I nod.
“Fuck.” He pushes away from the counter, disengaging his hand from mine in a swift move, and starts to pace. “Fuck. I figured they were acting alone, but if Mac’s involved…”
“Who the hell is Mac?”
He doesn’t even glance my way. “No one you want to know.”
I hop off my barstool and circle around to him. When he doesn’t look at me, I plant myself firmly in his path with my hands on my hips. I’m sure I don’t look very intimidating barefoot, braless, and dressed in one of his giant black t-shirts, but I hold my ground anyway.
He stops pacing a half-foot from me and a silent stare-down ensues.
“Tell me.” My words are icy as my glare.
“You don’t need to know.”
“I’m the one they kidnapped. I’m the one they came after.” I step closer, until I’m practically in his face. “Pretty sure that means I deserve to know who they are.”
He hesitates a beat, eyes scanning the stubborn set of my jaw, then finally relents. “Keegan MacDonough.”
My brows go up — the name still means nothing to me.
“He’s the head of the Bunker Hill gang.”
Still not ringing any bells.
Nate sighs. “The Irish mob.”
A sound flies from my mouth. It might be a snort. “The mob? As in the mafia?”
He nods tightly.
“As in let’s give him some cement shoes and make him swim with the fishes?” My nose wrinkles. “That Irish mob?”
“This isn’t a joke.” His voice is flat. “O’Pry and Fitzpatrick are just underlings, they don’t have any real power. Mac, on the other hand… He’s the real deal. Controls half of Charlestown. Runs drugs, guns, counterfeit cash. Keeps a few dirty cops in his pocket, for insurance. The MacDonough family has held those streets since the 1970s, when the Feds cleaned up shop and tossed the former bosses in the big house. Mac was only too happy to quietly pick up the reins and fill the void they left behind.”
“Who the heck are O’Pry and Flannery?” I ask, trying like hell to keep up. It’s hard, considering I’ve been transplanted into a Matt Damon movie overnight, but I’m doing my best.
“Cormack O’Pry — alias Cormack O’Dair. And Petey Fitzpatrick — also known as Padraic Flannery.” Nate’s eyes are unwavering on mine. “They saw an opportunity with you and they took it. Probably hoped it would get them in Mac’s good graces if they could make your father squirm.”
“But I still don’t understand why.” I shake my head, grab my water glass, and take a big sip. “What does this have to do with the West Waterfront? Why would they target me? My dad? Seems extreme, just for a little ransom money.”
“Twenty million isn’t chump change.”
“Twenty million?” I repeat dumbly, eyes wide. “For me?”
Nate nods.
I laugh — I can’t help it. “If only they knew my father doesn’t give a shit about me.” A snort pops out. Attractive. “Man doesn’t even answer my damn phone calls, he sure as shit wouldn’t pay a royal fortune to get me back.”
Something dangerous flashes in Nate’s eyes when he hears that.
“He would’ve paid.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
“You should really call him. He needs to know what’s happening—”
“Do you have something stronger than this?” I lift my water glass. “If we’re going to discuss my father, I really need some liquid courage.”
“West—”
“Knox,” I mock, cutting off his protest. “Bourbon. Now. I know you have a bottle lurking in one of these cabinets.”