Chapter 6 - The Kiss Neither of Them Was Ready ForRobert Keane's death changed the rules.
The retired detective was found inside his car beneath one of the luxury towers built where O'Connor Chemical had once stood.
Officially, it looked like suicide.
Declan knew better.
So did Norah.
Keane had left behind one useful thing.
A safety-deposit key hidden inside his shoe.
The bank box contained photographs, payment records and copies of police reports altered after the Charlestown fire.
Patrick Doyle's name appeared everywhere.
But another name appeared beside it.
Senator William Mercer.
Norah stared at the document.
“A United States senator?”
“State senator at the time.”
“Why?”
Declan read the payments.
“Port contracts.”
Mercer had helped Doyle secure redevelopment permits.
Doyle had financed Mercer's campaigns.
The warehouse fire had been the beginning of something much larger.
Shipping.
Construction.
Political influence.
Millions moving through Boston Harbor.
Thomas Jennings had accidentally seen the machinery behind it.
And had died because of it.
“We have enough,” Norah said.
“For what?”
“Federal prosecutors.”
Declan looked at her.
“You want to go?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation mattered.
A month earlier, she would have said yes immediately.
Now she looked at him.
“If I do…”
“You should.”
“You could go to prison.”
“Yes.”
“Your organization collapses.”
“Possibly.”
“People could die.”
“Possibly.”
She looked frustrated.
“Stop agreeing with me.”
“Would you prefer dishonesty?”
“I would prefer this to be easier.”
Declan understood.
“So would I.”
That evening, they returned to Beacon Hill.
Norah stood by the fireplace.
Declan poured whiskey.
She watched him.
“How many people have you killed?”
The question came without warning.
Declan did not pretend misunderstanding.
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
“Eleven.”
Norah's face changed.
“Ordered?”
“More.”
“How many?”
“I stopped counting.”
She looked away.
He hated himself for the disappointment he saw.
But he would not lie.
“Do you regret them?”
“Some.”
“Not all?”
“No.”
She turned.
“How can you say that?”
“Because some were men who would have killed my family. Some killed people I loved. Some would have continued hurting people.”
“That doesn't make you judge and executioner.”
“No.”
“But you acted like one.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
Declan put down the glass.
“You keep waiting for me to tell you I'm secretly good.”
Norah said nothing.
“I'm not.”
He walked toward her.
Stopped several feet away.
“I've done terrible things because they were useful. I've hurt people because I was angry. I've ordered violence because fear kept my organization alive.”
His voice lowered.
“You should know exactly what I am before you decide what happens next.”
Norah's eyes glistened.
“Why?”
“Because I'm beginning to care what you think of me.”
The room became painfully quiet.
Norah inhaled.
“That is a terrible idea.”
“I know.”
“You killed my father.”
“I gave an order that created the fire that killed him.”
“That's not better.”
“I know.”
“You're my employer.”
“I can fix that.”
“That isn't the main problem.”
“I know.”
She laughed helplessly.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because unfortunately you're usually right.”
Norah looked at him.
Something dangerous existed in the silence.
Not violence.
Desire.
It had been building beneath everything else.
Impossible.
Inappropriate.
Complicated beyond reason.
Still there.
Declan moved closer.
“Tell me to stop.”
Norah's breathing changed.
He remained an arm's length away.
“Declan.”
“Tell me.”
She should have.
Instead she whispered:
“I don't know what I want.”
He nodded.
“Then I don't touch you.”
He stepped backward.
That restraint broke something inside her.
Norah crossed the distance.
She kissed him.
Declan froze.
He did not touch her for a full second.
Then Norah's hand gripped his shirt.
Permission.
His hands settled carefully at her waist.
Not her back.
Never her scars.
The kiss deepened.
Six months of quiet observation.
Six years of hatred.
Two weeks of fear.
All of it collided.
Norah pulled away first.
Both were breathing hard.
“That was stupid.”
“Extremely.”
“We shouldn't do it again.”
“Absolutely not.”
She stared at him.
He stared back.
Then they kissed again.
This time slower.
When Declan's hand moved upward, Norah stiffened.
He stopped immediately.
“Sorry.”
Her eyes closed.
“No.”
He waited.
Norah took his hand.
Guided it toward her right shoulder.
Over fabric.
Her breathing shook.
“Here.”
Declan's palm rested gently against the scar tissue beneath her shirt.
He did not move.
Norah opened her eyes.
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“Now?”
“No.”
He swallowed.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
His thumb moved barely an inch.
Norah exhaled.
Nobody had touched those scars gently in years.
Doctors touched them clinically.
Surgeons marked them.
Physical therapists stretched them.
Lovers had either stared or pretended not to notice.
Declan knew exactly what they meant.
That should have made his touch unbearable.
Instead, perhaps because he knew, she did not have to explain.
A loud crack shattered the window.
Declan moved instantly.
He threw Norah to the floor.
Glass exploded.
A second shot struck the wall.
“Stay down!”
He dragged her behind the stone fireplace.
Security erupted outside.
Declan covered Norah with his body.
A third bullet hit.
Then silence.
Norah was breathing hard beneath him.
“You're bleeding.”
Declan looked.
Glass had cut his cheek.
“Nothing.”
She touched his face.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Do that.”
“What?”
“Pretend injuries don't matter.”
He almost laughed.
“You've been doing it since I met you.”
“Exactly.”
Security found the shooter thirty minutes later.
Dead.
Shot by someone else before he could be questioned.
But the rifle contained a message taped beneath the stock.
STOP DIGGING OR THE GIRL BURNS AGAIN.
Declan read it once.
Then tore the paper in half.
Norah took it from him.
“No.”
“What?”
“We keep it.”
“Why?”
“Evidence.”
“Norah.”
“This is what he wants.”
She held the torn pieces.
“He wants you angry.”
“I am angry.”
“He wants you stupid.”
Declan looked at her.
She stepped closer.
“Don't become useful to him again.”
Those words controlled him better than twenty armed men.
Declan exhaled.
“All right.”
The next morning, Norah made her decision.
“We go federal.”
Declan nodded.
“But not yet.”
He frowned.
“We need Doyle confessing.”
“That won't happen.”
“It might.”
“How?”
Norah adjusted her glasses.
And for the first time, Declan recognized the expression.
It was the same look she wore before restructuring offshore accounts.
The look of a woman about to solve a problem.
“We make him think I'm turning against you.”
Declan hated the plan immediately.
“No.”
“You haven't heard it.”
“No.”
“Declan.”
“No.”
“He already believes I'm your weakness.”
“He's right.”
The words escaped before Declan could stop them.
Norah went silent.
Declan did too.
There it was.
The truth.
Not love.
Not yet.
But something powerful enough to frighten him.
Norah's voice softened.
“Then use it.”
He shook his head.
“I won't gamble with you.”
“You already did.”
“What?”
“Six years ago.”
He flinched.
Norah regretted it instantly.
“I'm sorry.”
“No.”
Declan looked at her.
“Don't apologize for the truth.”
She stepped closer.
“This time I get to choose.”
He stared at her.
Then finally nodded.
“What do you need?”
Norah's expression became cold.
Professional.
May you like
Dangerous.
“A resignation letter.”
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