I scrape a hand down the front of my face, the image of Tierney laughing in my arms this morning, trusting me completely. She looked at me in the shower like I was her choice, not her enemy.
Whatever made her run from me, wherever she was going, she’s in danger because of her father’s lies and because she thinks I fucking played her.
“I know those bastards took her.” I swallow hard. “We need to find her. Whatever it takes.”
“And if the Murphys want a war?”
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
We have what belongs to Declan Blake. Two million euros buys her back. You have 48 hours.
Bastards. She stopped belonging to Declan the minute I put my ring on her finger.
I show the message to Kingston and Reign.
“Fuck,” Reign mutters.
“Yeah.” I pocket the phone. “Let’s get everything we have on their organization. Personnel, operations, weaknesses. Everything. And call our contacts in Dublin. I want to know exactly where these bastards are hiding.”
“We need to figure out what we’re dealing with before we make any moves,” Kingston says. “I want leverage to win before we go to war with these assholes. And right now, we have none.”
“Then let’s get some.” I turn to look at my brother. “Tierney is my wife. She’s family now. And nobody fucks with our family. You protected Livvie. And I’m doing the same thing.”
Kingston gives a swift nod and we head back to the penthouse. I stare out the window, closing my eyes. Somewhere in this city, the woman I love is being held by men who want to use her to settle her father’s debts.
Men who have no idea they just declared war on the wrong fucking family.
Forty-eight hours to get two million euros or find another way to get her back.
I’m going with option three…find the bastards and make them regret the day they were born.
29
TIERNEY
When I come around, the room I’m sitting in appears in slow, fractured pieces, my awareness bleeding back into my body and my memory stitching together.
My head throbs, and my throat is too dry as I swallow. When I curl my fingers, they’re slow to respond. I blink my eyes open and take it all in.
The box-sized room must be a rental apartment where these guys have been staying.
It stinks of greasy fried food and stale cigarette smoke. There’s a narrow couch against one wall, a table cluttered with takeaway cartons, and a television flickering in the corner.
The curtains are half-drawn, letting thin beams of daylight stream across the floor.
After a quick count, I’m certain there are only three men.
One stands by the window, shifting his weight every fewseconds, favouring his left leg just enough to tell me there’s an old injury there. Something I could exploit if I get close enough.
Another leans against the kitchen counter, phone in hand, thumb flicking over the screen, distracted in a way that makes him careless.
The third is the problem. He’s sitting opposite me, elbows on his knees, and a gun held in his ringed hand.
“Wakey wakey, little Blakey,” he grins.
I keep my breathing slow and uneven, pretending I’m still dragging myself out of whatever they used on me, while my mind sharpens behind the act, slotting details into place, mapping faces, measuring distances, listening to the rhythm of noise drifting in from the street outside.
There’s one exit at the far left.
