My shoulders ache, my knuckles split beneath the tape, and every muscle in my body feels as if it’s been put through as much shit as a crash test dummy.
Malone worked me harder than usual today, probably because he can tell I’ve been off. He didn’t say anything, but by how he kept barking orders and demanding I push harder, it was more than obvious.
His efforts didn’t work.
I’m still distracted. Hardly in any shape for the big fight that’s days away.
The Banshee’s packed when I walk in, and I’m not in the mood for any of it. The noise, the laughter, the smell of beer and salted peanuts—all of it grates my nerves in a way it never used to.
This place used to feel like a second home. Now it feels like another reminder of her.
I’ve spent the summer walking into the pub and seeingJhene serving tables. Secretly looking forward to the moment she came to my table and we’d have our exchanges.
The same ones everybody else could see was flirting but the two of us were in denial about.
Today, only Bridget and Marcy occupy the floor. Jhene’s nowhere in sight.
I don’t want to be here, but Ronan called a meeting and I’m still his boneman, whether I like it or not. Clan business is supposed to be a priority. I’m the one who waged this war, back when I was filling in as Clan Chief.
To bail on the fight now would be coward shit, and I’m no coward.
Still, it’s been almost a week since I confronted Jhene, and I haven’t slept through the night since. It’s to the point that I’m running on fumes, going through the motions as I train for the fight and fulfill my role as boneman.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Things like the tears that streamed down her cheeks as she begged me to understand and how she flinched when I thrust the stupid burner phone back into her hand.
If that was acting on her part, then she belongs in Hollywood. She’s the next Meryl fucking Streep.
I did the right thing. She betrayed us. She fed intel to the Bratva, which resulted in some of our people getting hurt.
Teagan’s still in the hospital because of information she passed along. The Banshee burned down because of her. Seamus is dead because of her.
It shouldn’t bother me that she’s gone. Yet I return to the same conclusion every time. I’m left questioning ifI’mthe one who fucked up…
I drop into a chair at our table at the back of the pub and ignore the looks from the others.
Sean’s across from me, nursing a pint and running hismouth as usual. Cian’s beside him, quieter but a note of concern in his stare.
A few of the others are scattered around, waiting for Ronan to show up and tell us what the next plan of attack is.
“Big fight’s only a couple days away,” Sean says, raising his glass in my direction. “You ready to knock that Russian bastard’s teeth in?”
I grunt in response. About as much of an answer as I can muster up.
The truth is, I couldn’t give less of a shit about Sharapova right now. I’ve worked my ass off for years for a shot at the championship, but my head’s not in the game.
I’m too stuck on the woman with large glasses and springy curls who preferred puzzle books to socializing.
For the past week, I’ve even resorted to trying to find her. Gone to local shelters and had buttonmen scouring the streets for any sign of her.
…then I come to my senses and realize how batshit insane it is.
The girl’s allegiance is to Fedorov Raguzin. There’s no erasing that huge fucking inconvenient fact.
The pub door swings open, and Ronan strides in, his expression hard and focused. Lochlan’s a step behind him, more even-keeled and unreadable.
Since Seamus’s passing, tensions between the two brothers have gradually thawed. Still not where they once were, but they’ve been spotted working together more often than expected.
“Alright, listen up,” Ronan says, skipping the pleasantries. “We’ve got intel on a Raguzin compound outside the city. Warehouse district, sometimes used as a holding cell for his trafficking operation. We’re hitting it Sunday night.”
