Ramsay (20 page)

My brother had agreed, but he'd looked crushed and to my knowledge he'd never drawn again. My heart gave a lurch of sympathy. Sometimes I felt like Stuart had never grown up. He was still that twelve-year-old boy who would always be a failure in his father's eyes. But I couldn't be his babysitter
forever.
It was killing me. Even before all of this—even before Stuart had lost our company in a poker game—it had been killing me. I could admit that now.

I took a deep breath. "This is going to be okay.
Somehow
. What's done is done, and we both need to take responsibility for our parts in this mess. And maybe something good can come from it. But in the meantime, you have to clean yourself up. Debt or not, mob or not, you're going to have to come up with a plan for your life once this is all figured out."

He nodded, pressing his lips together. I didn't miss the expression of hatred that quickly passed over his face—hatred aimed at Brogan I could only assume. I paused before saying, "Hey, Stu, can I ask you a question? Brogan told me you found him in the Bronx all those years ago. That when I asked you to find him, you did. Only, you never told me.
Why?
" I couldn't help the hurt in my voice.

Stuart looked confused for a moment, but then his expression cleared, understanding coming into his eyes. "Yeah, I did. So what?"

I frowned and tilted my head. "You
knew
how important it was to
me
to find him. I was
pregnant
, Stu, was carrying his baby. Why? Why did you keep his whereabouts from me? And why didn't you tell him I was trying to find him?"

He let out an impatient breath. "You were better off without him, Lydia. I took one step into that hellhole they were living in and I couldn't . . . I couldn't allow him to be a part of your life.
Our
life. You would have never been free of him."

I grimaced at the coldness in his tone. "That wasn't for you to decide," I said, the injustice of what he'd done to me crashing down on my shoulders.

"I was protecting you! And him as a matter of fact. Though I'm sure that selfish bastard wouldn't see it that way. He could barely afford to feed his little sister. There were bugs and . . . mold growing on the walls, Lydia.
Mold!
" He screwed up his face in disgust. "How was he going to take care of a
baby
when he could barely take care of himself?"

Anguish gripped me as I pictured Brogan and Eileen in a place like that. I shook my head. "Our father would have given him a job. Our father would have helped them. You
know
he would have. You know it now and you knew it then." And that was the real reason he had remained quiet about Brogan's whereabouts.
Oh God. Stuart, how could you?

"It's in the past anyway," he muttered, having the grace to look partially ashamed. "If I could change it I would, Lydia, I swear to you, but I can't."

I stared at him, trying to hate him for what he'd done to me, to Brogan, but only able to muster up a numb sense of pity. And it
wasn't
in the past. Surely even Stuart could see that it was anything but in the past. His current situation should be proof enough of that.
Our current situation.

"You should get home," he said. "It's better that you're not here. I think they're watching my building. I've seen strange cars pass by out the window." He glanced to the large expanse of glass, and back to me, a twitch in his shoulder making it jump slightly. Was he paranoid or was he really being watched? "Your place is safer."

"Maybe. I'm not sure. I was staying at Brogan's apartment here in the city until this morning."

He looked shocked. "What the
fuck
?" he practically yelled. "I thought that was over. Lydia, he better not—"

"It's not like that," I lied. "He just thought it was safer there."

"That's a load of shit. It's part of his plan. He wants to turn the last person on earth who's in my corner against me. And then he'll ruin you, too. You have to see that! You have to see that he's not done with us."

"I—"

"Stuart?" a female voice called. I looked back to see a woman with bleached blonde hair wearing what looked like one of Stuart's button-up shirts and nothing else walking toward us from his bedroom. I turned toward Stuart and raised a brow.
Seriously?

"I have to
eat
," he defended. "I can't even leave my apartment. How am I supposed to get food?" He must have forgotten about all the options for grocery and food delivery in New York City. Although apparently
his
"food delivery service" also included plenty of liquor, possibly drugs—though I had no idea how Stuart was paying for them—
and
sexual favors. I might throw up.

The woman nestled into Stuart, and he wrapped an arm around her. "Who's she, Stu?" she asked, shooting me a flirty smile.
Really?

"I'm Lydia," I said, "Stuart's
sister.
Nice to meet you."

"Oh hi, I'm Jewel." She looked up at Stuart. "You coming back to bed, baby?"
Well, that was my cue.

I stood up from the bar seat. "I've gotta go."

Stuart detached Jewel from his side and met me as I headed toward the front door, picking up my bag. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I will be."

"Stay away from Brogan Ramsay, Lydia. I swear you're safer away from him. There's something not right about this whole situation, and he's behind every bit of it."

"All right, Stuart," I said, because frankly, I
intended
to stay away from Brogan Ramsay. "Things are going to be okay," I murmured, though I was beginning to sincerely doubt that was the case. He nodded at me and let me out.

