Bleed for Me (Violent Vows #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

KILLIAN

The second knuckle on my right hand splits against his cheekbone.

The sound is wet. Dense. It travels up my arm, vibrating through the radius and settling deep in the shoulder socket. He drops knees first, then the rest of him follows, folding into the rain-slicked concrete of the alley.

I don’t wait for him to hit the ground. I step back, shaking out my hand.

The skin over the knuckle has burst, a jagged line of red opening up against the grey wash of the rain.

It burns. Good. The pain is a tether. It keeps me here, in the mud and the shit, instead of drifting into that cold, blank place where the violence becomes too easy.

"Stay down," I say. It’s not a threat. It’s advice.

He doesn't take it. Of course he doesn't. He’s young, maybe twenty-two, wearing a jacket that cost more than my first car and eyes that are wide with the specific, potent stupidity of a man who thinks he’s immortal because he’s holding a knife.

He scrambles up, boots slipping on the wet pavement.

There are four of them left. Five men total sent to hold a scrap of territory that smells like dead fish and diesel fuel. Colm Devaney is getting bold, or he’s getting desperate. Sending foot soldiers into Kavanagh territory is an insult; sending these children is a joke.

"Last chance," I tell them. The rain runs down the back of my neck, cold and relentless. "Walk away. Tell Colm the borders are closed."

The one with the knife lunges.

He telegraphs the move from a mile away, his shoulder dropping, his breath hitching. He’s aiming for my gut. Classic mistake. He’s thinking about the kill, not the distance.

I step inside his guard.

My left hand clamps onto his wrist. I don't just hold it; I crush it.

I feel the small bones grind together under my grip.

He screams, a high, thin sound that gets cut off when I drive my right elbow into his nose.

Cartilage flattens. Blood sprays, hot and startlingly bright against the gloom of the alley.

I twist his arm behind his back—leverage, not strength—and shove him forward. He crashes into the two men behind him, a tangle of limbs and panic.

The remaining two hesitate.

I see the calculation in their eyes. They are looking at me, really looking at me, for the first time.

They aren't seeing Killian Kavanagh, the man who tries to keep his brother out of trouble. They are seeing the Reaper. They are seeing the scars on my forearms, the way I stand with my weight balanced on the balls of my feet, the absolute lack of hesitation in the way I just broke their friend’s face.

"He’s alone!" the biggest one shouts. He’s older. He should know better.

He charges. He knows how to fight—he keeps his chin tucked, hands up. But he’s slow. He’s carrying twenty pounds of whiskey weight around his middle and his knees are stiff.

I duck his right hook. The wind of it fans my ear. I bury a fist in his solar plexus.

The air leaves him in a rush. He doubles over, gagging. I grab the back of his neck and bring my knee up. His head snaps back. He hits the ground and doesn't move.

The other three scramble back, their boots splashing in the puddles. The one with the broken nose is cupping his face, blood leaking through his fingers. The one with the knife is cradling his wrist, whimpering.

"Go," I say.

They don't need to be told twice. They grab the unconscious man, dragging him by the arms, his boots scraping twin trails through the muck. They retreat toward the mouth of the alley, stumbling, looking back over their shoulders as if they expect me to pull a gun and shoot them in the back.

I wouldn't waste the bullets.

I lean against the brick wall and slide down until I’m crouching. The adrenaline dump hits me all at once, a crash of chemicals that leaves my hands shaking. I make a fist, forcing the tremors to stop. The split knuckle screams. I let it scream.

I spit a mouthful of blood onto the pavement. I bit my tongue somewhere in the scuffle. The taste is heavy—copper and salt.

My phone vibrates against my bruised ribs, a jarring buzz in the silence of the alley. I pull it out, the screen glowing bright and harsh in the gloom.

It’s a text from Rory.

Da’s asking.

Da’s asking.

Two words. No punctuation. Rory knows better than to ask if I’m okay. He knows that if I wasn't okay, I wouldn't be reading the text.

I type back with my thumb, smearing a streak of red across the glass.

Done. Tell him I’m coming.

I push myself up. My ribs ache where I took a hit I don't remember taking. Tomorrow, that will be a bruise the size of a dinner plate. Tonight, it’s just a dull throb, another piece of background noise in a life that is loud with pain.

I walk out of the alley and onto the main drag. The streetlights are flickering, half of them burned out. This is the Kavanagh district. The city forgets to change the bulbs here. The cops forget to patrol here. We handle our own trash.

