It wasn’t my trust fund background that anyone had to worry about, though. I was also the grandson of the former head of Boston’s Blue Hill Gang—a piece of me I had tried to renounce. That I wanted to escape. But my family ties kept me bound. The Irish Mob might have changed since my father’s father ran things, but there were some things that never changed.

I’d been raised in both worlds and these cops knew it. They were counting on the Blue Hill Gang part of me to greet them. That’s not what they were going to get. “What exactly do you want with me?” I asked calmly, exuding that civility I’d been reared in. When no one answered, I pressed on. “Why have you been following me?” Although I knew my heavy breathing was starting to betray my calm façade, I didn’t care. And besides, in the mood they were in, I doubted they noticed my breathing at all.

When one of them ground my face into the icy concrete, I knew he was more than aware of my forced calmness, and he didn’t like it. He was trying to rattle me. Which cop it was, I couldn’t tell. But then he muttered, “Did I tell you to talk?” with that thick accent of his and I knew who it was.

The reserve I’d been holding on to faded as soon as the coppery taste of blood seeped into my mouth for the second time tonight. Unable to restrain myself, my jaw tightened and I spoke through my teeth. “Do you know who I am?”

His laugh was cold, mirthless. “Do you think I give a shit?”

A large boot stepped forward and a voice of authority drew their attention. “Not here, not now.”

Spit landed near my head as cuffs were slapped on me.

The cuffs were clenched good and tight around my wrists and I winced. There was no hiding the fact that I felt pain. My skin scraped mercilessly against the metal when I was yanked to my feet and I knew my wrists were already raw. Regaining my stability, it no longer seemed so dark. The neon green of the TD Garden billboards lit up their faces. And the sight wasn’t pretty.

Anger.

Hatred.

Disgust.

The fatter one glowered at me with narrowed eyes. “Wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit doesn’t make you any less of a piece of shit.”

“Fuck you.”

A shot to the jaw—my head swung and my face ached.

A jab or three to the stomach—it felt like every fist in the world was punching me.

The sock to my gut had my lungs swinging from my rib cage.

A club to the back of my knees took me to the ground like a pussy.

But it was the swift kick in the ribs that had me swallowing hard and gasping for air. “Fuckkk.”

I looked up.

There was one.

Two.

Or all three of them on me—I wasn’t sure.

“Get up,” one of the men barked.

Blood was still dripping from my mouth, but this time I couldn’t wipe it off even if I wanted to. One of them attempted to pull me up, but I shrugged off his help. I could get myself up.

Fuck you very much.

When I was on my feet again, I squared my shoulders and looked each of them in the eye, memorizing their faces should our paths ever cross again.

“Who’s putting that shit on our streets?” one of them asked from the shadows.

The fatter one took a step closer. “Who’s running the operation? Who’s involved?”

I stared at him blankly and said nothing.

He moved even closer and barked, “When’s the next shipment arriving? Who’s it coming from? Where’s it landing?” I could smell coffee on his breath.

A tirade of questions I couldn’t answer.

Trying to tame my emotions, I lowered my eyes to study the ground. “I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

Hissing loudly, he lurched forward, drew his gun, and pointed it in my face.

Shock arrested me.

What the fuck was this?

What was obviously the more sensible cop pushed the guy’s arm down and muttered, “Follow procedure. Eyes are on us. We aren’t even supposed to be the ones asking the questions.”

Abruptly, the one with the gun still in his hand moved back, but his dark, cold eyes never left mine as he holstered his weapon and zipped up his police-issued brown leather jacket. “Just bring him to the car.”

At his words, the flashlight shined again. “With the trouble you caused me tonight, you’re fucking lucky someone else wants you.”

“Who wants me?”

My only answer was three smiles.

“Wants me for what?” I pressed.

The yellow glow of his flashlight pointed toward an unmarked car with the back door swung wide open. Someone was waiting inside. Not just someone. A woman. Long red hair, long legs, and red high heels that matched the color of her lipstick.

“Who the fuck is she?”

“Blanchet,” one of them mumbled under his breath with a snicker.

Another of the pricks shoved me her way. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning, if you wish. If you decide to answer any questions now, without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney.”

I turned to face the cop before getting into the back of the car. “I know my rights. I am a fucking attorney.”

DAY 1

ELLE

Imprinting, according to folklore, begins when you are gravitationally pulled toward another. When this occurs, your connections to everyone else become secondary. You’ll do whatever it takes to protect the one you love. Keeping that person safe is the only thing that matters.

Imprinting doesn’t only apply to romantic love interests. I imprinted on Clementine the moment I laid eyes on her.

At first sight, she took my heart.

Her lips were so pink.

Her skin was so soft.

Her big blue eyes so beautiful.

And her heart-shaped face was perfect.

The minute I saw her, I knew I loved her—that I’d do anything for her.

Now, her little hands patted my cheeks as she babbled on. I took one of them and kissed it. “Ready to see Daddy?”

Clementine’s legs started kicking against my hips and her entire body quaked with glee.

She loved her daddy.

It was the first day of spring and I might have been a little too anxious for the warm weather. I attempted to take Clementine to the small playground around the corner from Michael’s office to watch the kids play, but the wind was too much for her.

Due to our early departure, it was closer to five o’clock than six when we entered the reception area of the Michael O’Shea Law Firm. Michael had fired his secretary this past Monday, and he had yet to replace her. And the paralegals left promptly at four thirty every Friday. So as I’d expected, the office was empty.

Michael’s door was closed as usual. I removed our jackets and hung them on the iron coat tree before knocking lightly.

“Come in,” he called.

I opened the old wooden door and it creaked loudly enough to make me cringe.

Michael looked different than usual. His dark hair was sticking up everywhere and when he raised his gaze from the yellow legal pad beside the stack of papers on his desk, I could see how tired he was.

“I hope you don’t mind that we’re a little early?” I asked.

He glanced at his watch. “I’m expecting a call from someone anytime now. Can you just bring her home and I’ll meet you there?”

He seemed more distracted than usual, too.

Clementine held her tiny arms out and cooed, “Daddy.”

“How’s my girl?” he beamed as he stood. His suit was neatly pressed, his tie in place, his shoes shined. But his thirty-five years were showing. Lines creased his brow and there were bags under his eyes. For the first time, I could see the toll the past three months had taken on him.