Traded to His Enemy, Pregnant With His Heir novel · Chapter 46 of 48

Chapter 46: Informant

Nobody answered.

The bagpipes went by outside, very loud, and then a little fainter.

Up on the stage, Conlon laughed.

It was the big warm laugh, the one that filled rooms, and it filled this one.

"Ah, love," he said. "Everybody in Southie knows who did that. Somebody in his own family talked to the feds. It broke my heart."

"The FBI came in through the front door at four in the morning," I said.

I didn't look at him.

I looked at the old men at the rail.

"They walked past the kitchen. They walked past the office. They didn't open one cupboard."

"They went straight down to the cold room and straight to the keg rack, and they lifted one board."

The barman put the glass down.

"Third board from the wall," I said.

The barman's face had gone white under the sandy hair.

"My da wrote me that from prison," he said slowly. "Third board from the wall. He said only two men alive knew which board."

He looked up at the stage.

"Him, and the man who hid him there."

Every face in that room turned to Seamus Conlon.

"That's grief talking, son," Conlon said gently. "You were six. You don't know what you're saying."

"No," I said. "But I do."

I reached into the front of my dress and took out the folded page.

I didn't unfold it.

I didn't need to.

I knew every line by now.

"The man they took off the Expressway with a truck full of your guns," I said. "The fourth of July, eighteen years ago."

An old man at the rail put his pint down very carefully.

"The two brothers from Dorchester Avenue," I said. "Taken the week after they argued with you about the docks."

"The man they arrested at his daughter's First Communion, on the church steps, in May."

A man near the fire stood up off his stool.

"That was my uncle," he said. "That was my uncle."

"The man from Providence who was going to buy you out," I said.

I said them all.

Twelve of them.

Some by name, so the room heard it said aloud for the first time in years.

Some by the day it happened, because every man in that bar remembered the day.

By the eighth one, nobody was looking at me anymore.

"Your own men," I said. "For twenty years. One every couple of years, to keep yourself on the street and on top."

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