Chapter One
KILLIAN
The second knuckleon my right hand splits against his cheekbone.
The sound is wet. Dense. It travels up my arm, vibrating through the radius and settling deep in the shoulder socket. He drops knees first, then the rest of him follows, folding into the rain-slicked concrete of the alley.
I don’t wait for him to hit the ground. I step back, shaking out my hand. The skin over the knuckle has burst, a jagged line of red opening up against the grey wash of the rain. It burns. Good. The pain is a tether. It keeps me here, in the mud and the shit, instead of drifting into that cold, blank place where the violence becomes too easy.
"Stay down," I say. It’s not a threat. It’s advice.
He doesn't take it. Of course he doesn't. He’s young, maybe twenty-two, wearing a jacket that cost more than my first car and eyes that are wide with the specific, potent stupidity of a man who thinks he’s immortal because he’s holding a knife.
He scrambles up, boots slipping on the wet pavement.
There are four of them left. Five men total sent to hold a scrap of territory that smells like dead fish and diesel fuel. Colm Devaney is getting bold, or he’s getting desperate. Sending foot soldiers into Kavanagh territory is an insult; sending these children is a joke.
"Last chance," I tell them. The rain runs down the back of my neck, cold and relentless. "Walk away. Tell Colm the borders are closed."
The one with the knife lunges.
He telegraphs the move from a mile away, his shoulder dropping, his breath hitching. He’s aiming for my gut. Classic mistake. He’s thinking about the kill, not the distance.
I step inside his guard.
My left hand clamps onto his wrist. I don't just hold it; I crush it. I feel the small bones grind together under my grip. He screams, a high, thin sound that gets cut off when I drive my right elbow into his nose. Cartilage flattens. Blood sprays, hot and startlingly bright against the gloom of the alley.
I twist his arm behind his back—leverage, not strength—and shove him forward. He crashes into the two men behind him, a tangle of limbs and panic.
The remaining two hesitate.
I see the calculation in their eyes. They are looking at me, really looking at me, for the first time. They aren't seeing Killian Kavanagh, the man who tries to keep his brother out of trouble. They are seeing the Reaper. They are seeing the scars on my forearms, the way I stand with my weight balanced on the ballsof my feet, the absolute lack of hesitation in the way I just broke their friend’s face.
"He’s alone!" the biggest one shouts. He’s older. He should know better.
He charges. He knows how to fight—he keeps his chin tucked, hands up. But he’s slow. He’s carrying twenty pounds of whiskey weight around his middle and his knees are stiff.
I duck his right hook. The wind of it fans my ear. I bury a fist in his solar plexus.
The air leaves him in a rush. He doubles over, gagging. I grab the back of his neck and bring my knee up. His head snaps back. He hits the ground and doesn't move.
The other three scramble back, their boots splashing in the puddles. The one with the broken nose is cupping his face, blood leaking through his fingers. The one with the knife is cradling his wrist, whimpering.
"Go," I say.
They don't need to be told twice. They grab the unconscious man, dragging him by the arms, his boots scraping twin trails through the muck. They retreat toward the mouth of the alley, stumbling, looking back over their shoulders as if they expect me to pull a gun and shoot them in the back.
I wouldn't waste the bullets.
I lean against the brick wall and slide down until I’m crouching. The adrenaline dump hits me all at once, a crash of chemicals that leaves my hands shaking. I make a fist, forcing the tremors to stop. The split knuckle screams. I let it scream.
I spit a mouthful of blood onto the pavement. I bit my tongue somewhere in the scuffle. The taste is heavy—copper and salt.
My phone vibrates against my bruised ribs, a jarring buzz in the silence of the alley. I pull it out, the screen glowing bright and harsh in the gloom.
It’s a text from Rory.
Da’s asking.
