five thousand dollars: gone.

A sob threatened to rise and choke me, but I swallowed hard and opened my eyes. Whatever. If anyone was used to the left hooks that life threw, it was me.

Turning, I shoved my hands in my pockets and stalked away from the bar. With my chin lifted and rage curdling in my veins, I dared anyone to try me… only to falter when I stumbled into the dark gaze of a tall stranger. He sauntered towards me, wearing a bespoke suit that screamed blood money, a fancy silver watch, nice shoes, and hair styled straight out of GQ.

At that moment, Ellie Goulding’s silky voice purred through the speakers.

Oh, my my my, what you do to me,

Like lightning when I’m swimming in the sea….

He should have looked approachable and well-to-do. A businessman out on the town. Instead, he radiated dangerous and lethal energy: a coiled storm caught in a big, muscular body, more than capable of carrying the weight of power and strength that sat atop his broad shoulders.

I couldn’t leave if I wanted to,

Cause something keeps pulling me back to you…

I didn’t even realize I’d stopped until someone bumped into me, and I began moving again, trying to look away but being totally unable to. I couldn’t, not when I had the sense that he’d been watching me this whole time.

A smirk kicked up into his cheek, causing the hard lines of his face to be thrown into sharper relief. I’d never seen a man with such an intense pull or that kind of face. He had to be Italian, from the dark olive cast to his skin and the heaviness of those sexy eyebrows.

My mouth went dry, and my bravado vanished as something hotter, and wilder took its place. It was as though my body had been filled with electric lights that were setting vital components on fire, but I didn’t care.

Somehow, I wanted to burn.

There’s an energy when you hold me,

When you touch me, it’s so powerful…

 Around us, the music swung to extreme highs and lows, the singer’s voice clawing at my heartstrings as she cried for relief and release, for the electricity of the storm to take her away. I’d heard “Powerful” a thousand times before, but I’d never understood it until now.

As I got closer to this stranger, our eyes still locked. I wondered how it didn’t seem peculiar, how it made sense. What wouldn’t make sense would be if either of us had looked away. My hands began to shake, my heart was roaring in my chest, and I swore I felt the stars quiver above the city.

I wanted to say something to him—

Hello? No, that seemed too juvenile, too childish. He had to be at least five or so years older than me, maybe more. What interest would he have in a nineteen-year-old artist up to her eyeballs in debt?

Still, his eyes never left mine, and he dipped his head as we passed, offering me a quick and sly smile. With my heart about to beat out of my chest, I gave him what had to be the dumbest and shyest smile in return. Then, once I got a little further, I slipped to the side and stopped, turning to watch him walk away, hoping he’d looked back.

And he did, this time winking before he vanished into the crowd.

Fingers tingling, my core too hot and pulsing frantically, I all but ran up to the street, desperate for the cold air. All I could think of for a brief second were his dark eyes and dangerous smile, his big hands and his perfect, full lips hushing all my troubles away.

I turned and glanced back down the hallway at the stairs, feeling a bit like Alice and her rabbit hole—maybe just like a rabbit.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if I chased down that big, bad wolf.

Forget him, said a voice in my head, and I resolutely started up the stairs.

But I couldn’t, even though deep down I knew that sexy stranger probably wouldn’t give me a second thought even as I heard the song chasing after me, a siren’s promise borrowed for the devil himself.

My mind running wild,

With thoughts of your smile,

Oh, you gotta give me some.

Or you could give it all,

But it’s never enough, no…

Chapter Two

Ty

The blonde didn’t make sense, not in this bar.

None of it fit―not her odd, weighted glance, not her shy smile, not her thrift shop clothes of a college kid, and sure as hell not her bartering God knows what from Dylan “The Dean” Owens.

Maybe it was because I could spot a fighter a mile away, someone who never gave up and would fight for life to the very last. She seemed like someone who needed an outlet for all that passion and rage―preferably between the sheets.

It was too easy to imagine winding that long gold hair around my fist, pulling her head back to make her look me in the eye, and seeing that play of stubbornness lose out to desire. I wanted to hear what noise she’d make when I kissed her and how loudly she’d scream when I made her come over and over again.

If there was another thing I could spot, it was a woman who wanted me.