As I rode the elevator downstairs, I leaned against the wall, considering the current situation. Yesterday, I had thought I knew Brogan, understood him, and today . . . I realized I didn't know him at all. I knew nothing about his life. He'd been evasive about his business, there were women who just popped out of the woodwork—that made three I’d seen him with now—and apparently at least one had some sort of hold on him. And as for his feelings for me . . . would I ever know for sure
how
he felt? A wave of despair washed over me. I had hoped . . . what had I hoped? I chewed at my lip, considering that question. I had hoped Brogan and I were moving back toward where we'd been so long ago. Yes, I could admit that now. But that was impossible. We'd been innocent teens then. And now, we had so much baggage, so many obstacles between us. And what hurt the most of all was that for a brief moment, I had believed it possible anyway. Despite
everything,
I had believed.

My heart heavy, my mind troubled, my travel bag suddenly seeming to weigh twice as much as it did before, I stepped out onto the street and debated which way to turn. The truth was, I wasn't sure where to go. I'd been warned away from living at my own apartment, but other than that or Brogan's place—which I refused to return to right now—I didn't really have anywhere else to go.

Trying to move that depressing thought aside, I stood for several minutes debating before taking my phone out of my purse. I had several missed calls from Brogan, but decided not to answer him right away. Instead, I dialed Daisy's number.

"Lydia Loo," she answered in a sing-song voice. I smiled despite my pitiful current circumstances.

"Hey Dais." I stepped around an older couple walking hand in hand along the sidewalk. "What are you doing?"

"Shopping for an outfit. Will you be at the Christenson's Fourth of July party?"

"Um, no. I don't think so. Daisy, I need to catch you up on," I moved to the far side of the sidewalk as a large man with white-blond hair came walking straight toward me, not looking like he was going to change course before we collided, "some stuff that's been going on." I continued to veer right and the man did the same, clipping me slightly as we passed each other. I gasped as I felt something sharp poke my side, letting go of my bag. The asshole had been holding something sharp. Had it dug into my side as he passed?

"Lydia?" I heard Daisy say. "Hello? Are you still there?"

I turned to glare at the man and he leaned in to me, hissing in my ear, "Remind your brother what happens when we don't get our debts repaid."

My blood ran cold as I fell toward him. He held on to my upper arms for mere moments before he let go and disappeared into a group of people walking by in the opposite direction. I lurched forward, my hand going to the spot on my side that had been struck with whatever he'd been carrying.

"Damn crap connection," I heard Daisy saying from the phone still clutched in my hand. "If you can hear me, I'll call you later," Daisy said loudly. I dropped the phone on the ground, the screen shattering.

As I tripped and fell to my knees, someone off to my left gasped. I brought my hand from my side to my face. It was bright red with blood.

I'd been stabbed?
Oh my God, I'd been stabbed!

Brogan

My heart lurched in my chest as I pulled over across the street from Stuart De Havilland's apartment. It was the only place I could imagine she would go. I'd arrived home, and she'd been gone. I couldn't exactly blame her, but I'd still felt my stomach drop with sudden, icy fear.

I'd rushed downstairs and jumped in my car, driving the ten minutes to Stuart's apartment, my heart racing as I banged on the steering wheel and blared my horn at people going too bloody
fecking
slow.

I pulled my car into a no parking zone, and jumped out, starting across the busy street. She had to be here. Where else would she go?
Feck me.
I needed to fix this, but first, I needed to find her and make sure she was safe.

Relief pounded through my blood when I spotted Lydia exiting Stuart's building.
Thank God. Thank God.
I increased my pace, pounding my fist on the hood of a BMW that blared its horn at me.

As I started across the flow of traffic on the other side of the center median, I saw a man walk quickly past Lydia, grab her upper arms and move on. Something about the movement seemed strange, but before I could think too much about it, Lydia turned in the direction the man had continued walking.
Oh shite.
No.
Clutching her side, she stumbled forward, falling to her knees.

"Lydia!" I yelled, breaking into a sprint. The sharp sound of squealing brakes barely penetrated the fog of panic I felt. "Lydia!"

I made it to her at the same moment an older gentleman was stooping to help her up. "Miss, are you okay—"

"Lydia," I rasped, pushing the man aside.

"I was just trying to help," he muttered from somewhere seemingly far away and then obviously moving on.

"Brogan?" Lydia said, confused and pale.

I pulled her to her feet. "Can you stand?" I asked, my voice shaking.

Had the man knocked her over on purpose? She weaved toward me, her hand again going to her side, a look of startled confusion on her face. I looked down to her waist and saw the bright red stain coming through the fabric of her striped shirt.
Oh Lydia, Lydia.
Oh
feck.

My breath came out in wild pants as I walked her across the sidewalk to stand under the awning of a closed service entrance to Stuart's building.