My car is parked a block away. A black sedan, non-descript, armor-plated. Doyle is behind the wheel. He’s been my father’s driver for thirty years. He’s seen me covered in blood more times than he’s seen me in a suit.

He unlocks the doors as I approach. I slide into the back seat. The interior smells of stale cigarette smoke and pine air freshener, a combination that has been the scent of my safety since I was a child.

Doyle looks at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes are tired, rimmed with red.

"You look like hell, Killian."

"You should see the other guys."

"Devaney’s crew?"

"What’s left of them."

Doyle grunts. He puts the car in gear and pulls out into the traffic. "Your father is at Gallagher's. He’s been pacing a hole in the floorboards for an hour."

"He knew where I was."

"Knowing where you are and knowing you’re alive are two different things." Doyle pauses. "He’s got a mood on him tonight, kid. Watch your step."

"When doesn't he have a mood?"

Doyle doesn't answer. He just merges onto the highway, the wipers slapping a frantic rhythm against the glass.

I look out the window at the city blurring past. Chicago in February is a miserable grey beast. The skyline is a jagged row of teeth biting into the low clouds.

Somewhere in those high-rises, in the penthouses that look down on the grime of the docks, the Falcones are drinking wine that costs more than my car.

I hate them. It’s a simple, clean hate. It’s not personal—I’ve never met Alessandro Falcone, never spoken a word to his father, Salvatore.

But I’ve buried two cousins and an uncle because of them.

I’ve spent my life watching my father turn into a paranoid, whiskey-soaked ghost because of the pressure they put on our borders.

The car slows as we turn onto Killarney Street. Gallagher's Pub sits on the corner, a fortress of peeling green paint and blacked-out windows. It’s the heart of the Kavanagh operation, pretending to be a dive bar.

Doyle curbs the car. "I’ll wait here."

I get out. The rain has turned to sleet, stinging my face. I pull my collar up and push through the heavy steel door.

The warmth hits me first. Then the noise. The front room is packed. Men in work boots and heavy coats, drinking pints and shouting over the jukebox. The air is thick with the smell of wet wool, spilled beer, and frying grease.

I keep my head down, moving through the crowd. A few men nod to me. Most just get out of my way. They see the blood on my jacket. They know what I am. I’m the heavy hand. I’m the wall that stands between them and the wolves. They respect me, but they don't want to stand too close.

Rory is at the end of the bar.

He’s the only splash of color in the room. He’s wearing a silk shirt that is unbuttoned one too many buttons at the top, and he’s spinning a silver coin across his knuckles—over, under, over, under. A nervous tic.

He stops when he sees me. His green eyes—the only thing we share—scan me from head to toe. He catalogs the split knuckle, the bruise forming on my jaw, the way I’m favoring my left side.

"Rough night at the office?" he asks. His voice is light, teasing, but his eyes are tight.

"Standard Tuesday." I lean against the bar. "Pour me a whiskey. No ice."

Rory signals the bartender. He slides a glass toward me. "Da’s in the back. He’s cleared the room."

"Who’s with him?"

"Nobody. He sent Brennan and the boys out. Just him and the bottle." Rory stops spinning the coin. He traps it under his palm. "Kill, he looks bad. Worse than usual."

"He’s stressed. The Devaney encroachment—"

"It’s not Devaney." Rory lowers his voice. "He had a meeting earlier. A car pulled up out back. Tinted windows. Italian plates."

My hand freezes halfway to the glass.

"Falcone?"

"I didn't see who got out. But the driver... looked like one of theirs. Expensive suit. Ear piece."

I down the whiskey in one swallow. It burns a path straight to my stomach, a hot, angry line of heat.

"If Salvatore Falcone was here, the place would be a crater."

"Maybe." Rory looks at his coin. "Or maybe they’re finally done fighting. Maybe they’re looking to cut a deal."

"We don't cut deals with Falcones. We bleed them."

"We’re running out of blood, Killian." Rory says it softly. He looks around the room, at the aging soldiers, the chipped paint, the desperation that hangs in the air like smoke. "Look around. We’re holding this territory together with duct tape and your fists. If the Russians moves in... we’re done. "

I slam the glass down. It cracks. "Don't say that."

"It’s the truth."

"I handle the threats. I always handle them."

"You can't punch an army, brother." Rory reaches out, his hand hovering over my arm, but he doesn't touch me. He knows I’m live wire right now. "Go talk to him. Just... listen. For once, don't just be the hammer."

I push off the bar. "I’m the hammer because the world is full of nails, Rory."

I leave him there and walk to the heavy oak door at the back of the room. I don't knock. I never knock.