“Cut the bullshit. Where are you?” I speak in English, not Irish Gaelic. Aria wasn’t in the car, so there was no need to mask anything.
“En route to the airport to kill Lorenzo,” he says, dropping the act, his genuine tone sharp, cold, lethal. “Cyan, as I’ve mentioned before, our inside source informed that he’ll be in Montreal visiting his mistress.”
“Listen, Col, we’ll stick to the game plan, yeah. When Lorenzo drops, he’ll understand how it feels to lose everything.”
“Why wait? Why not flay him open and strangle him with his bowels?” There was no reasoning with Collin when he’s locked onto a kill. His voice held a familiar edge of sadistic intent.
I keep my tone even, controlled. “Look, Col, if we do it my way, you’ll have more time to enjoy gutting the bastard. Savor it. You can stretch it out, let your skills shine, for days or weeks. It’s all about finesse, brother.” Silence. I didn’t push. I knew better. Let him marinate in the idea. Let his mind twist it, mold it, reshape it into something he could claim as his own.
“The intricacies of biology and the human experience have always fascinated me.” His voice slipped into detached curiosity. “Imagine if we could explore the thresholds of life and pain... slice little cuts into a person’s skin, see how long they take to bleed out compared to when I gut them outright.” Good. He’s distracted.
“Bro, how was your lunch date?”
“I’ll call it a success.”
“Was it now?” He fake-laughs. “And what was that exactly? Let me guess–possessive theatrics? Marking your territory?” He doesn’t understand how much she got under my skin.
“Col,” I warn.
“Alright, alright. You need anything else, aside from me not gutting Lorenzo?”
“No. Why? What else are you planning?”
“Heading to Boston, hitting the club. I crave physical stimulation, and that’s exactly the place where I always find it.” At least one of us will be fucking out their frustrations.
“Don’t forget. Rosa’s dinner tomorrow. If you think you can skip out, you’re in for a world of hurt. She’ll drag your ass through the mud if you’re not there.”
“Yeah, yeah. Later, Cyan.” He hangs up, lucky bastard. I wish I could spend the night buried inside a woman, losing myself in raw, punishing pleasure. My body’s loyal to one fucking woman and she hates me. Aria, with those defiant, fucking doe-brown eyes that burned with fire even as she surrendered to me. I need an outlet. Troy.
I switch lanes and initiate another call, “Call Troy.”
“Yo, C, what’s up?”
“Get ready. We’re sparring.” A low chuckle rumbles through the speaker.
“Fuck, man. You sound like you’re in a mood.”
“Aye, something like that.”
“Alright, C. I’ll meet you at the gym.” He hangs up. I flex my grip on the wheel before forcing myself to loosen it. But the tension in my chest doesn’t ease.
I know what’s coming before it hits me; my past always has a way of oozing through the cracks I swear I’ve sealed. Like poison seeping into my bloodstream, a partial memory of that night slithers in, wrapping its claws around me, dragging me back into the past.
Seventeen
“When words fail, the fists remember. Every punch is a memory, every bruise a vow.”—Cyan MacBrady.
Amerciless sound cracked through the air, and my sister Ciara’s body jerked forward, her shoulders snapping back. For a heartbeat, she stayed upright, eyes wide. Then her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto the tile.
Her head struck next, with a blunt, hollow thud. Ciara’s blood flowed thick and dark, seeping fast from the wound. It spread beneath her, a slow red tide curling outward. The burned copper smell hit me, and still my frozen mind refused to accept what I had just witnessed. I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. She twitched once, fingers clawing weakly, reaching for nothing as her soul left her body.
HOOOOONK. The blast of a horn cuts through the fog in my mind, a brutal yank back to reality. Instinct takes over. I swerve hard to the left, tires screeching, as the SUV jerks to a violent stop at the side of the road. An eighteen-wheeler barrels past, close enough for the air pressure to rock the vehicle. Fucking memories. I was useless then. I couldn’t save her. Gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles crack, I push a hand into my pocket, fingers curling around soft lace. Aria’s panties are still damp. I let out a slow breath, and I swear her scent clings to my skin, a ghost of what happened between us.
My teeth grind together as I squeeze the delicate scrap of fabric, the pressure shooting up my arm, grounding me in the here and now. More snippets of memories claw at me as if waiting to drag me into their unyielding depths. Thankfully, Aria’s moans begin to replace the failure of my past. I press down on my swollen tongue, focusing on the pain before I pull back onto the road.
Turning left between the towering trees onto the estate. The road narrows, winding. My SUV glides along, the tires thrumming rhythmically against the asphalt, as my compound comes into view. It’s over twenty acres. This is a kingdom built on blood and power, on the cliffs of Crescent Bay.
Ten mansions, one for every member of my mob family. The Ten Irish Fists live here, our empire, our law. The ornate wrought-iron gates are reinforced with steel and monitored by our trusted soldiers twenty-four hours a day. Armed guards stand on either side, scanning every movement, their hands resting on holstered weapons. The gates part for me. The snipers stationed along the rooftops barely shift. Inside, more soldiers move in silent rotations, scanning for any threats. Motion sensors and infrared cameras blanket the estate. No one enters or breathes inside these walls unless I allow it. Because I know what happens when security fails. I know what happens when you think rules will protect you; people die, and I won’t make that mistake again.