I looked quickly back in the direction the blond man had gone, but didn't see a trace of him.
Fedor Ivanenko.
The unusual height . . . the white-blond hair . . . it had to be. I wanted to roar with rage and helplessness. I wanted to sprint after him and pound his face into the concrete. But if I was right about who that'd been, he would be long gone by now. The mob didn't hire hit men who didn't know how to make a quick getaway.

I moved Lydia until she was leaning against the inside wall of the entryway and inched the fabric of her shirt up, my hands shaking. I used the hem of her shirt to clean away the blood in order to assess the wound, my heart beating out of my chest. When I'd cleared some of it away, I saw it was mostly a flesh wound, deep enough to need stitches, but not deep enough to cause real injury. "Thank God," I breathed. "Thank God. Are ya okay?"

"I, I think so," she said. "I was just walking down the street and . . ."

"I know. Did the man who did this say anythin' to ya?"

She bit her lip as I continued to apply pressure to the wound with the bunched up material of her shirt. "He said . . . he said, something about reminding my brother about what happens to people who don't repay their debts." Her eyes met mine, wide and full of fear. "Oh God, Brogan, he was one of the men Stuart owes money to. I thought you said you were working with them and that—"

"Motherfuckers!" I swore, dropping my hands and leaning back against the opposite wall. "We need to get out of here. Can you walk?" I guided her hand to where I had been using mine to apply pressure to her wound.

"Yes. But wait, what about Stuart? He might be—"

"Fuck Stuart!" I started to pull her.

"No!"

I attempted a calming breath. Was she really going to dig her heels in now? "Lydia, you're bleeding. I need to get you safe and get you bandaged. Stuart is fine. This was a warning for him already set in motion. I talked to the men holding his loans this morning and we're almost done negotiating a deal." What I didn't say was that after this, it was done. I'd agree to anything. The warning meant to convince me had worked in just the way they'd planned. I glanced down to the blood-soaked material where Lydia held her hand as I worked to control my breathing. "Now please," I said, more gently, "come with me."

"You really almost have a deal worked out?"

"Yes."

She hesitated briefly before allowing me to lead her from the doorway. "Wait, my bag, my phone . . ." she uttered, pointing to where they both still lay near the curb. The fact that she'd brought all her belongings gutted me.
She'd meant to leave. Permanently.

I led her there quickly and picked both up, noticing that the screen of her phone was shattered. Once we were across the street in the safety of my car, I reached behind me into a gym bag on the floor of the backseat and retrieved a small towel. "Here," I said, handing it to her, "this is thicker than your shirt. Apply it to your wound." My hands trembled as I wiped them on my pants so they wouldn't be slippery with blood and then started my car, pulling out into traffic.
Needed to get her back to my apartment. Needed to make sure she was safe.

I glanced over at Lydia who was leaning back in the seat, her face pale, her hand pressed to her side.
This was my fault.
Christ Almighty,
enough.
I wanted to scream and break things. I bloody hated myself for this. And Lydia would too, if she didn't already. Clenching my jaw, I forced myself to focus on just getting us home.

As I drove, I made a quick call to Fionn, explaining the situation and telling him to send Margaret to my apartment. He didn't ask questions, just took directions, said he'd handle it and hung up. My shoulders relaxed slightly.

Ten minutes later I pulled into the underground garage, and five minutes after that, I was leading Lydia through my apartment door. I guided her immediately to the bathroom in her bedroom and had her sit on the edge of the tub. Digging in the cabinet under the sink, I found the first aid kit and returned to Lydia. "I need you to take off your shirt," I said. She hesitated, but lifted it over her head. The cut on her side was bright red and stood out in stark contrast to her creamy skin. And it sent the message loud and clear:
you are not safe, not anywhere, even on a crowded street.
We own Stuart De Havilland, and now, we own you and those you care about.
I knew how these men operated. I'd worked for them. "Does it hurt?" I asked, my voice hoarse with the rage I was barely holding back.

"Not much," she said softly, but she took in a sharp breath when I dabbed rubbing alcohol on it.

"I'm going to kill those bastards," I muttered under my breath, rubbing antibiotic ointment on her skin. She let out a tired-sounding sigh.

"Are you really helping Stuart? Do you promise you are?"

I glanced up at her as I laid a piece of bandage on the cut and lifted her hand to apply pressure to it the way I had before. "I gave you my word I was, Lydia. I talked to them this morning. It's why I left before you woke up." I thinned my lips, not wanting to think about the bargain I'd been hesitating to make.

Her eyes moved over my face as if she was trying to determine whether I was telling her the truth or not. "I shouldn't have left. I just . . ."

"I understand," I said. We needed to talk. As I was opening my mouth to say so, the buzzer sounded from the street. "That's a nurse to stitch you up."

