Killian
TWENTY-THREE
I’ve been training for six hours straight and still can’t outrun my thoughts.
My shoulders ache, my knuckles split beneath the tape, and every muscle in my body feels as if it’s been put through as much shit as a crash test dummy.
Malone worked me harder than usual today, probably because he can tell I’ve been off. He didn’t say anything, but by how he kept barking orders and demanding I push harder, it was more than obvious.
His efforts didn’t work.
I’m still distracted. Hardly in any shape for the big fight that’s days away.
The Banshee’s packed when I walk in, and I’m not in the mood for any of it. The noise, the laughter, the smell of beer and salted peanuts—all of it grates my nerves in a way it never used to.
This place used to feel like a second home. Now it feels like another reminder of her.
I’ve spent the summer walking into the pub and seeing Jhene serving tables. Secretly looking forward to the moment she came to my table and we’d have our exchanges.
The same ones everybody else could see was flirting but the two of us were in denial about.
Today, only Bridget and Marcy occupy the floor. Jhene’s nowhere in sight.
I don’t want to be here, but Ronan called a meeting and I’m still his boneman, whether I like it or not. Clan business is supposed to be a priority. I’m the one who waged this war, back when I was filling in as Clan Chief.
To bail on the fight now would be coward shit, and I’m no coward.
Still, it’s been almost a week since I confronted Jhene, and I haven’t slept through the night since. It’s to the point that I’m running on fumes, going through the motions as I train for the fight and fulfill my role as boneman.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Things like the tears that streamed down her cheeks as she begged me to understand and how she flinched when I thrust the stupid burner phone back into her hand.
If that was acting on her part, then she belongs in Hollywood. She’s the next Meryl fucking Streep.
I did the right thing. She betrayed us. She fed intel to the Bratva, which resulted in some of our people getting hurt.
Teagan’s still in the hospital because of information she passed along. The Banshee burned down because of her. Seamus is dead because of her.
It shouldn’t bother me that she’s gone. Yet I return to the same conclusion every time. I’m left questioning if I’m the one who fucked up…
I drop into a chair at our table at the back of the pub and ignore the looks from the others.
Sean’s across from me, nursing a pint and running his mouth as usual. Cian’s beside him, quieter but a note of concern in his stare.
A few of the others are scattered around, waiting for Ronan to show up and tell us what the next plan of attack is.
“Big fight’s only a couple days away,” Sean says, raising his glass in my direction. “You ready to knock that Russian bastard’s teeth in?”
I grunt in response. About as much of an answer as I can muster up.
The truth is, I couldn’t give less of a shit about Sharapova right now. I’ve worked my ass off for years for a shot at the championship, but my head’s not in the game.
I’m too stuck on the woman with large glasses and springy curls who preferred puzzle books to socializing.
For the past week, I’ve even resorted to trying to find her. Gone to local shelters and had buttonmen scouring the streets for any sign of her.
…then I come to my senses and realize how batshit insane it is.
The girl’s allegiance is to Fedorov Raguzin. There’s no erasing that huge fucking inconvenient fact.
The pub door swings open, and Ronan strides in, his expression hard and focused. Lochlan’s a step behind him, more even-keeled and unreadable.
Since Seamus’s passing, tensions between the two brothers have gradually thawed. Still not where they once were, but they’ve been spotted working together more often than expected.
“Alright, listen up,” Ronan says, skipping the pleasantries. “We’ve got intel on a Raguzin compound outside the city. Warehouse district, sometimes used as a holding cell for his trafficking operation. We’re hitting it Sunday night.”
There’s a murmur of approval from the men, but I stay silent.
“We go in hard. No mercy shown no matter what.” His gaze flicks toward me, the emerald hue sharpening. “That includes the women. They can’t be trusted, since they’re obviously working for Fedorov too.”
Tension locks up my jaw, hands under the table half curling into fists.
“We’ve got no more room to allow for survivors,” he continues. “We’ve been burned one too many times and can’t afford any more fuck ups.”
“Why don’t you come out and say what the fuck you really mean?” I snap suddenly.
Ronan’s eyes narrow, and he tilts his head slightly. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I push up from the chair, my blood running hot. “You’re not talking about some random women at a warehouse. This is about Jhene and how you blame me for bringing her into the fold.”
“It’s not a wrong fucking statement, is it?” he fires back. “The girl was nothing but trouble from the start. You were too blinded by your cock to see it.”
