Mulligan Stew (46 page)

"Why what?" She lifted her chin a notch, her expression emotionless.

And that made him even more suspicious.

"Why me?" He drew a deep breath. "And what do you expect for five grand a week? I'm not exactly your typical boy toy."

Her cheeks pinkened and she stiffened. "I assure you, I am not after a... a
boy
toy." Her expression softened. "However, if I were, I think you would do quite nicely."

Heat flashed in Nick's cheeks. The old broad had made him blush.
Jeez.
He'd seen it all and done most of it. No one—especially not a little old lady—should be able to make Nick Desmond blush.

"Well..." He combed his fingers through his hair again, knowing she probably realized by now it was a nervous habit. "So what
do
you want for all that dough?"

"I believe we get what we pay for." She lifted one shoulder and an innocent smile curved her lips. "I want discretion, loyalty, and the best bodyguard money can buy. I believe that's you."

"Hmm." She could've hired him as a simple bodyguard for a lot less, and he had a hunch she knew it. It wasn't as if he'd kept his dismissal from the police force a secret. In fact, he'd mentioned it when her assistant first called him to arrange this meeting.
Honest to a fault.
"Someone threaten you?" he asked, holding her gaze as he watched for any sign that she could be lying. He found none. Yet.

"Not directly. Let's just say the threat is implied." Her expression hardened, but she still didn't look away.

"Again, why me?"

"Because I can meet your price."

"I'm not for sale."

"I have something you want."

"What?"

"A man of many words, I see." She pursed her lips and folded her hands on the desktop. "Do you want to know who I am, Mr. Desmond?"

He shrugged, feigning disinterest.
Damn straight I want to know who you are, Granny Warbucks.
"What's the F stand for?"

She hesitated. "A name that shall live in infamy, I'm afraid." Something resembling regret clouded her eyes. "My husband was..."

Nick stiffened, sensing some serious shit was coming down. "Who?" He kept his voice steady, though the sudden urge to shout and slide into Bad Cop mode struggled for supremacy. "Who was your husband?"

"Angelo Fazzini."

Fingers of ice burst from a frozen lump in Nick's gut and spread outward. Surely he hadn't heard her correctly. "Float that one by me again," he said, his voice as steady as he could manage.

"You heard correctly." She pressed her lips into a thin line. "I'm not proud of who and what he was. I didn't learn the true extent of his villainy until after his death."

"Villainy?" Nick hissed through clenched teeth to stave off the fury. The hatred. "Talk about your classic understatement."

She inclined her head for a few seconds, then finally met his gaze again. "Forty-two years ago, Angelo Fazzini swept me away from Ireland with romance and pretty words. He was powerful and worldly. I was young. Innocent. Foolish." She rolled her eyes. "Now I am none of those things."

"Yet you stayed married to him." Nick gnashed his teeth. "You must have known about his connections."
Say it, Desmond. Say it.
"
Mob
connections."

"I denied it to myself. And, Mother Mary help me, I loved him. At least, I loved the man I thought he was." Self-deprecation etched itself across her face, furrowing her brow. She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "I looked the other way, because I was raised to believe marriage was forever. The church would never have seen it any other way."

"So what changed your mind?"

A haunted look came into her faded eyes. "When I discovered our son had followed his father into the... business. By then, it was too late to prevent the inevitable."

Nick snorted again. Fazzini Junior's New York drug operation was one of the most profitable and deadly in the whole damned country. The real culprit who had murdered Dad and destroyed Nick's career had gone free. Angelo Fazzini, Junior. Free.

The Fazzini operation had friends in high and low places. Cops on the take, politicians in their beds, and their thumbs on the national media. One dead officer and a destroyed junior detective didn't amount to shit compared to the big picture.

And now... he pinned his gaze on Junior's mother. The irony of it tasted bitter. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, elbows locked, every muscle in his body ready for action.

He tried to think of one good reason why he should accept the offer.
Besides the money.

Bad money. Drug money. Blood money. The guilt would gnaw at him, and his ancestors would rise from their graves and hunt down any Desmond on the take.

Of course, Nick wasn't a cop now. Might never be again...

"I need a bodyguard who's as desperate as me. Someone I can trust," the woman said, her voice revealing some of the tension she'd managed to hide earlier. "For myself... and my granddaughter."

"You think I care what happens to Junior's kid?" Nick barked a derisive laugh and pushed to his feet. He had to get the hell out of here before he told the old lady
all
the horrors her husband and son had caused.

"Yes, I think you care," the woman said on a sigh. "Like I was four decades ago, my granddaughter is an innocent. My daughter-in-law found
her
escape from reality in the bottom of a bourbon bottle until she died." Mrs. F stared into the distance, then swung her gaze back to Nick and stood. "Help me save my granddaughter from her grandfather's evil legacy, Mr. Desmond. It's too late for me. My life is all but over, but I'll do anything I can to protect Erin.
Anything
."

The woman's words reverberated through his head. There was something wrong with her story—something he should remember. "Wait..." He rubbed his temples and stared at her. "How many kids does Junior have?"

"Only one." The old woman shifted her gaze just enough to alert Nick that she was hiding something.

"What are you up to, lady?" he asked as he remembered the case in question. "Angelo Fazzini's only grandchild was kidnapped and never found. I was fresh out of the Police Academy when it happened."

The woman lifted her chin a notch. "That is correct."

"Well, gosh," he said, his voice dripping sarcasm, "color me confused."

"Erin wasn't kidnapped. Exactly."

"Holy..." Realization made him cough, but he couldn't prevent the seeds of admiration germinating in his brain. This woman had grit. "You?"

