And now Cian.
He’d kicked me out of his home and out of his life with no warning, no explanation. This time, I wasn’t blaming myself. This was ahimproblem.
I knew it would fuck with his head if I told him who his birth parents were. I just hadn’t expected him to run away from me. This was something we should have worked through together. It didn’t only affect him. It affected our daughter.
If word ever got out that Maddie was the granddaughter of Sylvia St. James and Henry Craven, people would come out of the woodwork trying to put her in a position to take over theSociety.Or they would want her dead so she couldn’t.
TheSocietymay have been disbanded years before, but not everyone was held accountable.
Chapter Thirty-One
Cian
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the dim light. The sound of a dripping faucet felt like a machine gun inside my aching skull. I reached up to cradle my head, but my arm wouldn’t move.
I was tied to a chair. Scanning the room, I noticed the worn couch, the cabinet doors hanging by one hinge, and a threadbare rug rolled up in the corner.
The smell of mildew was overpowering. I closed my eyes against the nausea caused by the pounding in my head.
Looking down, I saw the concrete floor, telling me I was in a basement apartment. I tugged at my arms. Tied behind my back, I’d have had a chance to get free. But being tied to the arms of the chair gave me no leverage.
Still, I tried.
I had to.
The sound of boots on the steps made my heart race. Whoever had gotten the drop on me was coming. I dropped my chin to my chest and closed my eyes.
“Come on, Ci, don’t play dumb. I know you’re awake.”
Tyran’s voice cut through the haze, and my head snapped up.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snarled at the traitor.
“My job.” He shrugged.
“Your job was to protect Sal. Your job was to work for the fuckin’ family,” I ground out. Tyran Fitzpatrick was nothing more than a fucking traitor.
“I worked for Eamon. When Sal killed him, I had to make other arrangements.” Tyran shrugged again. Moving closer he asked, “They sold the house. Where are the fuckin’ files?”
I smiled at the son of a bitch. “What files?”
I’d barely gotten the words out when Tyran’s fist connected with my face. The chair rocked back, but before it fell, Ty slammed his hands on my arms, setting the chair back on four legs.
His face was inches from mine when he screamed, “Where the fuck are they?”
“Now, now, Mr. Fitzpatrick. That is not the way to endear my son.”
My head whipped around at the sound of her voice. I didn’t want to believe it. But I’d known the truth. It’d taken me weeks, but I’d finally confirmed that Gideon St. James was dead.
There was always someone willing to take the credit. That someone was a man named Adrian Sanchez. Also known as Chaos. Former Golden Skulls club brother.
One of the ways an MC differed from the Mob, was they didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut. From what I’d found, Adrian Sanchez had switched sides after the wedding of Maxwell Doherty, aka Reaper, and Remi Ivenok.
Believed to have been killed during the wedding—a trap set by Reaper to take down theSociety—Sanchez then aligned himself with the Satan’s Angels. He told them everything, including how Reaper had killed Gideon St. James.
“Son,” she purred. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard, a sound no one wanted to hear and when you were forced to endure it, you were scarred for life.
“I am not your son.”