The rage surges up so fast I can barely contain it. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” Ronan rises up from his seat at the table, never one to back down from a fight. Even with a professional boxer. “You gonna swing, Kill?”
“Both of you, cool it,” Lochlan interjects. “You think this is helping the situation we’re in?”
Ronan ignores his older brother, gesturing to my chair. “Sit the fuck back down. You must’ve forgotten who’s in charge. You work for me. You’ll do as I say.”
“I’m my own fucking man,” I growl, stepping around the table and knocking over my chair in the process. “I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”
“Then maybe your loyalties are in question too. Just like your girlfriend.”
I’m vibrating with rage. So much so that if Ronan wasn’t Clan Chief—if he wasn’t my best friend from the time we were rowdy boys getting into trouble—I would lose control right now.
We would come to blows. I would deck him in his fucking smart mouth and make him regret every word he’s said.
Instead, I force myself to turn toward the door and stride out of the pub. The whole place has gone silent, everybody watching as I storm off.
I make it halfway down the block, still fuming when somebody calls out to me. It occurs to me the gruff voice belongs to Lochlan.
I spin around, teeth gritted. “You can fuck off if you think I’m going back in there!”
“Not why I followed you,” he answers. “You and Ro in the same room right now doesn’t sound like a smart idea. I came out here ’cuz I heard from Sean how you’ve had the buttonmen looking for her. For the stray.”
“Yeah, and what of it?”
“And you’ve had no luck, is that right?”
“Still missing your fucking point!” I growl.
Lochlan regards me as if irritated himself over the exchange. He juts his chin out and says, “So the fucking point is, in case you’re too damn hardheaded to put two and two together, I’ve got an answer for that.”
“What do you—”
“There’s somebody who might be able to tell us where she went,” he interrupts. “Or at least give an idea.”
He starts down the street in the same direction I was headed in, bypassing me in a few strides. I stare after him, still so fucking confused about what’s happening.
“You coming or not?” he calls from over his shoulder.
I hesitate a moment longer, then begrudgingly follow after him.
We wind up at the diner around the block. The same place where I once brought Jhene for breakfast because her stomach was gurgling and then became a staple in our weekly routine together.
We’d sometimes stop by for a quick bite once she was off work at the Banshee and I was freed up from training or clan business.
Returning with Lochlan serves as just another reminder she’s not here. She’s seemingly nowhere to be found.
We slide into the usual booth we occupy and wait for the college-aged waitress to pour us some of the infamous shitty burned coffee.
Lochlan checks the time on his phone. I’m irritated off the bat, still lost as to what the hell we’re doing here.
“I’m not in the mood for breakfast,” I grumble. “If that’s—”
“He’ll be here any second,” Lochlan interrupts simply. “I reached out to him yesterday about it, once I heard from Sean what you were up to. Didn’t get a chance to tell you before the meeting started. But this’ll probably help.”
Another four or five minutes pass before the diner door dings as it opens and some skinny, wiry fucker I’ve seen once or twice walks in.
I glare at him and realize where I’ve seen him before—the sandy-haired, knobby-throated asshole was on Lochlan’s revenge crew. He usually stuck out like a sore thumb because he looked so inadequate compared to the other men.
Now’s no different as he fidgets and glances around the diner, eventually spotting our booth and then beelining over.
“Killian, this is Robby Wójcik, NYPD police officer. He’s got some decent resources considering his position. Figured he could help.” Lochlan pins Robby with an expectant stare. “Did you bring it?”
“Yeah, I got it. You know me, Loch. I always come through for you, don’t I?” Robby pulls out his phone, his fingers twitching as he swipes through the screen. “Wasn’t easy, you know. CCTV footage isn’t exactly public access. I had to call in a few favors, pull some strings—”
“Just show us the damn footage, Robby.”
The cop swallows hard and turns the phone around so we can see the screen.
The footage is grainy, black and white, the time stamp in the corner showing the night I broke up with Jhene.
Tension clenches inside my chest watching the scene play out.
Jhene walks down a dark street a few blocks down from my building, then she’s approached by a man wearing a half mask. He emerges from the shadows and blocks her path forward.
The Deathless.
Even in the low-quality footage, I recognize the bastard. They have a short exchange before he escorts her to an unmarked car idled at the curb.
Jhene looks defeated, shoulders slumped. She crawls inside the back seat and then the car pulls away into the night.