"Indeed."

"Why?"

She drew a deep breath and released it very slowly. "I asked my son to give up his life of crime for his child. He refused."

"Let me get this straight." Nick held up one finger. "You kidnapped your own granddaughter and have kept her hidden all these years?"

"Correct." No sign of remorse crossed the woman's face. "I will do whatever is necessary to protect her, though I failed her mother."

"What do you mean?"

She lifted her chin and her eyes blazed. "I have proof that my daughter-in-law did not commit suicide. She was helped. That knowledge was the catalyst that made me... move Erin."

Nick released a low whistle. "You're talking about your own flesh and blood here."

Her lower lip trembled a little, and she bit it. After a moment, she drew a deep breath. "My own son. My baby. Now a monster. A killer of innocents."

Nick didn't have to tell her about the extent of Junior's crimes after all. Even more importantly, he
believed
her. A mother wouldn't turn on her own kid without damned good reasons. She had those in spades. "Where is your granddaughter now?"

"We haven't reached an agreement yet, Mr. Desmond."

"You're slick, lady."

"Thank you."

Nick grinned. "What's your plan?" he asked, wondering why the hell he was still here, yet knowing he would not—could not—leave now.

"My granddaughter has spent these past years abroad, in a private boarding school." She lifted her chin a notch, her expression unwavering. "Now, at eleven, Erin wants to leave there. She wants to live with me—her only living relative. So she believes..."

Nick released a low whistle. "But you can't bring her home."

"So you see my dilemma." Mrs. F lifted a shoulder. "My granddaughter is far too high spirited for her own good sometimes."

High spirited
sounded like trouble to Nick. "Does she know who she is? More importantly, who her
father
is?"

"She doesn't remember, thank the Blessed Virgin," the old woman explained, shaking her head. "I placed Erin in an abbey school with a generous monthly allowance for the Sisters. The only name they, or she, know is my maiden one. I've visited often over the years, and taken her to the Continent for holidays, so Erin knows me well. As I mentioned, she and the Sisters believe I am her only living relative."

"Clever." Nick nodded his approval.

"Necessary."

"Now what?"

Angelo Fazzini's widow set her jaw and her blue eyes flashed with determination. "I've promised to take her to my home, though not here, of course."

"Keeping her hidden from your son's tentacles won't be easy."

"Angelo believes his daughter is dead." The woman's expression was solemn. "Besides, they won't think to look where we're going."

"And where
is
that?"

She narrowed her eyes again. "You haven't accepted the position yet, Mr. Desmond," she repeated. "How can I trust you not to reveal our destination until you've made a commitment?"

"Besides the money, give me one good reason to accept this crazy job."

A victorious smile spread across the woman's face. "A reason no red-blooded Irishman can refuse, Mr. Desmond."

"Try me, lady." He folded his arms across his abdomen and waited.

"Revenge."

Nick's heart skipped a beat and his breath lodged in his throat. "So that's why you chose me."

"Precisely." The old woman's smile had vanished. "I have the evidence you need. All of it. I can prove who murdered your father, and also who framed you."

He clenched his fists, his head pounding. "All right," he said. "I'll play. Give me the evidence."

She arched both brows, her expression one of open disbelief. "Once I'm certain that Erin and I are safe, you'll have the key to a safe deposit box."

He wanted the evidence
now
, but he could tell this woman wasn't about to give it to him yet. Nick forced himself to concentrate on her words, though his lust for vengeance raged through his veins like a fever. "When?"

"A year at the most. Surely we'll be safe by then."

"A year?" He gritted his teeth. It sounded like forever, but he'd waited this long, and he could wait a little longer. He would have his revenge. Finally. "Not one day more than a year. Where are we going?"

"In a moment. You're a man of your word. Please remember that. A child's life—and mine—could be at stake."

Junior's mother was toast if her son ever learned what she'd done. The old lady had guts. "You have my word, and that's that. Where?"

"To the village your grandfather's family is from," she said. "Ballybronagh in the southernmost tip of County Clare."

"Ireland?" It might as well be another planet. He resigned himself. He'd be counting the days. "Good hiding place."

"I think so. My people were from County Cork, so no one there should recognize my maiden name." She pressed her lips into a thin line, her gaze never wavering. "You're a man in search of his roots, and your connection to Ballybronagh will help establish us there. Once that's accomplished, you will have your evidence and may do with it as you please."

He held up one finger, struggling against the urge to get soft. The lady had grit. "Not one frigging day more than a year."

"Agreed, Mr. Desmond." She narrowed her eyes. "And though I abhor violence, let me assure you of this."

"Yeah?"

"If you betray our location to
anyone
, even after that year... I will kill you myself."

* * *

Maggie Mulligan trudged along the familiar road between Ballybronagh and
Caisleán Dubh
. With a sigh, she tilted her head back to gaze up at the dark tower, thrusting toward the sky. Gulls circled it, calling a cheerful greeting to the world below.

Once upon a time,
Caisleán Dubh
had been the most frightening of places. Well, now,
that
had certainly changed since Bridget's arrival in their lives. Riley and Bridget's marriage had broken the curse at last.

So why did Maggie feel so odd—as if she were being watched?
Now isn't that a bit of nonsense?

After going back to university following her last visit home, her roommate, Ailish, had asked what had frightened her. Maggie had been unable to deny it, nor could she name any specific event. All she knew was that the uneasiness had started upon awakening on her birthday. She'd gone home to celebrate the day with her family, and had struggled with panic attacks every time she crossed the threshold of
Caisleán Dubh
. And the strange bouts of terror continued even now that she was home to stay.