Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

25. Maggie

25

MAGGIE

C rouched behind a stack of crates and rusty oil drums with Siobhan, my heart is pounding like a jackhammer.

Siobhan’s elbow digs into my ribs as we try to stay hidden. We’re not supposed to be here, but wild horses couldn’t have dragged us away from this showdown. Now I’m just praying we don’t sneeze or something equally ridiculous.

The warehouse is dimly lit, with shafts of moonlight streaming through grimy windows. It smells like saltwater and motor oil in here, and every little sound echoes ominously through the cavernous space.

The air is thick with the smell of fish and salt, and I can hear the gentle lapping of waves against the docks outside.

My nose wrinkles at the pungent mix of scents, and I can almost taste the briny air on my tongue. The slightest shuffle of our feet or whisper of clothing seems to bounce off the walls, amplified tenfold.

Sawyer stands a few feet away, his broad shoulders tense as he listens to Uncle Whitey’s hushed instructions. The old Irishman looks like he stepped straight out of a 1970s gangster flick and is giving Sawyer a crash course in Mob Negotiations 101.

His voice is gruff and carries across the warehouse. “Remember, boy-o, keep yer cool,” he says in his thick Irish brogue. “These Italian bastards’ll be lookin’ for any excuse to start somethin’. Don’t give ’em the satisfaction.”

Sawyer nods, his jaw clenched. He looks so different from the charming hockey player I’m used to seeing. Right now, he’s all business, and I have to admit…it’s kind of hot.

“And if things go south?” Sawyer asks.

Uncle Whitey’s eyes gleam dangerously, cocking his head at the three men he brought. “That’s what the muscle’s for, innit? Don’t worry, lad, we’ll show these pasta-eaters why you don’t mess with the Irish.”

I stifle a snort. Men and their macho posturing.

The Peaky Blinders wannabe—I’ve decided to call him Tommy in my head—adjusts his flat cap and nods at Uncle Whitey. The other two enforcers look like they bench-press small cars for fun.

“Show any weakness and they’ll go for the throat,” Tommy says, with a toothless grin.

“Got it,” Sawyer replies, his voice low and steady.

Uncle Whitey continues. “And no sudden movements. Those bastards are jumpier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

I recall Sawyer’s terse phone call to the Italians yesterday. His voice had been cold, controlled.

“Meet us at the docks. And bring the bird.”

My heart clenches at the thought of poor Otto. I hope he’s okay. I gulp, suddenly very aware of how out of my depth I am. This isn’t like my romance novels, where the danger is all make-believe. This is real, and it’s terrifying.

Siobhan must sense my unease, because she squeezes my hand reassuringly. I try to smile back, but it probably looks more like a grimace.

Suddenly, the warehouse door creaks open. My breath catches in my throat as several well-dressed men saunter in, their expensive shoes clicking on the concrete floor. The suits are crisp, the hair is slicked back, and I swear I can smell cannoli from here.

One of the suits, clearly the boss of them, steps forward. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Irish welcoming committee.”

“Are you Gustavo?” Sawer asks.

“Yeah. You the guy I talked to on the phone?”

Sawyer straightens his shoulders. “Yes. We have what you want. Now, where’s the bird?”

“Business first,” says Gustavo. “Where are the goods?”

Sawyer, bless his heart, is trying his best to look tough. He’s got his game face on—the one he usually reserves for facing off against particularly nasty defensemen.

“We’ve got what you want,” he repeats, sounding more like he’s offering to trade hockey cards than negotiating with the mob.

Gustavo steps closer to Sawyer, his polished shoes gleaming in the dim light. “Yeah? And I’m the Pope. How do I know I can trust you, pretty boy?” His voice is pure New Jersey mobster, like he learned to talk by binge-watching Scorsese flicks.

He’s the epitome of a mobster cliché, complete with a scar running down his left cheek. His slicked-back hair, tailored suit, and gold pinky ring are enough of a crime against humanity.

His cologne wafts over, a mix of expensive leather and…is that garlic? Great, now I’m craving pasta.

Sawyer stands his ground, channeling the hockey forward in him. “Look, I get it. You’re skeptical. But remember what I told you on the phone yesterday? Brian got nabbed before he could spill about the shipment. He couldn’t exactly text the location from his prison cell without the Feds catching on.”

The tension is palpable. A rat scurries across the floor, and I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle a squeak. Siobhan shoots me a warning glance.

Gustavo’s eyes narrow. “That’s convenient, isn’t it? Your old man gets pinched, and suddenly you’re in charge? Forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy here, kid.”

“I’m not asking for joy,” Sawyer retorts. “Just a little patience. The goods are here, just like we promised.”

The other Italian mobsters shift restlessly. I’m pretty sure I see one of them fingering something in his pocket that I really hope is just a rosary.

“Patience?” Gustavo scoffs. “We’ve been plenty patient. Now, where’s our shipment?”

Uncle Whitey pipes up, his Irish brogue thicker than a pint of Guinness. “Aye, the lad’s tellin’ ye the truth. Let’s not get our knickers in a twist.” He grins, revealing a set of teeth that have clearly seen better days. “We’re not here to pull the wool over yer eyes. We’ve got what ye want, fair and square.”

Gustavo’s eyes narrow. “If this shipment ain’t exactly what we paid for, there’s gonna be trouble. Capisce?”

“I need proof of life,” Sawyer says. “Where’s my wife’s bird?”

“Give him the damn bird,” a commanding voice echoes through the warehouse.

