Chapter 3
Chapter Three
KILLIAN
The ceiling of my apartment has a water stain that looks like a bruise.
It starts at the crown molding, a sickly yellow spreading into a dark, mottled purple where the plaster has begun to rot, mimicking the exact shade of the skin covering my left ribcage.
I have been staring at it long enough for the light in the room to shift from the grey, watery gloom of dawn to the harsh, flat white of a morning that has arrived without my permission.
My head feels like it’s been packed with wet sand.
The whiskey—cheap, biting stuff that I drank straight from the bottle after leaving Gallagher’s—sits heavy and acidic in my gut.
It didn't do the job. It was supposed to knock me out, to drag me down into a black, dreamless sleep where I didn't have to think about the word husband.
Instead, it just blurred the edges of the room and left me on the couch, boots still on, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the sun to come up and judge me.
I sit up.
The movement is a mistake. The room tilts on its axis, sliding sideways before slamming back into place.
A groan works its way out of my throat, low and rough.
My mouth tastes like copper and ash. I spit into the empty takeout cup on the coffee table, the saliva thick and tinged with pink from where I bit my tongue in the alley.
I look at my hands.
The electrical tape I wrapped around my knuckles last night has peeled back, useless and sticky. Underneath, the skin is split wide open, the raw meat of the knuckle exposed to the air. It’s swollen, the inflammation radiating heat that I can feel pulsing in time with the headache.
Good.
I flex the hand. The scab cracks. Fresh blood wells up.
The pain is a tether. It cuts through the fog of the hangover and the heavier, suffocating weight of the dread sitting in my chest. It reminds me that I am still here. Still solid. Still the Reaper, even if my father has just sold me like a prize horse to the highest bidder.
My apartment is a tomb. It’s a fourth-floor walk-up in a building that should have been condemned during the Carter administration, but the landlord owes the Kavanaghs money, so he looks the other way when I install a heavy bag mount in the ceiling joists.
The place smells of stale sweat, gun oil, and the lingering, metallic scent of the city rain coming in through the drafty window.
There is no art on the walls. No plants dying on the sill.
Just stacks of books on military history that I read when the insomnia gets bad, and a collection of weights in the corner that have rusted from the humidity.
It is not a home. It is a storage unit for a weapon.
And today, the weapon is being transferred.
The lock on the front door engages. The sound is metallic, distinct—the heavy thunk of a deadbolt sliding back.
I don't think. I don't breathe.
My hand moves before my brain registers the noise. I reach under the cushion of the couch, my fingers closing around the grip of the Glock 19 I stashed there three days ago. I draw, level, and click the safety off in a single, fluid motion that bypasses conscious thought entirely.
The door swings open.
Rory steps into the frame.
He freezes. He doesn't flinch—he grew up in the same house I did, and he learned early that sudden movements around sleeping men get you hurt—but his eyes widen slightly as he looks down the barrel of the gun.
"Morning, Sunshine," he says. His voice is dry, raspy with sleep. "You going to shoot me, or can I come in?"
I lower the weapon. My heart rate, which had spiked, hammers against my ribs—slow, heavy thuds. I engage the safety and toss the gun onto the coffee table. It clatters against the empty whiskey bottle.
"You’re early," I say. My voice sounds like I’ve been gargling gravel.
"You didn't answer your phone." Rory kicks the door shut with his heel. He’s wearing a coat that looks like he pulled it out of a dumpster, but under it, I can see the paint-splattered jeans and the cashmere sweater he stole from me last Christmas. He’s carrying a brown paper bag that is already staining with grease at the bottom.
"I called you four times. I assumed you were either dead or drowning in self-pity. Looks like it’s column B. "
"Battery died."
"Uh-huh." Rory walks past me into the kitchenette. He moves with a restless, frantic energy that sets my teeth on edge. He starts opening cupboards, banging doors. "Your fridge is a biological hazard, Kill. There’s milk in here that expired before the Devaney beef started."
"I’ve been busy."
"Busy getting your face rearranged?" He leans out from the kitchen, scanning me.
His gaze is critical, clinical. He takes in the bruise on my jaw, the split knuckle, the bloodshot eyes.
He doesn't look like a gangster. He looks like a kid who should be in art school, worrying about grades and girls, not stitching up his brother’s stab wounds on the kitchen table. "You look like hell. worse than usual."
"Thanks."
"I’m serious. You look like you went twelve rounds with a concrete wall."
