I'm alone again with the heavy bag and the cocaine still racing through my system, making everything sharp and terrible and crystal clear. I should feel victorious. I laid down the law. Made her understand that this engagement party is happening whether she likes it or not. Asserted dominance. Showed strength. But all I feel is hollow.
I face the bag again and tear into it with everything I have. Every punch is harder than the last, more violent, more desperate. The chain groans under the assault. The leather splits in places and shows the sand-filled canvas underneath. I punch until my wrapped hands are soaked with blood. Until my shoulders scream. Until my lungs burn and my vision blurs and I can't tell if the wetness on my face is sweat or tears. I punch until I can't punch anymore.
Then I collapse against the bag and hold onto the leather like it's the only thing keeping me upright. Which, maybe, it is.
Aoife's words echo in my head.That's easy for you to say when you're high, and the rest of us mortals have to do this fucking sober.
She's right. It is easier while being high. Everything's easier high. The guilt. The fear. The crushing weight of responsibility that I never asked for and don't know how to carry. But she's wrong about one thing. I'm not strong. I'm not the leader everyone needs me to be. I'm just good at pretending. Good at hiding behind cocaine and violence and the Murphy name. Good at destroying the people who try to get close.
Like Aoife, who looked at me with fear and respect and something that might have been the beginning of trust. Who came down here to warn me. Who's trying to save both our families, even though I've given her every reason to let us burn.And I just broke her. Made her cry. Made her curse. Made her see exactly what kind of monster she's being forced to marry.
I should feel relieved. Should be glad she knows the truth now, that she'll stop looking at me like I might be worth saving. But all I feel is the loss of something I never had to begin with.
I push off the bag and head toward the stairs. My legs are unsteady, whether from the workout or the drugs or the crash that's coming, I don't know. Don't care.
The engagement party is tomorrow night. Aoife will be there, dressed beautifully, smiling perfectly, playing the role of happy bride. Because that's what survival looks like in our world. That's what strength means, even when it kills you from the inside out.
I climb the stairs slowly. Each step is an effort. By the time I reach the top, I'm dizzy and nauseous. The cocaine high is fading and leaving behind the familiar emptiness. I need another line or a drink or both. I need to not care.
But I do care.
And that's the worst part of all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
William
THE DOCKS SMELL like rot.
Salt and decay and old wood that's seen too many storms. The kind of place that had been abandoned decades ago when the shipping routes changed, leaving behind warehouses with broken windows and piers that groan under their own weight. It's dangerous territory now. Neutral ground that belongs to no one, which means it belongs to everyone.
Perfect place for a meeting you don't want anyone to know about.
I park the Audi two blocks away and walk the rest of the way. Frank's instructions were clear: come alone, or don't come at all. So here I am, alone, walking into what could easily be a trapbecause I'm desperate enough to think my uncle might actually help.
The cocaine from last night is gone. The high faded hours ago, leaving me with a pounding headache and hands that won't stop shaking. I should've done another line before leaving. Should've steadied myself. But some part of me, the part that still pretends I have control, wanted to do this sober.
That part is an idiot.
The old dock stretches into the harbor, wooden planks warped from years of weather and neglect. Some are missing entirely, leaving gaps that show dark water below. I step carefully, testing each board before putting my full weight on it. The last thing I need is to fall through and drown before Frank even shows up.
He's already here.
Of course he is. Frank Murphy doesn't wait for anyone.
He stands at the end of the pier, hands in the pockets of an expensive charcoal coat, looking out over the water like he's admiring the view instead of waiting to blackmail his nephew. Even from behind, he looks composed. Dangerous in that quiet way that makes people underestimate him until it's too late.
I hate him.
I also need him.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
"William." He doesn't turn around. Just says my name like he's been expecting me, like this is a casual meeting between family instead of a deal with the devil. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"You said you had information." I stop a few feet away, close enough to talk, far enough to run if this goes sideways. "So talk."
Frank turns. He's aged since the last time I saw him. More gray in his dark hair. Lines around his eyes that weren'tthere before. But he still has that same sharp intelligence, that calculating look that says he's three steps ahead of everyone else.
