Da’s asking.
Two words. No punctuation. Rory knows better than to ask if I’m okay. He knows that if I wasn't okay, I wouldn't be reading the text.
I type back with my thumb, smearing a streak of red across the glass.
Done. Tell him I’m coming.
I push myself up. My ribs ache where I took a hit I don't remember taking. Tomorrow, that will be a bruise the size of a dinner plate. Tonight, it’s just a dull throb, another piece of background noise in a life that is loud with pain.
I walk out of the alley and onto the main drag. The streetlights are flickering, half of them burned out. This is the Kavanagh district. The city forgets to change the bulbs here. The cops forget to patrol here. We handle our own trash.
My car is parked a block away. A black sedan, non-descript, armor-plated. Doyle is behind the wheel. He’s been my father’s driver for thirty years. He’s seen me covered in blood more times than he’s seen me in a suit.
He unlocks the doors as I approach. I slide into the back seat. The interior smells of stale cigarette smoke and pine air freshener, a combination that has been the scent of my safety since I was a child.
Doyle looks at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes are tired, rimmed with red.
"You look like hell, Killian."
"You should see the other guys."
"Devaney’s crew?"
"What’s left of them."
Doyle grunts. He puts the car in gear and pulls out into the traffic. "Your father is at Gallagher's. He’s been pacing a hole in the floorboards for an hour."
"He knew where I was."
"Knowing where you are and knowing you’re alive are two different things." Doyle pauses. "He’s got a mood on him tonight, kid. Watch your step."
"When doesn't he have a mood?"
Doyle doesn't answer. He just merges onto the highway, the wipers slapping a frantic rhythm against the glass. I look out the window at the city blurring past. Chicago in February is a miserable grey beast. The skyline is a jagged row of teeth biting into the low clouds. Somewhere in those high-rises, in the penthouses that look down on the grime of the docks, the Falcones are drinking wine that costs more than my car.
I hate them. It’s a simple, clean hate. It’s not personal—I’ve never met Alessandro Falcone, never spoken a word to hisfather, Salvatore. But I’ve buried two cousins and an uncle because of them. I’ve spent my life watching my father turn into a paranoid, whiskey-soaked ghost because of the pressure they put on our borders.
The car slows as we turn onto Killarney Street. Gallagher's Pub sits on the corner, a fortress of peeling green paint and blacked-out windows. It’s the heart of the Kavanagh operation, pretending to be a dive bar.
Doyle curbs the car. "I’ll wait here."
I get out. The rain has turned to sleet, stinging my face. I pull my collar up and push through the heavy steel door.
The warmth hits me first. Then the noise. The front room is packed. Men in work boots and heavy coats, drinking pints and shouting over the jukebox. The air is thick with the smell of wet wool, spilled beer, and frying grease.
I keep my head down, moving through the crowd. A few men nod to me. Most just get out of my way. They see the blood on my jacket. They know what I am. I’m the heavy hand. I’m the wall that stands between them and the wolves. They respect me, but they don't want to stand too close.
Rory is at the end of the bar.
He’s the only splash of color in the room. He’s wearing a silk shirt that is unbuttoned one too many buttons at the top, and he’s spinning a silver coin across his knuckles—over, under, over, under. A nervous tic.
He stops when he sees me. His green eyes—the only thing we share—scan me from head to toe. He catalogs the split knuckle, the bruise forming on my jaw, the way I’m favoring my left side.
"Rough night at the office?" he asks. His voice is light, teasing, but his eyes are tight.
"Standard Tuesday." I lean against the bar. "Pour me a whiskey. No ice."
Rory signals the bartender. He slides a glass toward me. "Da’s in the back. He’s cleared the room."
