Chapter 10
The young woman savored Sunday mornings when she was able to get away from her place of employment. She returned home on these days to visit her parents and siblings for tea.
The family home, a narrow townhouse on Trinity Lane, had belonged to her paternal grandparents. Papa, being their eldest son, had inherited it, but the funds required to keep such a place had started to dwindle four years ago when tragedy struck.
Since then the house had fallen into disrepair. At this point, the entire facade required painting, the front door changing because of the rot that set in two years ago when the doorstep flooded after an unusually harsh downpour.
Sitting in what had once been a bright and beautifully furnished parlor, she sipped the tea she’d been served by Mama.
The porcelain was cracked, she noted, the tea’s flavor weaker than usual.
At least it was hot though. She did her best not to shiver, to draw attention to the chill in the room.
It seemed there was no longer enough money to build a fire.
Swallowing hard, she wrapped her hands more securely around her teacup and tried to smile, even as the pang of grief and all it had led to consumed her.
“You look well,” Mama remarked while Papa, as usual, said nothing.
He merely sat there, a ghost of the man he’d once been. Before Howard went off to war. Before he’d died.
“I wasn’t convinced when you said you were going to go into service, but it does appear to have been the right choice.” Mama’s voice was too thin, her hands too frail. “You seem happy.”
Happy?
The word was a shock. It wasn’t one she’d considered in years, but rather than argue, she nodded. It was easier that way. For all of them. Especially for the twins.
Carl and Constance were still too young to escape the hellish existence within these walls. The young woman considered the pair, their too-gaunt faces and vacant expressions. It wasn’t right. They didn’t deserve this, none of them did.
The sentiment brought on a fresh bout of rage — the only useful emotion she knew these days. The one that drove her, allowed her to get out of bed each morning and do what had to be done until her revenge was complete.
She returned her cup to its saucer. “Do you mind if I go upstairs for a bit?”
Mama shook her head, the sadness in her eyes a hollowed-out version of the joy that had once filled her gaze. “Of course not. Take as long as you need.”
The young woman sent the twins a loving look and stood.
The runner nailed to the stairs had a lackluster look about it. Dust was piled along the edge of the baseboards and grime marred what had once been pristine white walls. She turned left at the top of the landing and opened the door to what had been Howard’s bedchamber.
Her brother, the messiest person she’d ever known, had never let anyone touch his things.
So the clothes he’d pulled from the trunk at the foot of his bed when he’d packed for deployment, but had chosen to leave behind, were as he’d left them.
Strewn about in various places, including on the floor.
Even his bed remained unmade, which was somehow both a comfort and a source of continuous pain.
If things were to change, however, she would have to be the one to do it. She knew neither Mama nor Papa had entered this room since the funeral. And to clean it would require more energy than she could spare.
Perhaps after she had achieved her goal she’d feel differently?
She stepped over the shoes and books that greeted her every time, and walked to her brother’s bedside table. The fingermarks she’d left on it a few weeks prior were still vaguely visible beneath fresh layers of dust.
As usual, the edge of the drawer snagged against the lip of the table, forcing her to jiggle it slightly to get it open.
The cluttered contents brought a mournful smile to her lips, if only because it seemed to bring Howard closer.
She shook her head and reached inside, retrieved the wood box he’d given her on her tenth birthday.
Her thumb traced over the floral carvings before she eased the lid open.
A crimson velvet interior came into view.
The ideal hiding place for two additional shillings.
* * *
Finn O’Leary pulled his arm back and sent his fist flying directly toward his opponent’s left cheek. His knuckles met bone and Callahan’s head whipped sideways, spit flying toward the rowdy spectators.
Another punch landed in Callahan’s stomach, producing a grunt and sending the poor British bastard stumbling. Finn smirked. He’d not fought like this since his twentieth birthday, when Boyle had tossed him into The Pit and forced him to prove his worth.
After that, he’d only trained against his own. Men who knew not to try and kill him.
But maybe that had been a mistake.
He flexed his fingers, prepared to deliver the blow that would make him the victor when Callahan straightened. A look of death darkened Callahan’s gaze, raw fury twisting his features as he launched himself directly at Finn.
The impact caught him off balance and then he was falling with Callahan’s arms wrapped around his torso. The dirt floor came up to greet him, smacking the back of Finn’s head and shooting pain into his spine.
