Chapter 4
4
PATRICK
S he’s a pain in the arse, but I don’t want her hurting any more than necessary. That’s why I sit up, changing her ice packs every hour. I wrap the fresh ones in kitchen towels so she doesn’t end up with frostbite, on top of everything Madden did. I make sure her breathing doesn’t get too shallow.
I don’t regret dosing her. Injuries like hers are the reason I keep a stash of oxy on hand. A slip of a girl like her, though… I probably should have started with one pill, instead of two.
But I wanted her out cold before I cleaned her up. Before I changed her clothes.
For the twentieth time, I tell myself not to think about the feckin’ leather scraps I shoved into the bin beneath my kitchen sink. Even if she could get the blood out, she won’t wear them again. She won’t want the memories.
Sitting, listening to her breathe, my thumb fiddles with the ring I wear on the middle finger of my right hand. The titanium band has three sections so the middle part spins. I maxed out my meds hours ago. This fidget ring is my best chance to shut down the rabid squirrels inside my brain.
That, or rubbing one out while I sit here.
Christ. I can’t be thinking about Fiona Ingram that way. I’m willing to bet she hasn’t noticed me once in the past two months. All the flaunting she’s done has been for the benefit of my boss. The rest of us Fishtown Boys are just props for her feckin’ show.
I stare at the other ring I wear, the gold signet with a Celtic knot worked deep into the surface. The four-part circle says I’m a Fishtown Boy for life. My loyalty to my clan has no beginning and no end. I’ll live and die by the family I’ve chosen.
Even if all of my brothers have been drooling over Fiona Ingram since she showed up at the start of Lent. Those tits… Those hips… That smart little mouth…
And now I know exactly what she looks like beneath the leather she wears like a uniform. I know how a steel zipper leaves a ridged, pink invitation down the middle of her chest. I know that buckles on her hips make grooves a man could measure with his tongue.
I know she waxes her pussy bare.
Jesus.
Fiona Ingram won’t be wanting any man’s touch for a long time. Maybe never for a man like me.
I shift in my chair, spreading my knees a little wider.
That moves my phone in my pocket, and I feel it buzz against my hip. Fishing it out, I find I’ve missed a whole string of messages, flowing through the group text for my soldiers. The first posts came in twenty minutes after I left Thornfield.
None of it makes sense. They’re talking about a bomb. A fire. The garage went up in some sort of fierce explosion. The building’s a total loss, along with all my boss’s cars. It’s a miracle no one was hurt.
I thumb through the posts faster now, until I find the real news: Madden Kelly set the bomb.
Fucking Madden Kelly .
I should have tracked him down before he shat all over Thornfield. Hunted him like the feral pig he is. Given him ten blows for every one he landed on Fiona tonight. Left him broken, blind, bleeding out in a dumpster.
I’m the Warlord. That’s my job.
But now I’m stuck here, playing nursemaid because of what that dry shite did. Fiona needs someone to change her ice packs. And from the texts still flying fast and furious, the entire clan is after feckin’ Madden. He’ll get his soon enough.
Fiona moans, waking up. She waves a hand at me like she’s trying to get a bad waiter’s attention in a worse restaurant. “C’mon,” she slurs. “Let’s go.”
She tries to get to her feet and fails. I wince for her as she sits down hard enough to clack her jaws together.
“You’re not going anywhere but back to sleep,” I say.
“Says who?”
She’s a belligerent patient. But I’m bigger than she is. And stronger. And a hell of a lot more sober. “Sit back, Scáthach ,” I say.
“’M Fiona,” she mumbles.
“My mistake,” I say gravely, like I really give a damn. “Sit, Fiona. You need to sleep.”
She shakes her head, and pain chisels lines into her forehead. “Need t’ go.”
This is worse than arguing with a drunk. I fetch another pill and bring her a glass of water.
“Wha’s this?” She looks at me suspiciously.
“Take it,” I say. “And then we’ll go to Boston.”
She grimaces as she swallows.
“Let it settle,” I say.
“’N then we leave?”
“And then we leave,” I lie.
She’s out before she can make another demand. She barely stirs as I swap her ice packs again. She doesn’t move when I smooth more arnica over the worst of her bruises .
I settle back in my chair and return to my phone. The men are reporting in, one by one. They’ve searched every inch of Thornfield, and Madden’s nowhere to be found.
The arsehole’s slipped away. But when I find him, he’ll pay for all he’s done.
Sometime before dawn, the texts start flying again—fire, bodies, danger. At first, I’m confused because the bombed garage was put out hours ago. But then I realize this is a second blaze, a bigger one, worse.
Within an hour, Thornfield’s gone—an entire mansion, burned to the feckin’ ground. Reports stay sketchy until my second-in-command weighs in. Rory O’Hare is doing his job, calming the enforcers.
Our boss went into that hellscape, trying to rescue two women in his care. Kelly came out alive. The women didn’t.
It doesn’t take much reading between the lines to know it was a close call. At Kelly’s command, O’Hare is moving operations to a downtown hotel. He’s called for the Fishtown Boys’ tame doctor. He’s set guards at the perimeter.
I should be there.