I grinned. Maybe swinging by tonight would take care of more than one of my problems. Mafioso or not, I was a man who appreciated the efficiency of a night that ended with pleasuring a blonde in bed. I got a little hard just thinking about it, and it was surprising. The last time that had happened, I’d been a teenager—and a civilian.

I have to know her name.

 When I came up to Dean’s bar, the little bastard’s skin dropped to an even paler shade than the weird green of his eyes, despite all his accent bullshit trickery. He offered me a nervous smile, “’Lo, Mr. Michaelson.”

“Who’s the blonde, Dean?” I asked as I slid into a seat at the bar and waved at him to pour me my usual. “Damsel in distress?”

Dean lifted one shoulder and busied himself pouring my drink. I had to give him credit. Terrified as Dean was—as anyone with a half-brain was when they knew my face and name—he had some balls keeping shit from me.

My hand drifted to my waist, and I swept my thumb along the edge of my Glock. It was tempting to make him spill his sorry guts, one way or another, but that would be a waste of time. Plus, the Son of Celt who owned this bar was semi-decent, and I didn’t want to foot his cleaning bill.

Blood was a real bitch to get out of vintage stone floors like these.

More than that, though, the Glock reminded me of why I was here. Fuck, as much I wanted to let off some goddamn steam, I couldn’t get distracted by that girl, no matter how curious I might be to know her story and how she ended up here.

Of all the hellholes in Massachusetts…

“Mickey Weiss,” I said, but Dean had his poker face back on as he turned around with my drink. “Detective with the BPD, nineteen years on the force…” I paused. “Too bad he won’t make it to twenty.”

Dean gave me a tight smile. “Too bad.”

“You know him,” I stated, “and I know you’ve given him information—at the behest of your family, of course.” I tapped my fingers on the side of my nose. “Still, being an informant must be a real bitch. Always telling people what they want to hear so they don’t suspect their days are numbered.”

Dean gave me a tight and cold smile. “Pays the bills. And yeah, I know Mickey. He’s not bad for a cop.”

“It’s him, right?” I picked up my drink, and my fingers tightened around it, bracing myself in case I was wrong because that meant it was one of the other names, which were all female. “Not June Duarte? Or Carmen Delacruz?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. It’s a guy cop,” Dean said and gave me that narrow look that I hated. I had to keep myself from reaching for my hardware.

Besides, it wasn’t like I kept it a secret how I operated my business: no killing women, not a damn stripper or sex worker, and especially not a cop.

“This Weiss character’s got balls of brass, I’ll give him that,” I said. “Must want a real big toy from Santa to go after every crime family on the east coast. Big shiny hero’s badge, trophy, the works―all for what? A bullet in his brain by New Year’s?”

“Revenge,” Dean said. “Henny killed his partner or something.”

“Of fucking course.” I gritted my teeth. Caleb Hendrix, the constant, sociopathic thorn in my side, was the reckless, rival boss of the one family that could take down my own—if they weren’t so busy making messes and not cleaning them up. They made business harder for everyone. Jerkoffs. “So, Weiss, what’s he got? Names?”

Dean let out a rough laugh and shook his head. “That’s only the tip of the damn iceberg.”

My jaw tightened even more. I’d only become aware of this mess yesterday. At first, me and my right-hand capo my cousin Daniel, were convinced we had a rat. We’d had too many close-calls, and then the Feds had caught two of our best men.

Only Daniel followed up on a rumor, and when it turned out half-true, I knew only one person would have the whole story.

And now here I was, in this goddamn Sons of Celt speakeasy, paying Dean for information about a cop on a suicidal power trip who wanted to play the white knight and bring down all of Mafia-dom.

“I know,” I said in a low voice to Dean. “I heard about the Calotti Boys bust. Everyone’s talkin’ about how the cops got lucky for once.”

Dean snorted and shook his head. “You could say that.”

I glanced around and leaned in closer, gripping the bar’s edge. “So, I’ve got a guy saying it was a cop in shining white armor and another on a guy who’s got dirt on all the families from Manhattan to Miami—is it true?”

Now, Dean glanced around and nodded.

He was lucky I didn’t grab the back of his head and smash it into the bar top. “Care to fucking elaborate, Dean?” I hissed.

