Sera took a deep breath and focused on his question. She’d planned her false identity down to the last detail. The name and cover story she would use if she ever got close enough to Hogan to actually employ it. She’d never expected to use it this soon, though, especially in this kind of situation.
“Sera.”
He threw back the shot of whiskey.
“Can you fix him up, Sera? He’s my cousin. If he dies, it’ll piss off my mother.”
Yes. She might be able to save him.
No, she would save him. Despite the wounded man’s vast difference from her brother, she wouldn’t let another person die because of Hogan’s presence in his life. Call it irrational, but in a way, saving this man might in small measure make up for her being two hundred miles away as her brother died on the cold sidewalk. None of this could be portrayed to Hogan, however. Or she risked her own neck. “Fix him?” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “He needs doctors…a hospital. I’m a waitress.”
“Yeah? You don’t talk like no waitress.”
“You want to hear the specials or something?”
Hogan’s laugh boomed through the bar, but he sobered just as quickly. He regarded her closely for a moment, then nodded to his cohorts. “Load Connor into the backseat. And for God’s sake, put a fucking towel down first.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “She’s coming with us.”
CHAPTER TWO
Bowen Driscol kept the lit cigarette clamped between his lips as two police officers jerked his hands behind his back and shoved him forward onto the hood of their squad car. A group of neighborhood girls passing on the sidewalk stopped to gawk, giggling when he threw them a wink. The officer’s hand between his shoulder blades kept him in place, cold metal clinking when the other uniform removed the piece he’d had tucked into his waistband and cuffed him. When the hand on his back pushed a little too hard, Bowen gave in with a sigh and spat the cigarette onto the curb.
“Look, I like it rough as much as the next guy, but we hardly know each other.”
“Shut it, Driscol.”
“You going to explain why I’m being arrested?” He swallowed a growl as the cuffs bit into his skin. “Or is this just how you get all your dates?”
“Your mother didn’t seem to mind.”
The officer heaved him off the hood and stuffed him into the backseat, oblivious to the sore spot he’d just poked with his casual insult. “As for why I’m taking you in?” With a shrug, he slammed the door.
“Pick something,” he called through the glass.
Bowen
kept
his
unconcerned
expression firmly in place as the officers drove through the streets of Bensonhurst where he’d been raised. Where he’d likely die. He knew every corner, every alleyway, and the name of every shop owner. This was his home. He hated it as much as he loved it. Loved it for the familiarity, hated it for the prison it had become since he reluctantly accepted his legacy.
Even though it was torture being trapped in the back of a police car without the use of his hands, he couldn’t deny a sense of relief. Had they finally caught him? Finally gathered enough information to put him away? God, a big part of him hoped they had, even if he would die before admitting it to these smug assholes. He was tired of looking over his goddamn shoulder when he walked down the street, wondering if today would be the day someone tried to end his reign as boss. He’d never wanted the job, but with his father awaiting trial at Rikers Island, it had landed on his shoulders like a ton of bricks. Yeah, he’d never been a saint to begin with, but now people feared him for reasons that had nothing to do with his penchant for street fights. Now they worried about their legs being broken over unpaid debts. Turned tail and ran when they saw him as if he were Death himself.
He racked his brain trying to figure out what had gotten him pinched. Sure they were required to tell him, but the NYPD
never played by the rules. Not with him.
They knew he ran South Brooklyn, they just hadn’t been able to trace any crime back to him—a fact that pissed them off in a big way. It warmed his heart exactly how much. Would that all change today?
Their silence was unusual, to say the least. Any other day, they wouldn’t waste a chance to rib him.
Bowen frowned when they bypassed the turn for the local precinct and proceeded toward Manhattan. “Where we headed, boys?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said the one driving.
“Never said I was worried.” He wished for a cigarette. “I’m just wondering
if
I
need
to
make
arrangements for someone to water my houseplants.”
The cops exchanged a glance. “You have plants.”
“What? I don’t strike you as the nurturing type?”
Bowen caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror and had to laugh. With a purple-black eye and a cut bottom lip, he looked like the opposite of nurturing. In fact, he looked like shit run over twice.
Nothing new. He couldn’t remember seeing himself reflected back without some sort of injury on his face. The utter exhaustion in his eyes, though…that was new. Quickly, he looked out the window to find them traveling over the Brooklyn Bridge. What the hell did they want with him in Manhattan?