"It was five rounds with five guys. The wall was incidental."
Rory snorts. He pulls two mugs from the shelf and pours coffee from the thermos he brought. The smell hits me—strong, dark roast, expensive. Rory’s one vice. He brings the mugs over and sets one down in front of me, then drops the grease-stained bag next to it.
"Eat," he orders. "Bacon and egg from Sal’s. Extra cheese. You need the grease to soak up whatever poison you drank last night."
I pick up the coffee. The heat seeps into my cold fingers. "I’m not hungry."
"I don't care. Eat it. You have a meeting in two hours, and if you throw up on Alessandro Falcone’s shoes, I will personally never let you live it down."
The name hangs in the air between us. Alessandro Falcone.
It sucks the oxygen out of the room. I look at the coffee, staring at the black liquid, watching the steam rise in twisting, violent shapes. Last night, the name was a shock. This morning, it’s a sentence.
"Did you talk to Da?" I ask.
"Briefly." Rory sits on the edge of the coffee table, ignoring the armchair. He pulls a folded manila envelope from inside his coat. "He’s at the warehouse already. Setting up security. He’s acting like this is a coronation, Kill. He’s got the 'good whiskey' out."
"He’s relieved," I say. I take a bite of the sandwich. It tastes like salt and fat, and my stomach rolls, then accepts it. "He thinks he just bought himself a retirement plan."
"He sold his son." Rory’s voice drops. The sarcasm vanishes, replaced by a sharp, jagged anger that he usually keeps hidden. "Let’s call it what it is. He traded you for a ceasefire."
"It’s not just a ceasefire. It’s survival. The Russians—"
"I know about the Russians!" Rory stands up, pacing the small length of the room. He stops at the window, looking out at the alley, his back to me. "I know they’re moving in. I know we’re outmanned. But this? Marrying you off to the Falcone prince? It’s insane. It’s... it’s perverse."
I watch him. The tension in his shoulders is tight enough to snap. He’s scared. Not for himself—Rory has a reckless streak a mile wide—but for me. He thinks I’m walking to the slaughter.
"It’s done, Rory," I say quietly. "The papers are drawn. The deal is cut."
He turns around. He reaches for the manila envelope he dropped on the table and slides it across to me.
"Read it."
"What is it?"
"It’s the dossier. The real one." He taps the paper. "I spent the night digging. Not the surface-level crap Da has. I went deep. I pulled his academic records, his medical board reviews, his financial footprint."
I put the sandwich down. I wipe my hands on my jeans and pick up the envelope. It feels heavy. Heavier than paper should be.
I open it.
The first thing I see is a photograph. It’s candid, grainy, taken with a long-range lens.
Alessandro Falcone is stepping out of a black town car.
He’s wearing a coat that fits him like armor.
His face is turned partially away from the camera, but the profile is sharp, severe.
He looks cold. Not the kind of cold that comes from weather, but the kind that comes from the absence of heat.
"He’s not a mobster," Rory says. He’s watching me read. "Not really. He’s a surgeon. Trauma specialist. He did his residency at Hopkins. Top of his class. He was on track to be one of the best cardiothoracic surgeons in the country before Salvatore pulled him back home."
"A doctor," I mutter. I flip the page.
"Look at the psychological profile."
I scan the text. ...High-functioning sociopathic tendencies... obsessive compulsion for order... detachment from emotional stimuli... IQ 145...
"He’s a machine," Rory says. "He doesn't fight with anger, Kill. He doesn't lose his temper. He calculates. He looks at people and he sees anatomy. He sees leverage points. He’s not going to punch you; he’s going to dissect you."
I look at the photo again. He looks pristine. Untouched. A man who has never had to scrub blood out from under his fingernails because he pays other people to do the bleeding for him.
"Let him try," I say. I toss the file back onto the table. "He can calculate all the angles he wants. When I put my hand around his throat, the math won't save him."
"Don't be stupid." Rory grabs my wrist. His grip is surprisingly strong. "That’s exactly what he wants. He wants you to be the brute. He wants you to be the 'Reaper' so he can outmaneuver you. If you go in there throwing punches, you’re playing his game."
"I don't play games, Rory. I end them."
"Then end this one by being smart." He stares at me, his green eyes burning. "You have to watch him. You have to learn him. Don't just hate him. Understand him. Because if you don't, he’s going to take you apart piece by piece, and I won't be there to stop him."