Bloody Knuckles (The Donovan Family #1)

1. Cormac

CHAPTER 1

CORMAC

BLOOD & MEMORY

T he bell clangs, cutting through the underground space. Sweat and copper fill my nostrils as the crowd erupts around the makeshift ring. My fists connect with jawbone—a satisfying crack that vibrates up my arm.

Across from me, the rookie staggers. Fresh meat with more ink than brains. His eyes widen as I advance, circling like a predator. Four years fighting in Dublin's pits taught me patience. The art of pain.

"A Donovan doesn't lose."

My father's voice cuts through my skull. The memory flashes: twelve years old, my cheek pressed against concrete, garage floor cold beneath my body. His boot against my spine. "Pathetic," he'd said, grinding down until breathing became a luxury. All because I'd flinched during training.

The rookie spits a glob of crimson onto the mat. "Fuck you, Donovan."

He charges. Amateur. I pivot, driving my elbow into his temple. The impact sends him reeling. Another strike to his kidney drops him to his knees.

The warehouse trembles with shouts and stomping feet. Men wave cash in the air, hungry for the finish. My crew presses against the ropes—Declan's voice rises above the din. "Make an example of him, Mac!"

I circle the fallen fighter. Teaching requires demonstration. My foot connects with his ribs—once, twice. The crack is audible even over the roaring crowd. Pain radiates through my split knuckles, but pain is an old friend. We understand each other.

The rookie curls inward, a wounded animal begging for mercy. I grant none. The crowd needs to see what happens when you face a Donovan.

After the match, Declan tosses a rag my way. His gaze locks on my hands. "Christ, those need stitching."

I wipe my face, tasting salt and iron. "Where's Finn?"

"Outside. News about the Gallaghers."

My muscles tighten at the name. A reflex born from years of hate. "Tell me."

"Their crew hit our dock yesterday. Torched three crates of product. Liam Gallagher paid us a personal visit, apparently did it himself."

Liam. That smirking prick with his pressed suits and university accent. Acting civilized while playing in the dirt. "How much did we lose?"

"Quarter million, at least."

The rage builds, familiar and welcome. Better than the numbness. I have an idea, that no one will like. "Find his sister. Aoife. Drag her to the estate."

Declan steps back. "You want to kidnap Patrick Gallagher's daughter? You'll start a fucking war."

A smile tugs at my lips. "I'm counting on it."

* * *

The manor is quiet when I arrive, stone walls housing generations of Dublin's most feared family. Security nods at me as I pass. My father built this place as a fortress—a monument to fear disguised as respectability.

In my office, I pour whiskey into a tumbler. The amber liquid burns a path down my throat. Planning a war requires clarity, even when vengeance clouds my judgment.

Finn enters without knocking. My younger brother carries tension in his shoulders. "Tell me you're not serious about the Gallagher girl."

I set down my glass. "You going question me now?"

"It's suicide. Patrick Gallagher will burn this city to ashes looking for her."

"Let him try." I gesture toward the chair. "Sit. Listen."

Finn remains standing. Defiance runs in our blood. "We can make him pay for the product in other, more rational ways."

"This isn't just revenge." I trace the rim of my glass. "The Gallaghers need to understand their position. They cross us, they pay with what they value most. I happen to know what that is."

"And what does Aoife Gallagher mean to you? Revenge? It’s a bit psycho, even for you."

The question hangs between us. What indeed? I've seen her from afar—vibrant red hair, emerald eyes filled with fire. At charity galas where our criminal worlds pretend we’re civilized. In photographs from surveillance. A woman raised in privilege yet rumored to possess a rebellious streak that drives her father to day-drink.

"She's leverage," I reply, but the words taste like a half truth.

Finn's stare cuts deep. "This fixation with her?—"

"Enough." My palm slams against oak, sending tremors through the desk. "This is how I want to do this, and I am in charge."

My brother retreats a step. He knows better than to push when my temper flares. "The men are ready. Just... consider the aftermath."

After he leaves, I examine my battered hands. My reflection stares back from the window—hard eyes, jaw clenched tight. Father's training never included mercy. Mercy gets you killed in Dublin's underworld.

I pull out my phone, scrolling through surveillance photos. Aoife Gallagher entering a club last month. Aoife arguing with her father outside their estate. Aoife laughing with friends, unaware of how close I am, that I have been watching all along.

My thumb pauses on a particular image. Her profile caught in dusk light, that Celtic pendant glinting at her throat. Something about her expression—defiance mixed with vulnerability—triggers an unfamiliar sensation in my chest.

I delete the photo. Sentiment is weakness.

The phone buzzes with a message from Declan.

Target located. Going for it?

Anticipation courses through me. I've wanted this confrontation for months. Years, perhaps. The Gallaghers crossing lines they shouldn't. Liam thinking his family untouchable. Their princess about to learn what happens when you're born to the wrong family.

My knuckles throb as I type a response.

Alive! Do not hurt her, I can’t use broken leverage.

Strange, that instruction. Practicality, I tell myself. Damaged goods lose value as bargaining chips. Yet the thought of marks on her skin—marks not placed by my hand—ignites something possessive and primal.

I drain my whiskey, embracing the burn. Whatever happens next will reshape Dublin's criminal underworld. The Donovan’s will reclaim what's ours. And Aoife Gallagher will pay for her family's sins.

Perhaps she'll fight. I hope she does . Breaking her spirit will br all the more satisfying for me.

The clock strikes midnight. By dawn, she'll be mine to control, to threaten, to use as I see fit. The thought brings a calmness I rarely experience. My father taught me to channel rage into action, turn emotion into weapon.

No room for mistakes. No space for mercy.