Chapter 22 Declan
DECLAN
Cold wind cuts across the rooftop, slicing through my coat and whipping at the collar.
The moon hangs high over the city, casting a pale light across the buildings. From this height, everything below looks small. Fragile.
Like it could be erased in a blink.
8 or 9 stories below, light spills from windows onto the street. I adjust my position, the concrete cold beneath me as I stretch out, rifle steady in my hands.
"There he is," Shane says beside me, binoculars trained on the building across the street. A gutted hotel they've repurposed into a temporary base. A place to regroup. Reclaim territory. Reassert dominance. "Big bastard with the gold watch."
I find him through my scope. Amar. The Albanian Don who's somehow crawled back from whatever hole he was hiding in for the last year or so. The one who's been sending his men after Lyra.
He's laughing, glass raised, surrounded by his inner circle. Six men in total. Each one with reasons to die tonight.
Four nights ago, I promised Lyra they won't ever touch her again. Four nights of her sleeping in my house, under my protection, jumping at shadows. Four nights of watching her try to hide the tremors in her hands when a door slams too loud.
Four nights is all it takes to track the rats back to their new hole.
I watch as one of the Albanians pours another round. They're celebrating something. The return of their power, maybe. The rebirth of their operation after we decimated it last year.
"They think they can come and rule this street," I say, adjusting my scope slightly for wind, "not when my family owns the skyline."
With us are three of my most trusted men. Their rifles positioned like mine. All of them waiting for my signal.
"They're drinking like victors," Shane laughs. "Not realizing they already lost."
I shift my aim, letting the crosshairs fall on each target. Memorizing their positions. Mapping their deaths.
Once, I believed this kind of justice would fix something. That putting bullets in the men responsible for Joyce's death would even the scales. Make his ghost rest easier.
But this isn't about Joyce anymore.
It's about Lyra. About her scars. For every time they hurt her. Forced her to do things. Treated her like a fucking object instead of a person.
I look across to my men, each positioned with their rifles ready.
"No one leaves alive so take out anyone I miss," I tell them. "But I don't plan on missing."
And it's true, not with this much hate fueling my aim.
I take a breath. Slow and even. Let my body relax.
I told her they wouldn't touch her again. Now I'm making sure of it.
The crosshairs rest on a man mid-laugh, his head thrown back in amusement.
I squeeze the trigger.
The sound is dampened by the suppressor, but I feel the recoil against my shoulder. Through the scope, I watch his head snap back, a fine mist of red paints the wall behind him. The glass slips from his hand before his body follows, crumpling to the floor.
The others freeze for a split second, confusion before understanding, but I don't give them much time.
I'm already moving my aim when the remaining men scramble like insects, shouting, pointing, ducking behind furniture.
They're too slow, however.
I find my second target, Amar's right hand. The one who probably delivered the orders to hunt Lyra down. His lips purse as he realizes what's happening.
I squeeze the trigger again.
The bullet punches through his throat, red liquid pours from the wound as he drops to his knees, hands clutching uselessly at his neck.
"Four left," I say under my breath, tracking the movement inside.
One dives and flips a table for cover. I fire three times; my bullets have no problem piercing the wood. The man falls, and I see his lifeless face sticking out.
I find my next targets, two actually.
They both have a daring sense of bravado and are making a run for the door. I let them make some ground. Just for a second. Just long enough for them to think they might make it out. Just enough for hope to taste real.
Then I end it.
Clean shot to the back of the skull.
He crumples against the door instantly.
The other tries to move him to open it; he feels my bullet hit his side, then chest. He falls over his comrade, both dead.
My scope scans the room, saving him for last. Amar.
He's made it to a hallway, out of my line of sight.
"West side, boss. There's a fire escape. He's going for it," Shane says.
"Got him," I say.
I rise to my feet, muscles stiff from the cold and stillness. The rifle is warm in my hands as I move to the edge of the rooftop for a better angle.
There. Movement on the metal stairs. Amar, gun in hand, looking over his shoulder as he takes the steps two at a time.
He's looking around frantically, not knowing where the bullets are coming from.
He thinks he's going to escape. That he's going to slip away and rebuild again. Come back for what he thinks is his.
For who he thinks is his.
Not tonight, motherfucker.
I raise my rifle and take aim. His large frame fills my scope.
Then I squeeze the trigger one final time.
The bullet catches him between the shoulder blades. His body jerks forward, momentum carrying him over the railing. He falls, arms windmilling, until he hits the pavement with a sound I can't hear but can imagine perfectly.
I lower the rifle, scanning the scene through the scope one last time.
A few others run out of the building.
I point, "Take them out."
My men fire quick and fast. The little rats below fall to the ground hard.
Shane walks over to me. "No one's gonna forget this night, boss."
I hand him my rifle and nod.
"Don't clean up. Leave the bodies. I want every other family in Boston to hear about this. To understand what happens when they cross the Killaneys."
Those that shouldn't know we're responsible won't, and those that should will by morning, but the message is clear now: Touch what's mine, and die. Simple as that.
I turn away from the edge, the job finished. The Albanians are gone. Wiped from my city. She's safe now.
And if anyone else ever comes for her? They'll meet the same fate.
Just like Rome, I'll burn it all to the fucking ground before I let anyone touch her again.