“Shit, kid,” Dean whispered. “We’re talking a bust like the kind that took down Teflon Don, and the Five Families, and Donnie Brasco. It’s going to level the criminal empires of the east into fine powder.” Dean’s hand shook, and he poured himself a shot, throwing it back. “I’m thinking of skipping town.”

“Cazzo.” I slammed my palm on the bar top, and people around me jumped while Dean took a step back. “Is Weiss our Brasco? Or is it someone else?”

“Listen, I got no clue how this jackass got his hands on any of this information,” Dean said and poured me another glassful with a shaking hand. “He’s no Donnie Brasco, but I think Weiss is working alone. I mean, he has to be—it’s the only way he could’ve managed to keep it under wraps so long.”

“Patient, too, it sounds like,” I said. “I’d almost admire the guy if I didn’t want to throttle him with my bare hands.”

Dean scratched at his beard. “He’s got a lot of people after him right now. And before you ask, I don’t know where Weiss is. I do know that, for now, no one’s got a hit on him. Families want to find him and figure out what he knows.”

I laughed. “Dean, don’t be cute. If you don’t know where he is, then you know the name of someone who does.”

A small smile formed on his face, and Dean’s eyes flicked toward the door. “Maybe.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I reached in my jacket and pulled out a stack of cash as thick as my forearm. “Tell me.”

“Well,” Dean said and picked up the stack with a big grin, his green gaze becoming covetous. “For this kind of intel, I think—”

I pulled out my gun and placed it on the bar. Dean’s eyes went wide, and he stumbled backward, knocking into the bottles. One slipped and smashed at his feet, but he didn’t so much as flinch, his eyes locked on the gun.

“I don’t have all night.” I clicked off the safety and grinned at Dean. “And neither do you.”

***

Lia

 For a terrifying ten minutes, I couldn’t find Sara.

The cold of the Boston night bit into me relentlessly, and I shivered, wondering if she had finally had enough. The contrast between the heat from that stranger’s gaze and the cold outside was almost too much to handle. I considered going back downstairs into the bar when I heard a familiar shout, and my body sagged with relief.

Through the blur of faces, Sara appeared and grasped my hands. Gesturing with her head, she pulled me along and asked over her shoulder, “how’d it go?”

“I got it,” I said as I got my bearings back and looked around. “Woah, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Sara said, following my gaze. “But I think we need to get out of here.”

Several black SUVs had pulled up in front of the club with a bunch of seriously big and scary dudes milled around them. Even though it was ten freakin’ degrees out, almost none of them had coats on. Instead, they were wearing nice suits and heavy chains, and, from a glance, I could see tattoos on their hands and necks.

I wondered if my stranger had come with them.

Sara stiffened next to me, and I jolted since unbothered should’ve been Sara’s middle name. I glanced over, then followed her gaze, wondering what she had locked eyes onto.

“Oh,” I murmured.

A tall man with golden-olive skin lounged against one of the cars, utterly uninterested in what was going on around him. White-blond hair fell into his eyes as he leaned over, and his chiseled features flared into sight as he lit a cigarette.

For a moment, I couldn’t put my finger on why the smoker stood out, even when I accounted for the fact that he was the only one not in a suit. Instead, he wore ripped jeans, beat-up Timberland boots, and a bomber jacket with a shearling collar. It wasn’t until he tipped back his head and blew out a plume of smoke that it hit me.

Even though this man was sensuous and gorgeous—any girl would know it with a glance—the man gave off such an icy indifference, it almost hurt to look at him.

No matter what, the smoker would be damned before he gave you the time of day… or so I thought until he looked over, and the cigarette drooped against his lower lip as he caught sight of Sara. But besides a minute tic and the slight tilt of his head, nothing in his facial expression changed.

Damn. Smoker had the best poker face I’d ever laid eyes on.

A shiver ran through Sara, and she grabbed my elbow, hauling me away.

I couldn’t help it; I leaned in and teased, “Sure you don’t want to get that hottie’s number? Seems like your type.”

“No,” Sara said and cleared her throat. “I don’t date smokers.”

A laugh burst out of me. “Oh, Sara. I bet you could get him to quit.”

