Jhene
TEN
Nothing says “your life has gone off the rails” like showing up at an emergency room at two a.m. with a furious Irish mob enforcer at your side.
I was mid-shower when Killian got the message.
One second I was standing under the lukewarm spray trying to wash away the tension of the day, and the next he was pounding on the bathroom door, barking at me to stay put because he had to go.
I almost tripped over myself rushing out of the shower and throwing on some clothes to catch him in time.
By the urgency—and angry growly quality of his voice—I knew it had to be something serious.
He insisted I stay behind, keep the doors locked, and wait it out while he was gone. But when I refused and he realized he had no time to spare arguing me down, he begrudgingly let me come.
…so long as I kept quiet and kept up.
His single stride equates to about three of mine.
I jog after him as we rush into Brooklyn General and he barks at the nurses on shift. Several of them exchange nervous glances until one brave lady in seafoam-green scrubs steps forward as the sacrificial lamb.
“He’s awake,” she stammers. “He’ll survive. But the burns—he’ll have permanent scarring—”
“Take me to him,” he grunts.
The nurse gives a small nod then pivots on her heel to lead us down the corridor.
Tom looks worse than I imagined.
He’s propped up in the hospital bed, his stout frame covered in bandages from his arms to his chest and neck.
An oxygen mask hangs loosely down his front, evidence of the smoke inhalation that nearly killed him.
The natural ruddiness in his face has faded, replaced by a sickly pallid tone that the fluorescent lights only make worse.
But his eyes are open. He’s alert. Alive.
He’s not alone in the room—Sean and Cian both arrived before we did, two sentinels on either side of his bed. Sean’s usual smirk is nowhere to be found. His expression is almost as severe as Killian’s himself. Cian’s more visibly weary, his eyes red and bleary.
“Who did this?” Killian demands. “Who the fuck’s behind this, Tom?”
The pub owner shifts against his pillows, teeth clenched in discomfort. His voice is raspier than I’ve ever heard it, scraped raw by smoke.
“I was finishing up. Locking the doors. Setting the alarm. You and the girl had just left maybe twenty minutes before. Heard something on my final sweep. It was coming from out back. Sounded like glass breaking. Bottles of some sort.”
He pauses long enough to cough, a shaky half-closed fist coming up to his mouth. Cian grabs the paper cup of water on the rolling table beside the bed and offers it to him.
“I went to check,” he continues in a wheeze. “Stupid, I know. But I thought maybe it was kids or a drunk who’d wandered into the alley—you know, it’s happened plenty. Instead I see these... figures. Three, maybe four of them. Couldn’t make out their faces, but they were large. Men.”
“Russians,” Sean spits. “Has to be.”
Tom nods weakly. “One of them threw something. A bottle with a rag stuffed in the top. I knew what it was before it even hit the wall.”
“A fucking Molotov cocktail,” Sean says.
“Then came another. And another. They tossed enough to light up the whole back wall of the building. It went up before my eyes like kindling.”
“Did they come at you?”
“They didn’t need to. The fire was spreading. So I ran back inside. Figured I could save the cash in the safe.”
At the disapproving shake of Killian’s head, Tom coughs and then slurps down some of the water he’s been offered.
“There was more than fifteen grand in there. I’m not made of money, even covered by insurance like I am. Foolish to try. I have the evidence to show that now, don’t I?” he asks, holding up his bandaged arms. He adds a self-depreciating laugh. “Stupid old fart. Should’ve just ran.”
My stomach roils at the sight of his injuries.
It takes some effort just to swallow, even more to keep my gaze on Tom and not feel sorry for him.
He gave me a job when he didn’t need to. Now his pub’s gone up in smoke and he’s in the hospital with second-degree burns.
This is my fault.
“You’re not stupid,” I murmur. “You were just trying to protect your livelihood.”
“She’s right, Tom. The Banshee’s your prized possession,” Sean says. “You shouldn’t’ve had to run from what’s yours.”
Killian’s heard enough. He turns to Sean and Cian and asks them to head outside. He needs a word. As the three men turn for the door, I waffle between interfering and remaining silent.
I’m lucky enough Killian brought me along. Maybe I shouldn’t push my luck.
I do anyway, taking half a step after him.
“Killian,” I say. “Don’t you think you should hold off? Think things through. We still don’t know exactly what happened and—”
“Stay in your place,” he snaps, his dark blue eyes blazing.
He’s rounded on me so fast I take an involuntary step back.
