Chapter 16 Callum
CALLUM
The SUV door shuts behind me as I slide into the back seat. I stare forward at the taillights of the car ahead as we wind through the streets toward the warehouse.
Ryan drives and another guard sits up front. Neither speaks.
One thought loops through my mind, sharp and relentless.
Cormac deserves a slow death.
The kind where he feels every second unraveling, where he watches his world collapse the way mine is collapsing now.
My father, Declan, my sister, even our routes are compromised. I'm the only one who hasn't been touched, yet, anyway.
And in my house, locked in a room, is a girl whose body is a roadmap of every sin her father committed in the name of a goddess who doesn't exist.
I get that he feels he has some right to what was taken from him, but clearly he lost sight of what truly mattered many years ago.
I flex my fingers, turning my head to look out the window, watching the streetlights blur past.
The SUV slows as we pull into the industrial district. We park outside the third building on the left, the one where the goods were taken from.
My men hop out and open my door.
Two guards flank the entrance, straightening when they see me.
"He inside?" I ask.
"Yes, sir."
I push through the door and step into the warehouse.
The space is cramped with supplies and crates stacked along the walls.
In the center of the room, bound to a chair, is the man who thought it was a good idea to skim off the top.
Michael something. I don't care enough to remember his last name.
He's in his forties and his wrists are zip tied to the arms of the chair, his ankles bound to the legs. Blood crusts beneath his nose, evidence of the beating my men already gave him when they dragged him here.
Two guards stand on either side of him, arms crossed, faces stern.
When I step into the light, Michael's head snaps up.
"Mr. Killaney," he stammers, his voice cracking. "Please, I can explain."
I hold up a hand.
He shuts up.
I could have sent my men to handle this. I didn't have to come. This is small time. A supplier skimming product, pocketing a few thousand here and there, thinking we wouldn't notice.
We always notice.
But I didn't send my men. I came myself because I need to hit something.
I walk toward him slowly. Michael's eyes widen, his breathing quickening.
"It was a misunderstanding," he says, his words tumbling over each other. "I swear, I didn't mean to."
"You didn't mean to steal from my family?"
"I, I can pay it back. Every cent. Please, just give me a chance."
I stop in front of him and even though he's right here, I don't see him clearly.
I see my father lying on a slab in a German morgue, his face pale and lifeless.
I hear Keira's screams echoing in my memory even though I wasn't there to hear them. And Declan covered in blood, Lyra risking her life to save him.
I see Zaria's ribs poking through her skin, the precise scars along her side, the burns on her shoulders and body.
I see the routes the Morrígan has sabotaged, the contacts they've turned, the permits they've blocked.
I see Cormac's shadow spreading through Boston, creeping closer and closer to everything we've built.
I see everything that matters and nothing that doesn't.
I grab Michael by the throat and he chokes, his bound hands clawing uselessly at the armrests.
"You steal from my family," I say, leaning close enough that he can see the rage in my eyes. "You don't live."
I punch him.
My fist connects with his jaw and his head snaps to the side.
Blood sprays across the concrete.
I punch him again.
And again.
His nose crunches beneath my knuckles, cartilage giving way with a wet crack.
He screams, but I don't stop.
My men watch in silence. This isn't personal for them. It's business.
But for me?
This is catharsis.
Each punch lands harder than the last.
I hit him again. My knuckles split open, blood mixing with his.
Another punch, this one so hard Michael's head lolls to the side.
I step back, breathing hard, my hand throbbing.
Michael gurgles, blood bubbling from his mouth, his face unrecognizable.
He's still trying to talk, his words slurred and broken.
"P please… I'm… I'm s sorry…"
I turn to one of my men.
"Gun."
He steps forward immediately, pulling a pistol from his holster and handing it to me.
I check the chamber out of habit, then turn back to Michael.
His eyes widen, bloodshot and desperate.
"No, no, please, Mr. Killaney."
"You think I'm in the mood for mercy?"
I press the barrel to his temple.
He's still begging, words flowing out in a wet, gurgling mess, when I pull the trigger.
The shot echoes through the warehouse as his head jerks back, blood and brain matter splattering across the crates behind him.
His body slumps, the chair tipping further until it crashes onto its side.
I hand the gun back to the guard, wiping my bloody hand on my pants.
"Leave him here," I say. "Let our men see in the morning what happens when you steal."
I turn and walk toward the door.
None of my men speak.
This was me showing the entire room what happens when you cross the Killaneys while they're bleeding.
The SUV is quiet on the drive back.
I sit in the same seat, staring out the window. The adrenaline is fading now, leaving behind aching knuckles.
This man's death wasn't in vain. In fact, killing him makes me feel empty. The burden of everything is coming on too strong. Running the operations, avenging my father's death, and saving my family from being erased.
I know I was always destined to wear the Killaney crown, but I never imagined it would be like this. Fighting a war that started years before I was even born.
By the time we pull into the estate, it's nearly 3 a.m.
I step out of the SUV and head toward the house, my shirt stiff with dried blood.
Inside, the house is dark and quiet.
I head upstairs and when I reach the East Wing, I pause outside Zaria's door.
The guard stationed there straightens when he sees me.
"Any trouble?" I ask.
"No, sir."
I nod and turn away, but I stop. I have to ask, why I don't know, but I do.
"She eat the pizza?"
"Yes, boss."
I don't say anything and continue to my room.
I strip naked, tossing my clothes onto the floor, looking at the bloodstains on the cuffs of my shirt.
I look up and my reflection catches in the mirror, the speckles of red across my skin, the cuts on my knuckles, and the exhaustion etched into the lines of my face.
I step under the water, letting it hit my shoulders, my chest, my face.
Blood runs down my skin and pools at the drain, swirling in crimson ribbons.
I brace my hands against the tile, lowering my head.
The water pounds against my back, washing away the evidence of what I did tonight.
But it doesn't wash away the rage or the guilt or the knowledge that this is only the beginning.
Cormac is out there right now, building his empire of broken people, branding them, burning them, convincing them they're chosen.
I look up at the showerhead, close my eyes and let the water run over my face.
If Zaria is what Cormac does to the people he calls blood, then I'll show him what I do to the people who try to erase mine.