Chapter 3 #2
The fear in his voice cuts me deeper than the headache. Rory believes this. He genuinely believes that Alessandro Falcone is a threat I can't handle. And maybe he’s right. I know how to fight men who want to hurt me. I don't know how to fight a man who wants to own me.
I pull my wrist free, but I don't pull away. I reach out and ruffle his hair, messing up the careful styling. He swats my hand away, but the tension in his shoulders drops an inch.
"I’ll be fine," I say. "He’s a rich kid in a suit. I’ve eaten guys like him for breakfast."
"Rich kids in suits are the ones who sign the death warrants, Kill."
I stand up. The movement sends a fresh wave of nausea through me, but I push it down. "I need to shower. Unless you want me to meet my fiancé smelling like stale Jameson and bad decisions."
"Please shower. For the love of God." Rory sits back down, picking up the dossier. "I’ll wait here. And try to find something to wear that doesn't have bloodstains on it."
I walk into the bathroom and turn the shower on.
The pipes groan, a metallic shriek that echoes in the tiled space.
I strip off my clothes. My body is a roadmap of violence.
A knife scar on my thigh from a dispute in '22.
A bullet graze on my ribs from a drive-by last year.
The fresh purple bruising blooming across my torso from the alley fight.
I step under the water. It’s scalding hot. I don't turn it down. I let it burn. I let it scour the skin, trying to wash away the feeling of the cage closing in.
Alessandro Falcone.
I close my eyes and I see the photo again. The sharp jaw. The cold eyes.
He thinks he’s getting a brute. He thinks he’s getting a blunt instrument he can point at his enemies.
He’s wrong.
He’s getting a grenade with the pin pulled out.
Forty minutes later, I am a different man.
The whiskey sweat is gone, replaced by the scent of unscented soap and gun oil. I’m wearing the suit Rory bought me—navy wool, tailored to fit the width of my shoulders without pulling. The white shirt is crisp, stiff with starch. The tie is silk, dark blue, knotted tight against my throat.
I look in the mirror.
The Reaper looks back.
The bruise on my jaw is still there, a dark smear against the clean shave, but it doesn't look like damage anymore. It looks like a warning. My hair is wet, combed back, though a few strands are already fighting to fall forward into my eyes.
I strap on the shoulder holster. The leather creaks softly. I slide the Glock into place. It settles against my left side, a familiar, comforting weight. Most grooms bring a ring to their engagement. I’m bringing a 9mm.
Rory is waiting by the door when I come out. He looks up from his sketchbook, and his eyes go wide for a fraction of a second.
"Okay," he says. "You clean up nice. In a terrifying sort of way."
"Let’s go."
We walk down the four flights of stairs in silence. The stairwell smells of damp concrete and cigarettes. Outside, the city is grey. The sky is a flat sheet of steel, pressing down on the rooftops. It’s going to rain again. It’s always raining in this damn city.
My car is parked at the curb. A '69 Chevelle, black on black. It’s loud, aggressive, and drinks gas like I drink whiskey, but it’s mine. I rebuilt the engine myself. It’s the one thing in my life that works exactly the way it’s supposed to.
Rory slides into the passenger seat. I get in behind the wheel. The engine roars to life, a deep, guttural growl that vibrates through the chassis.
I pull out into traffic.
The drive to the warehouse district takes twenty minutes.
We pass through the Kavanagh territory—the docks, the row houses, the crumbling brick factories that haven't produced anything but rust in thirty years.
I look at it all—the graffiti, the potholes, the old men sitting on stoops watching the world die—and I feel that familiar, protective ache in my chest.
This is my kingdom. It’s ugly, it’s broken, and it’s poor, but it’s mine. And I am selling myself to keep it from burning.
"Warehouse 4," Rory says as we turn off the main road. "Neutral ground."
"There’s no such thing as neutral ground," I mutter.
We pull up to the gate. Two of Da’s men are standing guard. They see the car and wave us through. I drive past them, the gravel crunching under the tires.
The warehouse is massive. A leviathan of corrugated metal and brick, sitting on the edge of the water. The bay doors are open. Several black SUVs are already parked inside.
I spot them immediately.
The Falcone cars.
They are pristine. shiny, late-model armored transports that look like they just rolled off a showroom floor. They sit in a phalanx formation, radiating money and power. Next to them, my father’s rusted sedans look like scrap metal.
I kill the engine. The silence that follows is heavy.
"Showtime," Rory says softly. He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. "Remember. Don't let him get in your head."
"He can’t get in my head if I knock his off."
"Killian."
"I’m joking." I’m not joking.
I open the door and step out. The air here smells of the lake—dead fish, diesel, and cold water. I button my jacket. I adjust my cuffs. I feel the gun against my ribs.
I walk toward the open bay doors.
My father is standing in the center of the warehouse, flanked by Brennan and Doyle. He looks nervous. He’s shifting his weight, checking his watch.
And then I see him.
Standing on the other side of the warehouse, separated from my father by twenty feet of empty concrete, is a group of men in dark suits. They are still. Disciplined. They stand with their hands clasped in front of them, like a praetorian guard.
In the center of the group stands the man from the photo.
Alessandro Falcone.
He is taller than I expected. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my car. He isn't looking at my father. He isn't looking at the armed men.
He is looking straight at me.
His face is a mask of perfect, terrifying calm.
His eyes are dark, unreadable from this distance, but I can feel the weight of them.
He watches me walk toward him, and he doesn't blink.
He doesn't shift. He stands there with the absolute stillness of a man who has already calculated the outcome of this encounter and found it acceptable.
My pulse kicks against my collar.
It’s a hard, rapid rhythm—the biological alarm that rings when a predator enters the room. My split knuckle throbs in time with it, a hot, sharp ache that travels up my arm. My hands want to curl into fists. I force them to stay open.
I keep walking. I don't slow down. I hold his gaze, and I let the Reaper come to the surface. I let him see exactly what he’s bought.
I stop five feet in front of him. Close enough to strike. Close enough to see the faint, clinical curiosity in his eyes as he scans my face, cataloging the bruise, the scar, the violence.
"Kavanagh," he says. His voice is smooth, deep, devoid of any recognizable human emotion.
"Falcone," I reply. My voice is a growl.
He holds out a hand. It’s not a greeting. It’s a test.
"Shall we get this over with?"
I look at his hand. Long fingers. Manicured nails. A surgeon’s hand. I look at his face. And for the first time in my life, I am looking at something I don't know how to break.
But I’m going to find out.
I take his hand.
His grip is firm, cool, and surprisingly strong.
"Let’s bleed," I say.
And the trap snaps shut.