Chapter 11: The Red Light

Damiano's POV

The plate was mine.

I knew it before Colleen finished enlarging the picture.

It was the Lincoln my driver had kept for eleven years.

I had ridden in the back of it the night I broke Moira Keane's leg.

I stood in my mother's old yard with both hands on the brick and made myself remember it in order.

It was a Tuesday in July, almost nine at night, and still ninety degrees.

A Hourigan truck had gone through the docks with six pallets of our cargo that didn't match its paperwork.

I told my driver to stay on it.

We followed it up Northern Boulevard with the windows up and Luca on the phone in the front seat.

The truck went through a yellow light.

My driver went through the red.

I have gone over that light a thousand times.

A woman was crossing in front of the Hourigan yard gate, in the crosswalk.

She had a canvas bag on her shoulder and her badge on a lanyard.

She looked up.

I saw her face in the headlights, startled, freckled and completely ordinary, and then the Lincoln hit her.

I do not remember getting out of the car.

I remember kneeling on the asphalt with my jacket under her head and her blood on my cuff.

Her right leg was bent where no leg bends.

She stared at me with big green eyes and said, "Call Eamon."

I called him.

I took her phone from her hand and found his name and called.

He came ten minutes after the ambulance and stood in the lights with his mother.

I watched them take in what had happened.

I watched Bernadette look at the Lincoln and know whose it was.

That was why she had been so sure, on Fulton Street, that I would never let my men touch her.

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