“This is beyond you now. They attacked our territory. They burned down our fucking bar and nearly killed one of our own. This isn’t something we think through or wait on. This is war.”
The blood drains from my face, and my next heartbeat stutters inside my chest.
I fall mute again, unable to do much else except stare up at him.
He turns away again and then strides out of the hospital room, the door swinging shut behind him.
He’s right that it’s technically not my place.
I’m not part of this family. I’m the stray. The server girl he felt sorry for and took under his wing. The liability he’s been protecting, to his own detriment.
But he’s wrong that it’s beyond me now—it’s because of me.
I’ve brought these problems to their doorstep, and now things are only escalating. If they were smart, they would turn me away. They’d realize Fedorov has no plans on ever stopping until he gets his way.
I have to remind myself this is about Eva.
Everything I do is for her. I can’t control the war brewing between the Callahans and the Raguzins, but I can fight to get my baby sister back.
I’ll make it happen at any cost.
With Killian and the others gone, I pad over to Tom’s bedside. “Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?”
“Don’t worry about me, kid,” he wheezes with a wave of his bandaged hand. “I’ve survived worse than a couple burns. Old farts like me are bound to kick the bucket sooner or later.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be funny. Just realistic.” He sighs, sinking deeper into the pillows. “But I appreciate you asking. You’re a good kid, Jhene. Better than you give yourself credit for.”
Unsure how to respond to that, I settle on helping him sip more of his water. Another thing within my control, however small and inconsequential it is.
But the big things? I have to learn to accept them as they happen. I’m just a small fish in the huge pond that’s the underworld, which means I have to look out for my interests first.
Dawn is gradually creeping onto the once plum sky by the time we make it back to the studio.
Killian hasn’t uttered a word since we left the hospital. The rage he exudes becomes a third presence, a whole aura I can feel pulsing the air. I’d hate to be the next guy on the street who looks at him the wrong way; it wouldn’t surprise me if he walked away with his face rearranged.
He’s pacing the five-hundred-square-foot space while I slide out of my sneakers and pad over to the rollaway bed.
Things were already kind of awkward between us after the Banshee last night.
I admit I saw Bridget flirting with him and it irritated me. Even worse that he seemed to be playing into it.
…though I keep asking myself why should I care? Why does it bother me if he was?
“Take the real bed tonight,” he grunts.
My brows knit. “Don’t you have training soon? Don’t you want to get a couple hours—”
“I won’t be getting any sleep. Not tonight. Not for a while.”
His phone buzzes from his pocket. He digs it out and answers with the same angry grunt, ordering whoever it is on the phone to track down the guys who showed up at the Banshee tonight.
Tense silence commences when he hangs up and stalks toward the dresser, presumably to change. I watch him, my pulse beating hard despite my lack of movement.
It’s the uncertainty. The fact that I know he’s furious and feel inept at providing any real solutions.
“What’s… um, the plan?” I ask hesitantly.
He’s ripped off his shirt and snatched another from a top drawer. “I’m handling it.”
“Not really an answer. What are you going to do? What’s the next step?”
“Anybody ever tell you for being the wallflower type you’re sure as hell nosy?”
“I’m just…” I pause, pulse pounding even faster. “I’m worried. A-about you. About all of this.”
Killian spares me a glare from over his shoulder. It’s the kind of grizzly, probing look you give when you’re deep in thought.
I almost shirk back from it, it’s so intense.
“We hit back,” he answers, tugging a wifebeater over his head. “Make them fucking regret ever thinking they could touch what’s ours.”
“And if that just makes things worse? If they retaliate again?”
“Then we hit them harder.”
“Killian—”
“I told you at the hospital. It’s not your place,” he growls. “They drew blood first. Now they pay the price. That’s how this works.”
My voice dies out, and I revert back to my silent nature. Standing and hovering in place and averting my gaze to every corner except the one Killian occupies.
He’s learned how to read me.
It only takes him seconds to pick up on the cues—things like the tension in my shoulders and how I rub at my left arm with my right hand.
He closes the gap between us, entering my personal space as if he belongs here. His proximity is immediately jarring. Immediately enough to make me lose the breath in my lungs.
“Hey,” he says, clipping my chin and forcing my eyes back up. “You’re safe, alright? They’re not coming for you. I won’t let them. If that’s what you’re really worried about… don’t be.”
I turn my head to break his hold on my chin. “Killian… that’s not…”
“Get some sleep. Keep the doors locked. Stay put ’til I return. Alright?”
“Okay…” I mutter under my breath.