“I also don’t date guys I can’t get a read on.” Sara began walking faster. She glanced back, and I did too. The smoker still had his eyes locked on Sara, then flicked them briefly over to me, and I almost fell over in shock.

I’d only ever seen that kind of sharp prescience in one other person’s eyes: Sara’s.

“Maybe you should,” I said, unnerved to the point that I almost forgot about my sexy stranger. Almost.

Sara rolled her eyes. “Just get in the damn taxi.”

A sweet and melodic Spanish love song crooned through the taxi’s speakers. We sat in the cab for over twenty minutes, and I swore each song had gotten smuttier than the last. It didn’t help my mental state as I watched the city drift past, lost in the memory of that stranger.

Again and again, I replayed what had happened.

I’d never been so caught up in an encounter, and I had never been so taken by a man before. Never had this heavy awareness of heat and want curling in my chest, causing me to press my thighs together as flashes of daydreams teased licks of fire up my spine.

I imagined how he’d smile down at me, maybe slide his thumb along my jaw before tipping my face up for a kiss. Flexing my fingers, I wondered what it would feel like to have his big hands holding my face or, better yet, on my waist as he dragged me into his embrace. What would it feel like to be held against him?

Why didn’t I say something to him? I almost groaned out loud. We could have danced. I could have found out his name, maybe gotten his number.

God, how could someone be so freakishly hot?

“Lia.” Fingers snapped in front of my nose. “You’re doing it again.”

“Huh?” I blinked over at Sara.

“Spacing out on me,” she said. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

“No.” I straightened from where I’d slumped by the window, shaking myself. “Sorry.”

“Did something else happen in that bar?” Sara’s gaze filled with a familiar and shrewd look while I tried not to smile.

Dammit, why did Sara have to be so excellent at reading people? Sometimes, I swore she was psychic. Then again, she had the unfair advantage of having known me since we were two years old.

What could I say, though? There were no words to explain away this insane, sudden attraction or how I felt like I was going out of my mind wondering about that guy. He’d seemed like the best of bad ideas.

If you dared to spend a night with him, it’d be one that you’d never forget. With only a glance, I’d felt different, and the world seemed to end at an edge that I’d never noticed before—one that I wanted to go right up to and jump over.

“Fine, whatever, don’t tell me.” Sara rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I was asking you—those cars and all those guys…” She bit her lip, and I sat up straighter, wondering if she was thinking about the smoker. “What do you think that was all about?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I said carelessly. “I’m sure it was fine.”

“Were they Sons?” she whispered. “Do you think they were looking for you?”

“No,” I fibbed. “No, of course not. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Cold fear curled in my gut, and I hurriedly thought back, trying to remember anyone else except the guy who’d been checking out Sara. She could kid herself all she wanted, but he’d been into her.

“No,” I finally said. “All those guys in suits by the SUVs looked Italian. Even that guy with the really blond hair—he’s gotta be Northern Italian.”

“How would you know?” Sara asked. I gave her an incredulous look. Pink rose in her cheeks, and she ducked her head. “Oh, right, because you’re Northern Italian. Sorry.”

“Wow, that pretty boy really did a number on you, huh?” I poked the side of Sara’s head. “Stop worrying.”

“We’re, uh, here,” the cab driver announced and turned to look back at us. “Not sure I should leave you, little ladies, alone, though.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said and scrambled out as Sara paid. “Thanks,” I told her as she joined me on the sidewalk.

“Lia, I wish you’d let me pay for more than a cab fare. You know that I make plenty of money with my side gigs.” She stepped in front of me and grabbed my forearms. “Let me—”

“You’ve already done way too much,” I said, “even for a best friend.”

“That’s not how it works,” Sara said, and her eyes searched my face. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes,” I said, and we continued walking. Then I put my arm around her shoulders as we turned the corner and came upon the shadowed parking lot where a distant and hulking building blocked out Boston harbor.

“Jesus,” Sara said weakly.

My eyes found the single lightbulb illuminating a white door, and I swallowed hard as I tightened my grip on Sara’s arm. Our eyes met, and she shook her head.

I tried to smile as I asked for the second time that night, “Why don’t you wait out here?”

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