Declan nodded. "Yeah. We may need to cut off the head of the snake. If he's dead, the family will turn on each other. He's the one running the show right now."
"Hasn't his wife just had a baby?"
"I believe so, but the word is she's not happy." This revelation didn't surprise me. Liam was a violent misogynist who thought women belonged in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. He also didn't believe in birth control, hence why Magda had popped out five kids in five years.
An image of my Pixie, barefoot and pregnant, pinged into my head. God, she'd look good with my baby in her belly. We'd make beautiful babies together. Her olive skin and my gray eyes would be a winning combo. Our children would win the genetic lottery for sure.
Conal's eyes narrowed in my direction. "Why are you grinning like a loon?"
"No reason." I shook the thought away before my mental musings gave me a hard-on. Conal would knowexactlywho I was thinking about if he spottedthat. "So am I taking out Liam?" A flutter of excitement shot through my belly. I fucking hated Liam O'Rourke, and now he'd hurt my Pixie the fucker was a dead man walking.
"Not yet. I'm going to ask Milo to gather some intel for me. Thea owes me many favors, so I'm calling some of them in."
"Does she know what happened today?" Conal looked concerned. Probably because he'd been the one responsible for taking Pixie off the estate. My jaw clenched in anger about thedanger he'd inadvertently placed her in. He and I would have words about that later. Strong words.
"Not yet. I plan to call her later."
"Speaking of her phone…" Conal seemed mad about something unrelated to the crash, which wasn't like him. Of the two of us, he typically liked to think before acting and nobody had ever accused him of being clinically insane.
Declan swallowed the dregs of his drink and poured another. "Go on."
"Some asshole has been bombarding her with vile messages. I called the number and an Italian fuckhead answered. I strongly suspect it's the guy we found her with in the bar. The one Ronan beat up."
I slammed my fist down on Declan's desk, making his glass tumbler jump. Whiskey sloshed all over a stack of documents. My brother glared but said nothing.
"Get me a location for him and I'll fix the problem. Pretty sure he'll find it hard to text without thumbs." I had a pair of bolt cutters that were perfect for such a task.
"I agree something needs to be done, but right now, the O'Rourkes are our biggest problem." Declan turned to Conal. "Can you sort Verity a new phone with a new number? That should put a stop to the messages."
"On it already. I spoke to Ash the minute I found out she'd been receiving these bullshit messages." He ground his teeth. "I'm annoyed she didn't tell us, though."
If Dec hadn't sent me away on some stupid business trip right after I'd kissed her, my Pixie would have confided in me.
"That's your fault," I groused, throwing in a vicious glare for good measure.
He and Conal exchanged glances and then looked at me.
"How do you draw that conclusion?" Conal’s brow wrinkled in confusion.
"Never mind," I huffed. I didn't have time to explain their many shortcomings. Doc Brewster had left, and I wanted to check how the patient was doing. "I have shit to do." I stalked out before Declan found something else for me to take care of.
21
Verity
Every bit of me ached. The doctor Declan sent to examine me said I was extremely lucky I had no injuries other than extensive bruising, but he'd prescribed some heavy-duty painkillers to counter the after-effects of being thrown around like a rag doll.
I still wasn't sure what happened, but I remembered the grinning man pointing a gun at me right before Conal shot him. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw his eyes widen in shock a second before the back of his head exploded.
It wasn't the first time I'd witnessed someone shot, but the experience never got any easier. Blood and death had colored my life from birth, ribbons of scarlet in a sea of gray, with my mother the first victim.
I opened my eyes to see the same familiar room with its tall painted white chest of drawers, antique pine dressing table, and random band tickets and postcards pinned to a corkboard.
This had been my room since I first started spending the holidays with Saoirse at the Kelly estate.
A tray with a pot of tea and a plate of cookies sat on the nightstand. The tea had long-since cooled, so I left it alone. Besides, moving was too much effort.
Instead, I lay motionless, staring up at the ceiling, counting the glow-in-the-dark stars Saoirse and I had stuck up there when we were 14. They still glowed at night, although not as brightly these days. Rather like me.
