Killaney Blood (The Killaney Irish Mafia #1)

Chapter 1

DECLAN

"That all you got?" I taunt, circling the big fucker who outweighs me by at least thirty pounds. His eye's already swelling shut. "My grandmother hits harder, and she's been dead seven years."

The crowd laughs and roars, the sound bouncing off the walls of this shithole basement. Money is being taken by my bookies as I look over my knuckles, which throb, the skin split open across three of them.

My opponent goes by Brick, apparently, because he hits hard and stands like a brick house. But he's the one coughing on his knees right now, arms trembling as he tries to crawl back up.

He spits a mouthful of blood onto the mat. "Fuckin' rich boy," he yells. "Pretending at being tough."

I laugh. "Playing?" I spread my arms wide and then motion for him. "Come show me how the real men do it then."

He gets to his feet, wobbling. Brick's legs are shot, and that last right hook cracked something in his jaw. I felt it.

The people are happy to see him up, thirsty for more action.

"Kill him!"

"End it, Killaney!"

He takes a deep breath and charges. I sidestep, but a wild punch catches me. I stumble back, and the crowd gasps. If I go down, millions will be lost. I recover, drive forward with a combination that sends him stumbling.

I don't fight for money. That's for desperate men.

Shit, I could buy this entire building and everyone in it.

This is about proving something. Not that I dwell too much on the reasons, but it's safe to say it starts with proving I'm not just Callum's younger brother.

That I'm a force all my own, asserting my dominance, gaining control.

The kind of fear that permeates every alley in this fucking city when they hear my name.

Brick comes at me again, but his movements are sluggish. I press my advantage, landing blow after blow, the impact vibrating up my arms. His face is a mangled mess of blood, but he's still standing. Gotta respect that.

"Just stay down next time," I tell him.

"Fuck you," he gasps.

I shrug. "Fine. Have it your way."

I move in for the finish, but the bastard has one last desperate move. He lunges forward and slams his forehead directly into my face. Pain explodes across my right eyebrow. Warm blood instantly cascades down, turning my vision red on one side.

I wipe my eyes, smearing a trail of blood down my cheek.

"Motherfucker," I say.

I channel the pain and explode. I throw two sharp jabs to his chest, then an uppercut that drops him to the mat instantly. His arms go limp at his sides.

The ref pushes in, looks him over, and waves his hand, calling the fight.

The bell rings.

Chaos erupts, and I raise my arms like a fucking god.

I don't feel the pain. Not yet. Adrenaline's still riding me in all the right ways, like a high-class woman on a Friday night.

One of my men jumps into the ring and slaps me on the back. "Fucking beautiful, boss," he says and hands me a towel. "Nasty headbutt though."

"Yeah?" I ask, wiping blood from my eye with the back of my hand. "Had worse from Keira when we were kids."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Yeah, still, you should get that looked at. There's a nurse in the back room, patching up the fighters."

"I'm fine," I say, rolling my shoulders. Blood trickles into my eye.

"She's pretty good, from what I hear." He grins, lowering his voice. "Also fucking hot."

"That right?" I raise an eyebrow, wincing as it pulls at the cut.

He nods. "Wouldn't be surprised if you tried to fuck her while she stitched you up."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

He laughs.

"Fine. I'll go."

He turns and points. "Down that hallway. Last door. I'll stay and collect."

People congratulate me as I push through the crowd, the towel slung over my shoulder.

Some chick in a leather dress grabs my arm, eyes wide and eager.

"Declan, you're a fucking animal."

I wink. "Sweetheart, you've got no idea."

I keep moving, and a couple of guys from rival families nod with grudging respect. They know better than to start shit here. I've earned my reputation one broken nose at a time.

I walk down the hallway that smells like sweat and antiseptic. I flex my hands, feeling the familiar ache in my knuckles.

I push open the door marked "Medical" without knocking.

The room is small, cramped, with shelves lined with supplies that look suspiciously like they fell off the back of a truck.

A woman stands with her back to me, wearing black scrubs, sleeves rolled. Latex gloves on. Her hands are busy organizing gauze and tossing bloodied towels into a red trashcan.

Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. Slim waist. Curves in all the right places. My mind immediately shifts gears from fighting to fucking. She's got a nice ass, the kind that would fit perfectly in my hands. She looks like she'd be a fun woman to ruin. I'd—

She turns, and every thought in my head crashes to a halt. My pulse spikes hard. Not from the fight. Not from the blood loss.