He heard the roars, a mixture of cheers and protests, before he felt the first blow.
A fist smashed into his nose with a crunch, the wetness spilling onto his chin leaving no doubt as to what had occurred.
Another blow followed, this time to his jaw.
Then another and another before someone had the good sense to drag Callahan from his person.
Finn wheezed a breath. He couldn’t move. It felt like his face had been rearranged.
Someone dropped to their knees beside him. “Christ, Finn. Ye all right?”
A gasp was all he could manage. It was as though a millstone rested upon his chest.
“Up.” He needed to get on his damn feet if he was to murder Callahan as he deserved.
“You sure about that?” The same voice. Brian Kelly’s voice. “Ye look like ye might be needin’ a–”
“Up,” Finn hissed, forcing the word past his swollen lips.
A heavy sigh brushed his brow. Strong hands settled beneath his armpits. The world began shifting.
Holy mother of…
Teeth gritted so hard they risked crumbling, fists clenched until his nails pierced the skin of his palms, he fought the howl of pain that clawed its way up his throat.
“You'll want a doctor,” Brian muttered, hoisting Finn into position. Destroying what was left of his spine, more like.
“What I need,” Finn hissed, the tang of blood coating his mouth as he peered out from under a puffy eyelid, “is a drink. I'm Irish, not British, ye bastard.”
Brian’s beefy arm wrapped around Finn’s torso, steadying him against his solid frame.
Weak-legged, Finn stumbled as they started making their way from the ring, but Brian held him upright.
He made sure Finn made it through the tumultuous crowd and all the way to the spot where Sean and Patrick waited.
The table, tucked away in the darkest corner of The Mad Bull tavern, had two chairs to spare.
Finn collapsed into one of them with a grunt. A handkerchief was produced and he held it to his nose to staunch the bleeding. Brian’s hand gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll get ye that drink then. An’ somethin’ for yer face if I’m able.”
“Focus on the drink,” Finn muttered. He flexed the fingers of his free hand, causing raw skin to stretch across his knuckles. Air hissed between his teeth. As long as he could numb the pain, he’d be fine.
“What ’appened?” Sean asked, his voice low and cool, devoid of emotion. He set his crossed arms on the table and leaned forward, peering up at Finn’s face from beneath lowered brows.
Patrick snorted around the cheroot he was smoking and rocked back in his chair. “Can’t ye see he got his arse beat?”
“Course I can,” Sean said, his steady gaze staying on Finn. Not even Brian’s return distracted him from getting the information he sought. “What I’m wantin’ to know is if the fight was fair.”
Brian set a full glass on the table. “Whiskey,” he said, and lowered himself to the last remaining chair before telling Sean.
“To a point. Callahan’s last attack was brutal.
Threw ’is weight against Finn. Knocked ’im down, then proceeded to beat ’im before ’e was able to get ’is bearin’s.
The ref jumped right in with me on ’is heels. Dragged the scoundrel away.”
Finn sniffed, the action making his whole face ache. He set the glass to his lips and took several gulps, ignoring the way the alcohol stung when it found open wounds. “Is he still here?”
“Who? Callahan?” Brian asked. A short nod from Finn and, “Right over there, grinning ’is ’ead off. Celebratin’ ’is victory, I reckon.”
It wasn’t rage or fury that slid through Finn’s veins, but something far more lethal. It was the same quiet and purposeful motivation that had always provided him with his next goal. The same that had taken out numerous adversaries before and that would eventually lead to Croft’s demise.
Calm as ever, Finn drank some more whiskey, then said to Brian, “Invite him to join us.”
No one questioned the order, each man holding his tongue as Brian went to do as Finn asked. Patrick tipped his chair forward and snuffed out the last of his burning cheroot in an ashtray while Sean leaned back in his seat, arms still crossed.
Finn considered them both, or rather, where they sat, before looking to Patrick. “We need to switch places.”
There was no need for Finn to explain or ask twice. Patrick simply pushed himself upright while Sean helped Finn move. He dropped into his new spot a second before Brian returned to the table with Callahan.
“Congratulations on the win,” Finn said, tipping his glass toward his opponent. “Allow me to buy you a drink.”