She frowned. "Do you really think that's necessary? It's so small and it doesn't seem too deep . . ."

"Aye." I didn't want her to have a scar, a reminder of the way in which I'd failed her. "Just a few. When it heals, you won't even know it was there."

"Oh, well, okay. If you think so."

"I do." I turned at the doorway. "I can bring you some lunch when it's done."

She nodded. "That sounds good." My eyes lingered on her face for a moment. She looked tired—likely from getting wasted the night before—but she also looked weary as if the events of last night and today were weighing heavily on her mind.
Feck.
Just when I'd erased that look from her eyes, it was back again. Because of her fuckwit brother, but also because of
me.

I hurried down the stairs and rang Margaret in and then waited by the open door. She stepped out of the elevator with a small bag in her hand. "What did ya do now, Brogan Ramsay?"

I couldn't help smiling at the sight of Margaret's warm, open smile. She had provided nursing care for Fionn or me more times than I could count, whether it was back in the days when we ourselves got in fights we couldn't avoid on the streets, or whether she answered our call to help someone else who didn't want to make a trip to the hospital for one reason or another. She was good and kind and didn't force answers we didn't want to give.

"My friend got attacked in the street—a knife. She needs a few stitches."

"Aye, so Fionn said. Do ya know who attacked her?"

"Aye."

She studied me for a moment. "All right, well, where is the girl then?"

"She's upstairs in the guest room on the right." I walked her to the stairs and as she ascended, I said, "Thanks, Margaret." She nodded, not looking back.

When she'd disappeared around the corner, I took my phone from my pocket and texted the men I'd met with that morning.

You have a deal. I want your word that no harm will come to Lydia De Havilland ever again.

I paced in a small circle at the base of my stairs until my phone dinged a few minutes later with one simple word.
Deal.

A knock sounded on the door, interrupting me from my murderous thoughts. Fionn. "You could have let yourself in," I said.

He shook his head. "I didn't want to disturb anythin'—like maybe Lydia in the act of cuttin' off your ballsack."

"Funny," I muttered, knowing I probably deserved it.

"How is she?" he asked, his smile disappearing.

"She's fine. Just shaken, I think. Fuck me straight to hell, Fionn, they knifed her right in the bloody street. They could have killed her if they'd wanted to, and no one would have been able to stop it." Fionn winced slightly, taking a seat on my couch. I sat down across from him, leaning my head back for a moment, letting out a long exhale, trying to relax. I'd been tense for two days it seemed. "I let them know they have a deal."

Fionn leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "It was a warnin', Brogan. But they'll call 'em off now that you've made a deal. She's safe."

"Yeah." I sat up straight. Fionn was regarding me. "I fucked up," I admitted.

"Yeah, ya did. Ya made a bloody balls out of everythin'. Now ya gona make it right."

"I'm trying. God, I'm trying."

"That's the shot." Fionn smiled. "Who's got ya back?"

I smiled despite myself. He always had. "Thanks, mo chara."

"It's gona be all right. You've done this kind of work before. I know ya don't want to, but, it's not a bad thing to stay on the right side of the mob." He shrugged.

"Yeah," I said, not wanting to get into the reasons I'd been hoping they'd take a cash deal instead of bargaining with my talent for numbers. I'd even offered to pay double what Stuart owed them, and they'd turned me down.

"Now what are ya gona do about Courtney?" Fionn asked, probably as much to turn my mind from the deal I'd made with the mob.

I sighed again. "Manage her as usual."

Fionn shook his head. "Ya need to tell her to feck off. She's manipulatin' ya."

I wasn't stupid. I knew she was. I just wasn't sure what to do about it. Because she was also legitimately scared. Due in large part to what I'd done all those years ago—or more to the point, what I
hadn't
done.

"And now," Fionn continued, "she's gona come between ya and Lydia. Ya should have seen Lydia's face when ya went upstairs with Courtney last night. I almost kicked your arse meself, ya wanker. But I can see you've been kickin' your own arse so I'm gona be satisfied with that.
For now
. Ya don't want to tumble with me, mo chara. Ya know that doesn't end well." He winked. We'd only gotten in one physical fight, when we were younger, over something trivial that I could barely recall now. It'd been a straight draw, and we'd both shook hands and let go of whatever the issue had been.

I let out a small sound that might have been a laugh if it contained any humor at all.

We talked business for a few minutes, Fionn telling me about the kid I'd caught stealing food from the food truck and how he'd set him up with a courier job. So far he was a hard worker and was doing well, which was good news.

Talking mundane business helped calm me and get my mind back on track. After a bit, Margaret came downstairs and said Lydia was all taken care of, no problem at all, and she'd given instructions on how to care for the stitches over the next few days, which she gave to me as well. I thanked her profusely, kissing her cheek as she left.