But despite it all—two fires, Madden missing, and the clan relocating to the feckin’ Rittenhouse—I’m stuck following orders. It cuts me to the quick, but my boss doesn’t actually need me by his side. O’Hare has everything under control.
The Bell rings, knocking out the brain squirrels. There is one thing I can do. Something no one else can.
Kieran Ingram’s men threatened my boss’s life earlier tonight, before Madden worked his shite. Now I’ve got Fiona Ingram, battered and bruised and clearly in my debt. If I stick with the girl, see her up to Boston, I can assess the threat up there. I can protect my captain that way.
But I’ve sworn never to set foot in Boston again .
Penance. I’m still paying penance for all the mistakes I made when I was younger than the girl on my couch. When I followed the ringing Bell and damned myself forever.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I pound my head with the heel of my hand, trying to knock some sense past the bone. I want to break something. Tear something. Holler until my throat bleeds.
But I’m not a feckin’ animal. So I work out a plan. Test it in my mind. Find the weak points and lean in hard, correcting them. Test the fecker again.
When a few hours have passed and I know I have the best approach—at least until the ground shifts again beneath my feet—I take my phone into the bedroom, so I won’t wake Fiona.
It takes four rings before Braiden Kelly answers.
“Condolences, Boss,” I say. I figure that covers just about everything—the garage, the house, the bodies that didn’t make it out.
He sighs. “We’ll knock it down and start over.” He sounds exhausted. I’m not the only one who’s missed a night of sleep. “For now we’re at the Rittenhouse,” he says. “Presidential Suite. Liam’ll get you a key.”
My thumb crosses my palm to fidget with my ring. I should have eaten something before starting this call. Taken my meds. “About that, Boss.” I lower my voice, because there are some things Fiona doesn’t need to know. “Herself is… Madden did a lot of damage.”
There’s a longer silence than I expect. When Braiden finally speaks, his voice is frozen lava. “How bad is it?”
“She shouldn’t be alone right now,” I answer truthfully. And then I dig my own grave: “Not with her da gone and things gone arseways up in Boston.”
“You’re taking her up to Boston, then?”
Jesus, I don’t want to go. I left that place for a damn good reason twenty-five years ago, for the best two reasons a man could ever have. I’ve vowed never to get within a hundred miles of the feckin’ Old Colony Crew. I don’t keep in touch with a single soul who knew me then.
But my boss needs to know what’s stirring up there, how seriously he should take the threat on his life. And the girl on my couch needs to mourn her da. Needs to meet her new captain, too, to realize her silly dreams of taking charge will never happen.
I don’t want to be the one to shatter her. But for the life of me, I can’t think of anyone better.
Sighing, I say, “If you’ll let me, Boss.”
It takes a minute, but Braiden finally says. “Go ahead. But don’t let me be surprised by anything you find up there.”
“You won’t be, Boss,” I promise.
Spinning my ring, it occurs to me that the texts I’ve been reading have left a pretty massive hole. Madden Kelly made it onto Thornfield land to plant his bomb in the garage. An entire crew of Fishtown Boys—my enforcers included—scoured the estate for any sign of the gobshite, only to come up empty.
But Braiden hasn’t called anyone to task. He hasn’t questioned the search. He hasn’t ordered new men to watch the gate.
My boss knows more than he’s letting on in public. I can’t ask him outright. Even with our phones secured, there are some questions no man should ever say out loud.
But I can work around that.
I clear my throat and say, “Speaking of surprises… I’ll be taking Fiona round to collect her things before we leave. Any idea if Madden’ll be there to give us trouble?”
He pauses for long enough that I have my answer. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but Braiden Kelly has guaranteed his brother won’t be wreaking any more havoc on the Fishtown Boys. On Fiona Ingram, either.
Nevertheless, Braiden says : “He was at the house last night. Blew the garage to smithereens, but no one caught him on the grounds. The boys couldn’t find him. ”
My eyes narrow as I nod, my suspicions confirmed by the non-answer. I pitch my voice carefully, striving for just the right note of concern. “I’ll let you know if we see him then.”
“You do that.” Braiden says.
Someone who didn’t know my boss as well as I do might believe there’s an honest chance Madden might walk through the door any second. But I’m armed with the truth.
Now that I know I’m heading north, I’m itching to get on the road. So I say, “If you need help while I’m gone, you could do worse than asking Rory O’Hare.”
“Thanks,” Braiden says. “Safe travels.” It’s gratifying that he sounds a touch reluctant to send me on my way.
I end the call and look around my bedroom. It’s spartan. Bare. Some might say I live like a feckin’ monk.
I do best when I’m surrounded by few distractions.
Pulling a duffel from under the bed, I start tossing in the things I need. A spare pair of jeans. Some T-shirts. Boxer briefs and socks. A tight-knit sweater, because I know how cold a Boston spring can be.
Two spare handguns, a throwing knife, and a pair of brass knuckles.
Glancing down the hall, I see Fiona hasn’t moved on the couch. That gives me time to shower. Eat whatever passes for food in a kitchen nearly as empty as my bedroom. Take my meds.
And then I’ll wake the hellcat so we can head to Boston.