The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

I looked around the universe, which, in turn, closed in on me.

That was the thing about fearing confined places; sometimes, when it got bad, your mere existence was enough to send you hyperventilating.

Just like sometimes, in order to save an angel, you had to make a deal with the devil.




I was on the threshold of Frank’s house the next day, a few minutes shy of noon.

Frank lived in Dorchester. His house had a rickety front porch, dilapidated roof, and a door with bullet holes in it.

Nothing quite said welcome home like full metal jacket-shaped holes in a door.

I knocked, brushing my knuckles clean over my tweed jacket.

Sweven didn’t know it yet, but the minute she left the house today—whenever that would be—she was going to have two of Sam’s men following her.

Since Sam found out Frank’s address overnight, I had to admit begrudgingly (but only to myself) that he wasn’t terrible at his job. Although I still reserved the right to dislike him on the simple basis that he was, in fact, a cunt.

Although I wasn’t well versed in liaising with men who’d tried to get their ex-employers killed, I felt an odd sense of accomplishment.

I was taking care of the situation now. I never fancied myself anyone’s knight in Prada armor, but here we were.

The door whined open, and a screen door flapped right behind it.

A spotty teenaged girl with ratty-looking hair and a huge pregnant belly stood in front of me, barefoot, wearing a military camouflage tunic and holed black leggings. She flinched when she saw me, taking a step back.

“Frank ain’t here.” She began closing the door in my face.

I sent an arm out, pushing it back open with a smile.

“How do you know it is Frank I’m looking for?”

She hugged the edge of the door, peering back at me with wild eyes.

“Figured you’re some type of big shot police officer or whatnot. Only two kinda’ people come to visit Frank—criminals and policemen. And you don’t look like a criminal to me.”

A lovely endorsement if ever I heard one.

The girl wasn’t wrong, which meant she, at the very least, had two brain cells to rub together. Hopefully she was bright enough to recognize an opportunity when one knocked on her door.

As if confirming my suspicion, a loud growl came from her pregnant belly. She winced, running a hand over her greasy roots.

“Is that all?” She was about to close the door again.

“Are you hungry?” I dipped my chin down to try and catch her gaze but to no avail. Whoever Frank was, he’d trained her well to keep away from strangers.

She shook her head.

“Because I can take care of that,” I said kindly.

“I don’t need no charity.”

“My girlfriend is pregnant too. She is growing our child inside of her. I would hate to think she goes without food. For me, it’s not charity. It’s a necessity.”

She folded her lips on top of each other. I could tell she was at a breaking point.

She was hungry. So hungry. Her legs were two toothpicks.

The living room behind her looked like it had been trashed by every single squatter on the East Coast in the last decade.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she asked finally.

The fact that she didn’t slam the door in my face was an encouraging sign.

She knew I could give her relief, an immediate remedy for her situation.

I got her attention, and for now, that was enough.

“I’m looking for your boyfriend. I suspect he is planning to do a very bad thing.”

“Got no idea where he is. He’s been gone for a whole week now. Wouldn’t even pick up my calls. That doesn’t surprise me, though.” She snorted.

“Oh?” I elevated an eyebrow. Not passing judgment was rule number one in trying to get information from someone. “Is that a common occurrence with Frank? Him causing trouble?”

“Frank’s yet to meet any type of trouble he doesn’t like. What are you, anyway? You’re too well-dressed to be a cop.”

“I’m a lawyer.” I took a step forward, into the hallway, and could now smell the unmistakable stench of weed, mildew, rotted food, and apathy. “Would you say he is capable of violence?”

“Sure.” She shrugged again, another rumble coming from her belly. “He’s gotten into plenty of fights before.”

“What about murder?”

“Who did you say you were again?” She narrowed her eyes at me, taking a step back.

She wasn’t going to talk unprompted. It was time to cut the bullshit.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

Many people thought lawyers were combative, aggressive people. Some—unprofessional ones—were. But most were even tempered. I killed people with kindness whenever possible. I didn’t have to flaunt my power. I carried it effortlessly.

“I … um …” She looked around her, as if there was something—someone—who could stand in her way of accepting the help I was offering her.

Behind me, chained dogs barked in someone’s back yard, trying to jump the fence. A baby cried in the distance.

“D-donna,” she stuttered. “My name is Donna.”

“Do you have a surname, Donna?” I took out the checkbook and a Montblanc pen from my inner pocket.