John tries to step back; the muzzle follows, indenting his skin.
“How?” he whispers, shaking his head like a broken toy.
I press harder.
“Because the second you decided to sell us out, you stopped being one of us.”
His pulse flutters wildly against the barrel.
“And tonight, John,” I say, soft as a promise, “we stop being dead.”
“You’ve been dying to see me in the ground,” I say, voice low, lethal, the barrel of my gun grinding against John Flanagan’s forehead until the skin dents white around it. “You even used Autumn.”
Declan steps in behind him, presses his own pistol to the base of Flanagan’s skull. The metal kisses hair.
“You thought you’d force my hand,” I continue, leaning in until he can feel the anger in my blood. “Make me kill her or vanish, because you knew I’d never put a bullet in my own wife. That would’ve been my death sentence, and then you’d only have the Callaghans left to sweep away.”
Declan doesn’t speak; he just swings. The butt of his gun cracks against Flanagan’s temple with a wet, meaty thud. Blood sprays in a hot arc.John drops to his knees, swaying, crimson already sliding down the side of his face and dripping onto the concrete.
“One neat little ambush when we were all together,” Declan growls, crouching so his mouth is level with John’s ear. “That was the plan. But you made one mistake, you greedy cunt. You got impatient.”
I laugh, dark and humourless, and lower myself until we’re eye to eye. Blood drips from the gash Declan opened, pattering between us like a clock counting down his last seconds. I slide the muzzle under his chin, forcing his head up.
“So we got ahead of you,” I say softly. “I called the Vastriks myself. Told them exactly what their ‘partner’ was cooking. The rest was just watching you hang yourself.”
Rurik steps forward, hands in his pockets, smiling like a man who’s already spent the money. “We don’t like family stabbing family in the back,” he says, almost gently. “The Callaghans offered fifty-fifty and no taxes for a year.” He shrugs, amused. “Hard to say no.”
Flanagan’s eyes dart to Kian, wild, desperate, searching for an ally that was never there.
Kian just grins, slow and vicious, teeth bright against the blood on his face.
“These fuckers were never my family,” Flanagan spits, lurching to his feet, blood pouring down his cheek and neck, soaking into his collar. “They never listened to a goddamn word I—”
“We never listened,” I snarl, closing the distance until my chest almost touches his, “because you ran, you spineless prick. You ran when our fathers went to war. You ran when the Dark War started. You hid while the rest of us bled.”
Declan’s voice detonates behind him, pure thunder. “You’ve never done shite but count other men’s money and lick boots!”
John flinches like the words are bullets.
I press the gun harder under his chin, forcing his face up to mine again. My pulse is a war drum, every muscle in my arms, my back, my shoulders locked and burning.
“Tonight,” I whisper, so close my lips nearly brush his, “you finally stop running.”
I stand, and Kian moves in with Connor beside him. They grab Flanaghan by the shoulders.
“You remember the way we deal with traitors, right?” Kian whispers, and that’s the exact moment John Flanaghan finally understands what’s coming.
He screams.
Kicks.
Spits.
He looks like an animal fighting for its last breath.
“What will happen to him?” Rurik asks as Kian and Connor drag Flanaghan out of the warehouse.
The corner of my mouth lifts. “You can have a front-row seat to how the Irish Consortium handles betrayal.” I clap him on the back.