An arrogant smirk formed on Callahan’s lips. He actually chuckled. “Letting you remain conscious appears to have its reward.”
He sat, occupying the chair to Finn’s left, exactly as Finn intended.
While Callahan’s smug expression might have irked those who couldn’t control their emotions — who allowed pride to conquer rational behavior — it only served to inform Finn of the man’s stupidity.
Was he not aware that he was the mouse who’d ventured into the viper’s den?
“I’ll have the best whiskey this place has to offer,” Callahan said, addressing Brian as though the man were his personal servant. Less than a servant even.
Nonplussed, Finn waved Brian away, sending him back to the bar, deliberately lulling Callahan into a state where he’d think he was in control. That he had gained the upper hand when he’d used brute force to shove Finn to the ground.
“Where’d ye learn to fight?” Patrick asked, the tilt to his head suggesting a genuine interest that Finn knew he lacked.
“In the streets when I was a lad,” Callahan said as another fight started and men began shouting once more.
Callahan raised his voice. “Later, when I felt ready, I came here.” He jutted his head in Finn’s direction.
“Never ended up looking as bad as that though. Maybe next time you’ll stay on the sidelines and watch, ay?
No shame in admitting you’re not skilled at using your fists. ”
“You didn’t use your fists to win,” Finn replied softly.
“What’s that?” Callahan asked. “I can’t hear you over the noise.”
Finn gave his head a slight shake. “Never mind.”
Callahan answered with a you-truly-are-an-idiot kind of look that would have removed all lingering doubt from Finn’s mind. Had he been even the slightest bit sympathetic toward the man.
Brian returned and Finn watched in silence as he placed a glass of whiskey on the table, then slid it across to Callahan.
The man didn’t bother to offer his thanks. He just picked up the glass while Brian moved, positioning himself in a way that shielded Finn and Callahan from the rest of the room.
Finn raised his glass before Callahan managed to drink. The man paused, pressed his lips together as if annoyed by the slight delay in clinking his glass against Finn’s.
“To the rest of your miserable life,” Finn said, his words overpowered by cheers from the nearby crowd. Callahan only gave a slight nod, clearly not hearing the words, then drank. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the liquid.
Finn took a sip of his drink as well then set his glass on the table.
He turned his body toward Callahan, clasped hold of his shoulder with his left hand.
The stillness that followed was rife with surprise.
Callahan tried to shake himself free but Finn held firm as he leaned toward him.
Until his mouth was next to the bastard’s ear.
Only then did he say, “You deserve to rot in hell,” right before the blade he’d pulled from his boot sank deep into Callahan’s fleshy stomach. The man’s lips parted, eyes widening with surprise. The glass he’d been holding fell to the floor where it shattered.
Patrick, Sean, and Brian reacted, hollering at each other as though one of them had been a drunken fool. To anyone who might have turned their gaze toward the dark corner, it would have looked like a group of five friends enjoying more drink than they could handle while two of them tried to talk.
Fingers gripping the blade’s handle, Finn twisted it firmly to make sure the deed was properly done before he withdrew it. A shove sent Callahan’s body toward the table. His cheek landed against it with a thump, his lifeless gaze directed toward the wall.
Finn wiped his blade clean on Callahan’s thigh then returned the weapon to his boot. Utterly calm, he retrieved one of his calling cards and a pencil he kept on his person at all times, wrote a few words, and placed the card in one of Callahan’s pockets.
He then downed the last of his drink and addressed his companions. “Shall we?”
Brian helped him rise then offered whatever support Finn needed. Instead of using the tavern’s front entrance, they left through the back and made their way to the next intersection where they were able to hail a hackney.
Uncomfortable from his injuries, Finn focused on each breath he took as they travelled the short distance to their lodgings. He couldn’t wait to return there so he could clean up, tend to his wounds properly, and get the rest he needed.
“How do ye think Croft will react when ’e learns about this?” Patrick asked.
Finn didn’t really care. What he’d done tonight had not been for Croft’s benefit.
It had been for the sake of asserting himself and earning the kind of respect that could only be had when men feared you.
Another brick in the empire he’d started to build when he got off the boat.
A plan to establish himself as the kind of threat one could either support or die fighting against.
Too exhausted and battered to explain any of that, he said, “He’ll know I mean to take his crown.”