“Don’t get mad at me for refusing to play into some made-up fairy-tale emotion.”
His brow rises. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“Love.” I shrug. “It’s fake. Just a chemical reaction that people pretend is more.”
“Whatever you say, man.” Seth chuckles. “You wanna grab a bite?”
I stare down the long aisle of desks, accented by grungy blue carpet. “Nah, Cap wants to see me.”
Seth’s eyes follow my gaze until they hit the closed office door of our division supervisor, Agent Galen. “What for?”
“Probably babysitting duty again. God knows it’s been long enough since he’s put me on an actual case.”
The side of his mouth lifts. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have fucked his daughter.”
Groaning, I run my hands over my face. “That was one time, and I didn’t know it was his daughter.”
Seth laughs and I frown, tossing a random pen from my desk at his head. Honestly, rude of him to get joy from my misfortune.
The door to Cap’s office swings open and we both wheel around at the noise. Seth’s laughter dies off, his body straightening as he clears his throat. I glance at him and smirk.
Pussy.
He’s always been afraid of our boss, no matter how many times I’ve told him Cap is all bark and no bite.
“Woodsworth.”
Galen’s voice is gruff, and I wink at Seth as I stand up and make my way to his office, feeling the burn of Cap’s stare with every step. It’s no secret he hates me and wants me out of his division and subsequently out of his life. But regardless of his personal emotions, I live and breathe this job, and I’m the best at what I do.
Plopping down in the stiff gray chair opposite his desk, my eyes roam along the framed portraits of his wife and three daughters, my cock twitching when I spot Samantha grinning with her perfect olive skin and skinny arm slung around her younger sister’s shoulder.
I lied to Seth. I did know it was Cap’s daughter. I just didn’t give a fuck. Served him right for ripping me out of an active investigation and slapping me on desk duty.
Cap clears his throat as he walks by me, narrowing his eyes and snapping his hand out to flip the picture frame until it’s face down. The side of my lip pulls up, but I smother it, adopting an air of boredom instead.
He points his finger at me. “Don’t look at her, you little shit.”
Chuckling, I raise my hands in surrender. “My bad, Cap.”
He scowls. “I’m your supervisor, not a fucking captain. And your apology means shit.”
“Well, you’re the captain of my heart, and I’m not happy if you’re not happy.” I press a hand to my chest, grinning. “Come on. I said I was sorry. What more can I do?”
His dark eyes narrow. “You’ve already done more than enough.”
I sit back in my seat. “Nothing she didn’t ask for.”
A sharp slap rings through the room, Cap’s fingers tensing as they press into the top of his desk. “You’re fired.”
Shrugging, I place my hands on the arms of the chair and push myself up. “Alright.”
“Sit down. Fuck.” He runs his hand over his bald head and blows out a deep breath as he plops behind his desk. “God, I hate your ass,” he grumbles.
I quirk a brow. “Are you allowed to say that to a subordinate?”
“I have a job for you.”
Now this gets my attention and I sit forward, the amusement dropping from my face.
Finally.
“You ever been to Kinland?” He tosses a manila folder, the smack of its weight hitting the desk’s top ringing in my ears, a few black-and-white surveillance photos slinking out of the side.
I reach over, picking them up.
“Yeah, a few times,” I say nonchalantly, not wanting to focus on the way my insides wring tight when I think about the two-hour trek from Chicago to Kinland my mom used to take me and my sister on. “I haven’t been in a long time though. Not since I was a kid.”
My voice breaks a little on the last word, discomfort wrapping around my neck. Clearing my throat, I flip through the photos. There’s one of people unloading crates off a semi. Then another of an older man with slicked-back gray hair and tattoos from his fingers to his neck, grinning down at the guy by his side. “Who’s this?”
“That is Farrell Westerly. Ever heard of him?”
I shake my head.
“Pure-blooded Irish American with your run-of-the-mill rap sheet. Spent eight years in Gilyken Penitentiary before being released on parole for good behavior. He’s been popping up again the last few years. Seems like the guy’s everywhere.”
I grin. “A reformed convict?”
“Aren’t they all?” Cap huffs. “They’re running an operation out of Kinland, flooding the streets with that new shit.”
My stomach twists. That “new” shit is called The Flying Monkey, and it’s taking over. Similar to every other type of heroin only not. It’s popular as fuck which means copycats are springing up everywhere trying to emulate the product, and failing. All that ends up happening is more death from overdosing on badly cut drugs.
Squinting my eyes, I look closer at the photo of the two men. “Is that…”
“It is.”
Blowing out a breath, I sit back in the chair, recognizing the bright-auburn hair and large build. “Zeke O’Connor.”
My stomach sours as I set the photos back on his desk. Zeke is well known in our circles. His father, Jack O’Connor, was notorious in Chicago as king of the Irish mob. He was ruthless. But that was before their power was dismantled years ago, and Jack was murdered in the pen while serving time for his numerous crimes.
“So, what then… you want me to do some recon?”
His eyes narrow. “I want you to go in and find their supplier. If we get the big dog, we can drag in the rest. I didn’t spend the best years of my career hunting them down just to have the Irish mob sprout back up with new faces in a new location, thinking they can take everything over again.”
My brows shoot high. “Undercover?”
“You’re surprised?” His head cocks.
My hands shake from the sudden jolt of adrenaline. “It’s just been a while.”
He grumbles, his thick set of brows bunching together until a crease forms in the middle of his forehead. “You saying you’re not up for it?”
My stomach twists and I shoot up straighter. “Are you crazy? No one else can do this like me, and you know it, Cap.”
He reaches to the side of his computer and grabs another photo, placing it in front of me. It’s of a woman. A beautiful woman with shiny brown hair pulled back in a high ponytail, designer clothes dripping from her body. “That’s Dorothy Westerly, Farrell’s kid. Rumor has it she’s his weak spot. Once you’re in, try to cozy up to her. She’ll crack.”
Surprise flickers through my gut. “Why her?”
A slow smile tips up the corner of his lips and he leans back in his chair. “Don’t you have a thing for pretty daughters?”
2
EVELINE
There’s blood on my shoe.
Damn it.