She doesn’t want to marry me.
Good. The feeling’s mutual, princess.
And jerking off in the shower sure as hell didn’t help. Didn’t even make a dent in my frustration. Maybe it’s not even sexual.
I glance at my phone again.
Nothing.
Fuck.
I drive faster, cutting through the night like it owes me something.
Christ, but I missed this—driving. Speed. Autonomy. The wind blowing through the cracked window. The hum of the engine underneath me. In prison, I damn near forgot what it meant to be free.
My phone vibrates. A flicker of hope… gone in an instant.
Declan. Seamus.
I breathe in deep, then exhale through clenched teeth. No one keeps me waiting.
No oneignores me.
Christ.
I think about the tribute, counting the days until the next one’s due again. Another bloody reminder: The marriage isn’t the only thing slipping through my fingers. I don’t even know who the hell we’re paying.
I park the car, and the valet steps forward.
I hand over the keys and a thick roll of notes. I like them to remember who I am and show respect.
Even ifshedoesn’t.
I don’t walk into The Craic—I storm in because I own the fucking place. No mask. No hesitation. Just clean, brutal purpose and my standard uniform—black on black, tailored shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show I don’t give a shite. Sleeves rolled high, ink and scar tissue on display like a fucking roadmap of every bastard who thought they could take me.
And when I show? They part like the fucking Red Sea.
Heads turn, spines straighten, and eyes drop.
Respect, the only currency that matters in a place like this. You either command it or you get swallowed whole.
I’m raging inside, and every man in this room can fucking feel it. “Mr. McCarthy.”
The barman—a slight dip of the head. The shadow of Rafferty behind the bar. He poured pints for my father before he poured for me. His eyes flicker once and then move on.
There’s reverence in the air, or at the very least, begrudging respect.
Yeah.Thisis what I wanted tonight.
A place where I rule. A place where I can breathe without playing nice. Where control isn’t just a fantasy but law.
I smile and let it bleed out slow. Because I’m not here toplay… I’m here to burn something down.
Declan’s already inside by the time I reach the front bar. The front’s just the mask—a pint of Guinness and polite lies if you’re on the outside. But if you’rein, if you know the word, the look, and your background checks out, you make your way to the back.
The Craic’s been ours for decades. My mother protested, thinks it’s beneath us, that we shouldn’t tie our names to a place where rules are broken and vices are celebrated. She’s notwrong.
But we fucking love it. It’s sacred to us, a monument of vice in Ballyhock. You don’t get in unless you’re a McCarthy or close enough to bleed like one.
