Theo hurries me along through more winding hallways, preventing me from hearing the rest of the conversation, his hand resting in the small of my back. He looks troubled. We pass a waitress, not the blonde from earlier but another one, dark hair pulled back into a perfect chignon. She looks Italian, like she could be Theo’s sister or something. But she’s not. I know enough about the Barbieri family to know Theo and Salvatore were the Barber’s only children. The waitress smiles politely at Theo, dark brown eyes skimming over me as though she doesn’t even see me. I’m hardly surprised. Paddy’s employees are just as discreet.
We end up walking straight through the floor of the restaurant, more waiters and waitresses acknowledging Theo and pointedly ignoring me, and then we’re out on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. A sleek black 1969 Ford Mustang idles at the roadside, a tall, chubby guy in a neatly pressed suit leaning against the driver side door. He straightens when he sees Theo, hands folded in front of him. Theo walks with me around the other side of the car, unfazed by the people on the sidewalk; he presses his body up close behind mine, so close that people would assume we were lovers and not that he was trying to conceal my handcuffed wrists. I’m bundled into the car and then Theo is talking to the chubby guy. It almost makes me laugh when I hear him telling the guy off for leaning against the Mustang. I mean, the guy’s priorities must be fucked if he’s worried about his paintwork right now. When he climbs into the car, he’s wearing a grim expression.
“It’s not exactly comfortable trying to sit like this with my arms pinned behind my back. You feel like taking these off me now?”
“No.”
Well, shit. It was worth a shot. Theo guns the engine and merges into the slow-moving traffic, eyes fixed steadily in the rearview mirror. He’s tense. Even more tense than he was before, inside the building. By the way he’s paying more attention to what’s happening behind us instead of what’s going on in front, I’d say he thinks we’re being followed. I casually glance in the side mirror, seeing if I can spot anything. I get the idea into my head that Paddy might already have someone watching the Barbieris’ place, but that’s just wishful thinking. After about fifteen minutes, I’m pretty sure we’re not being tailed and it would seem so is Theo. He relaxes, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. I decide to fuck with him. If he won’t take the handcuffs off, then why the hell should I behave myself? I kick my foot up, resting it against the dash, the heel of my boot making a scraping sound as I drag it across the console.
Theo’s eyes go wide. Gripping hold of the steering wheel, he stares at my foot on the dash, unblinking and unmoving. I’m fairly certain he’s stopped breathing. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
“Trying to make the best out of a bad situation.”
“Get your feet down. Now.”
“Or what? Are you gonna kick me out of the car?” One can always dream.
“No. But I will shoot you in the thigh. Jesus, woman, you’re scuffing everything!”
I am, as well. It gives me great pleasure to see the long mark I leave behind when I let my foot fall back into the foot well. Theo swears the whole way across Hell’s Kitchen and into Tribeca, where he takes us along the wharf and parks the Mustang outside a low, sprawling warehouse. The place has been restored, converted into living space. The tinted windows and the lack of dirt really give away its residential status. I try not to look impressed as Theo hustles me out of the car and inside the place.
The warehouse is one large, open-plan space inside. Haphazardly placed furniture splits the floor into different areas—a monstrous black leather couch separates the living-room area from the sleeping area, where a huge king-sized bed sits against the back wall. The kitchen runs down the side of one wall. No bathroom in sight. That must be tucked away through the only other door I can see, positioned in between a row of bookcases.
I’m not interested in how the guy’s decorated, or what books he’s been reading. I’m only interested in an escape route, and it appears that there’s only one: back the way we just came in. The windows are too high to climb out of, and there are no other exits that I can see.
“Sit down,” Theo commands. He nudges me toward the couch, so I sink myself down on it, throwing my feet up again. The only reaction I get out of him is raised eyebrows. Seems he’s not as precious about his couch as he is about his car. “Now. You’re gonna phone Kaitlin and you’re gonna find out where she is. And then all of this will be over.”
I know it won’t be over. Does he really think I’m that gullible? “Do you care if McLaughlin knows you’re the one responsible for kidnapping his daughter?” I ask.
“It wouldn’t be ideal.”
“Then why do you expect me to believe I’ll be walking free as soon as you have Kaitlin in your possession? You know I’ll tell Paddy you took her on your father’s orders. There’d be a hell of a lot of Italian blood running through the streets of the Kitchen.”
“And Irish blood, too,” he replies. “My father won’t care, so long as we do what we set out to do. He’ll go to war with Paddy over this. It doesn’t matter to him.”