Then a man emerges from the shadows, moving with the grace of a panther, all fluid motion and controlled power. The warehouse suddenly feels ten degrees colder, and I swear I hear dramatic music swelling in the background.

He’s pure elegance in a tailored suit that fits him like a glove—and devastatingly handsome, with golden skin, and eyes dark as espresso and twice as intense.

“Mr. Fiorentino. I didn’t expect you to come,” Gustavo stammers, suddenly looking like a schoolboy.

Mr. tall, dark, and dangerous scans the room, and I swear they linger on our hiding spot for a heart-stopping moment. I hold my breath, praying he doesn’t see us. I feel Siobhan suck in a sharp breath beside me, eyes wide as saucers.

Trailing behind him is another man, equally impressive, in a rougher way. He’s built like a brick wall, with tattoos snaking up his muscular arms and disappearing beneath his rolled-up sleeves. His suspenders stretch taut across his broad chest, and let’s just say if danger and sex appeal had a baby, it would be this guy. He’s got that whole silent and broody thing going on, with a side of ‘I could kill a man with my pinky finger.’ It’s like someone cranked up the danger dial to eleven.

The two men’s arrival has everyone on edge. The other Italian mobsters are suddenly standing straighter, like they’ve all been zapped with cattle prods. Even Uncle Whitey looks a bit green around the gills.

Mr. Fiorentino moves toward Gustavo, each step calculated and smooth. A single beam of hard light halos his perfectly styled black hair and dramatically casts a fierce shadow on one side of his face. I swear his cheekbones could cut glass.

When he speaks, his voice is smooth as aged whiskey. “Gustavo, I believe I gave you an order.”

Gustavo looks like he’s about to wet himself. “Y-yes, Mr. Fiorentino. Right away, sir.”

Mr. Fiorentino, looking like he’s one eye roll away from a migraine, pinches the bridge of his nose. I half expect him to start handing out time-outs.

“For the love,” he mutters, his voice dripping with exasperation. “Is it really this difficult to produce one measly bird?”

One of the goons scurries out like his pants are on fire, probably grateful for the excuse to escape Mr. Fiorentino’s death glare. A few moments later, he returns, panting like he’s just run a marathon, with a covered cage in his hands.

Mr. Fiorentino gives a curt nod, and the goon whips off the blanket like he’s unveiling the Mona Lisa. There’s Otto, looking ruffled but alive.

“Swim with the fishes,” Otto squawks, and I swear Mr. Fiorentino’s nostrils flare.

His face morphs into a mask of anger and stern elegance—an expression that says, “I’m furious, but make it fashionable.” Like a terrifying Gucci ad.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he hisses, his voice low and dangerous. “I was in the middle of a multi-million dollar art gallery negotiation, and I had to hear second-hand that your goons kidnapped a parrot.”

Gustavo gulps audibly. “Well, sir, you see?—”

“Squawk off!” Otto interjects helpfully.

I can’t help myself any longer. My legs are moving before my brain can catch up, so it’s not my fault really. I dash out from behind the crates and oil drums like a mom reuniting with her long-lost toddler, and I throw my arms around the cage.

“Otto!” I cry. “Oh, my feathery baby!”

Sawyer’s face goes from shock to exasperation faster than you can say “busted.”

“Maggie, I thought I told you to stay behind,” he groans.

Before I can respond, Siobhan emerges from our hiding spot with an air of casual indifference only seen in magazines. Sawyer’s eyes widen even further.

“And you, too? We left guards outside your house!”

I shrug, hugging Otto’s cage to my chest. “Siobhan is very persuasive.”

“Wanna ’stacio?,” Otto squawks, and I nearly burst into tears.

“Oh, my sweet boy, I promise you all the pistachios your little birdy heart desires when we get home. Heck, I’ll build you a pistachio palace if that’s what it takes.”

Gustavo blurts out, “Enough with the bird reunion.”

Mr. Fiorentino holds up his palm and Gustavo backs away. Then he turns his attention to Sawyer. “Now, Mr. O’Malley, shall we get down to business? Where are the assets we’ve been so patiently waiting for?”

Sawyer gestures around the warehouse with a sweep of his arm that’s probably meant to look cool but comes off more like he’s doing the YMCA dance. “Right here, as promised.”

Mr. Fiorentino raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Open them,” he commands, his voice a velvety whisper.

The goons spring into action like overeager puppies, crowbars appearing out of nowhere. With a series of creaks and groans, the crates pop open.

I hold my breath, half-expecting priceless Fabergé eggs or glittering jewels.

Instead, out tumbles…matryoshka dolls?

Spilling out of the crates are a sea of adorable, hand-painted Russian nesting dolls, staring up at us with their cute little painted faces.

The goon looks as confused as I feel. Gustavo pulls out a particularly chubby matryoshka and shakes it like it might magically turn into something else.

Mr. Fiorentino’s face is cold as stone, almost expressionless. “What,” he says, his voice dangerously low, “is this?”

More crates are opened, and more dolls appear. There are little wooden bears, brightly painted horses, and enough nesting dolls to stock a small toy store.

How cute. It’s the entire cast of Anastasia !

Otto squawks, “Did you poop?”

Mr. Fiorentino’s lips twitch in what might be amusement. “Charming creature,” he says dryly.

Sawyer glances at Uncle Whitey, who shakes his head and shrugs, then he looks back at Mr. Fiorentino. With a genuinely perplexed look in his eyes, he says, “Isn’t this what you were expecting?”