Rage. Raw, undiluted rage coils in my chest.

Those green eyes with flecks of gold in the middle. That cold, quiet face I've only ever seen once.

Without a doubt, it's her.

That fucking girl.

The one they called the Ghost Angel.

The medic who let my cousin die three years ago while working for the Albanians.

The girl I swore if I ever saw again, I'd…

She sees me. Freezes. Just for a second. Then her mask slides into place, like I'm no one. Like she didn't stand there and watch someone in my family die.

"You've got blood in your eye," she says, calm as ever. "Sit down before you pass out on my floor."

I don't move.

"You've got some fucking nerve being here," I say, voice low and dangerous. My hands curl into fists at my sides, reopening the splits in my knuckles. "Where are your Albanian friends, huh? Hiding?"

"I don't work for them anymore." She gestures to the folding chair. "You're bleeding. Either I stitch you up or you bleed out. Your call."

I can't deny the blood pouring over my eye. Head wounds always bleed like a bitch. And while I could walk out right now, something keeps me rooted to the spot. Curiosity. Rage. Maybe the need to understand.

"You remember me?" I step forward.

She meets my gaze. Doesn't blink. "I tend to recall people who pull guns on me."

"Just make it quick," I say, sitting. I wish I had my gun now. Usually I leave it in my car for these fights. Not worth the hassle if there's a raid. Now I regret it.

"I don't half-ass things," she says, grabbing some supplies. "You die, I don't get paid. It'll take as long as it takes."

She presses gauze to my wound, the pressure making me wince despite myself. Her touch is firm, like I'm just another body to fix.

"Where was that attitude the night I brought you my cousin?" I ask, watching her face.

Her eyes meet mine for just a second. "Hold this," she orders, guiding my hand to the gauze.

My teeth grind together.

I brought my cousin Joyce to her so she could save his life. He got stabbed, was bleeding out. I was covered in it, panicked, desperate.

And she, this cold-blooded bitch, refused.

Said she wasn't authorized. Said if she helped, she'd die.

I grab her wrist instead. Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers, but her expression doesn't change. "Answer me."

"You want to rehash ancient history or you want me to help you?" She doesn't try to pull away. "Because I can walk out that door right now."

"Do it," I dare her. "Walk away. See how far you get."

Her jaw tightens. "Three years ago I had a gun to my head. Tonight, I don't."

"No," I agree. "Tonight you're alone, and you have me."

A flicker of something crosses her face.

"So what's it going to be?" she asks. "Kill me or let me fix you?"

I release her wrist. "Fix me. Then we'll see about the rest."

She takes the gauze from my hand and tosses it into the trash. Then she soaks a fresh piece in antiseptic and cleans around the cut.

"You need stitches," she says.

"Then stitch me up."

She prepares everything and then holds up a needle.

"Stay still."

Each pierce of the needle sends a sharp pain through my brow, but I don't flinch.

"So," I say conversationally, as if she's not currently sewing my flesh back together, "no more Albanians? They get tired of you letting their enemies die?"

Her hands remain steady, but I catch the tightening at the corners of her mouth. "I'm freelance now."

"That's one word for it."

She ties off a stitch with precise movements. "You're going to have a scar."

She works in silence for another minute. I study her face, the high cheekbones, the stubborn set of her jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows.

"You know," I say, "I pictured this moment differently. In my head, I always had a gun."

"And I always hoped to never see you again." She meets my eyes briefly. "Looks like we're both disappointed."

I laugh. "You're either very brave or very stupid."

"I'm still alive," she says. "So probably the former."

She finishes and walks over to throw some things away.

I stand and close the distance between us.

"You think I won't kill you?" I say, looking down at her.

She turns and doesn't back away.

"I patch up monsters. You're not the first. You won't be the last."

"That's not what I asked."

She sighs. "I think if you were going to, you would've done it already."

I look down at her, a million things running through my mind.

"Keep it clean. No fighting for a few weeks."

"I'll consider it."

She strips off her gloves and tosses them in the trash. "We done here?"

"For now. But you'll see me again."

She looks up at me, her eyes full of defiance. "Hopefully not."

And then she turns away. Dismisses me like I'm no one. That pisses me off more than anything else she's done.

I want to wrap my fingers around her throat and put her through the fucking wall. But I don't. Now's not the time. There's a ton of people outside this room.

So I just look at her for a moment, like a predator measuring his kill.

After a few seconds, I turn and walk out.

It's not a matter of if I'll find her, but when, and what I'll do.