Chapter 5 – LIAM
CHAPTER 5
LIAM
S avva and Troy keep bickering as they clean up the broken glass, shaking my head. It's like watching two alley cats circle each other, neither willing to back down.
My gaze drifts to the window, where the first hints of dawn are starting to creep across the Sicilian sky. Shit, has it really been that long? My body aches, a bone-deep weariness settling into my muscles. The adrenaline from the fight at the party has long since faded, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion that no amount of coffee or whiskey seems able to touch.
I roll my shoulders, wincing at the pop and crack of joints that have seen far too much action even though I'm nowhere near old enough to be this sore. There was a time when I lived for this shit. The danger, the uncertainty, the constant state of readiness.
But now?
Now I want something... quieter.
The thought catches me off guard, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Liam Rourke dreaming of a peaceful life? What's next, Cole taking up motivational speaking?
But the longing persists, a quiet whisper in the back of my mind. I think about my cousin back in Dublin, with his little pub on the corner. The way he described his days—pulling pints, chatting with regulars, closing up shop as the sun sets over the Liffey. It sounded... nice.
Fuck me, I'm getting soft.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the traitorous thoughts. This is who I am. This is what I do. I'm a soldier, a fighter. I don't know how to be anything else.
Do I?
The question lingers, uncomfortable and persistent. I push it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. We've got a job to do, a client to protect. No time for existential crises.
"Alright, lads," I say, my voice cutting through the banter. "Enough with the lover's quarrel. We need to figure out our next move."
Troy looks up from the floor where he's making sure they got the last bits of glass, a retort clearly on the tip of his tongue. But something in my expression must give him pause, because he swallows it back and nods instead.
"Right," he says, pushing himself to his feet. "What's the plan, boss?"
The question is directed at Roman, who's been pacing near the window, phone still clutched in his hand. He turns to face us, his expression grim.
"We need to move Caruso," he says. "The Biondis know where we are. It's not safe here anymore."
Savva raises an eyebrow. "And where, pray tell, are we supposed to take our esteemed client? I doubt the local Holiday Inn has adequate security measures."
Roman's jaw tightens. "I've got a place. Off the grid, hard to access. We'll head out at first light."
I nod, already mentally cataloging what we'll need for the move. Weapons, supplies, escape routes. The familiar routine is comforting, pushing back against the unsettling thoughts from earlier.
This is what I'm good at. This is where I belong.
Right?
The doubt creeps back in, insidious and unwelcome. I push it down, focusing on the practicalities. "I'll do a final sweep of the perimeter," I say, already moving toward the door. "Make sure we haven't picked up any uninvited guests."
Roman nods. But he's being weird. Distant. I don't have time to examine it too closely, though. I've got a job to do.
The night air is cool against my skin as I step outside, a welcome break from the stuffy confines of the safe house. I take a deep breath, letting the salt-tinged breeze clear my head.
As I make my way around the property, my mind wanders again. I think about my ma, back in Galway. The way her face lit up when I told her I was leaving the military, how quickly it fell when I explained the private security gig. She didn't say anything, but I could see it in her eyes. The worry, the fear. The unspoken question.
When are you stopping for good?
I don't have an answer for her. I'm not sure I ever will.
My circuit of the property turns up nothing unusual, which should be reassuring. Instead, it just leaves me feeling... restless. Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.
As I head back inside, a muffled thud catches my attention. It's coming from Caruso's room. Probably just the bastard rolling over in his sleep, but...
My instincts kick in, overriding any lingering thoughts of quiet pubs and worried mothers. I move silently down the hallway, one hand reaching for the gun at my hip.
The door to Caruso's room is slightly ajar. That's not right. We always keep it closed and locked from the outside. I push it open slowly, every sense on high alert.
The room is dark, the heavy curtains blocking out any hint of the approaching dawn. But even in the dim light, I can make out Caruso's form on the floor. He's face down, one arm dangling over the side.
He's not moving.
What did I hear, then?
Oh. His phone on the floor, and a few scattered pills, too.
"Fuck," I mutter, flipping on the light switch. The sudden brightness is harsh, making me squint. But it confirms what I already suspected.
Don Caruso is dead.
I cross the room in two quick strides, reaching for his neck to check for a pulse I already know I won't find. His skin is cool to the touch.
"Shit, shit, shit," I hiss, my mind racing. This is bad. This is very, very bad.
I tap my earpiece, not bothering to keep my voice down as I haul his body onto the floor so I can start chest compressions. "Roman, get in here. Now."
Moments later, I hear the pounding of feet in the hallway. Roman bursts through the door, the others close behind him. They all freeze at the sight of Caruso's body.
"What the fuck happened?" Troy asks, his voice tight.
I shake my head, continuing to administer CPR even though I know it's not gonna help. "No idea. Found him like this when I came to check on him."
Roman pushes past me to examines the body. "No signs of struggle," he mutters. "No visible wounds."
Savva steps forward, his keen eyes scanning the room. "No signs of forced entry, either. The windows are still sealed."
"Could be poison," Cole suggests from his position by the door. It's the first thing he's said all night, his gravelly voice startling in the tense silence.
Roman nods grimly. "Possible. We'll need an autopsy to be sure."
"Guess I should stop CPR, huh?" I mutter, raking a hand through my undercut. "But how the fuck are we gonna get an autopsy? We're in the middle of bumfuck nowhere with a dead mafia don in our safehouse. Who exactly do you propose we call for that?"
Roman's eyes flash dangerously. "Watch your tone, Rourke."
I open my mouth to retort, but Troy steps between us, hands raised placatingly. "Okay, let's all take a breath here. We need to think this through."
He's right, of course. But the adrenaline is pumping through my veins, making it hard to focus. All I can think about is how spectacularly fucked we are.
Savva clears his throat delicately. "Not to state the obvious, but we have a rather pressing issue to address. Namely, what are we going to do with our late client?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications. We all know what the smart move is. Dispose of the body, clean the scene, get the hell out of dodge. It's what we've been trained to do.
But something in me rebels at the thought. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, or the lingering doubts from earlier. Or maybe I'm just finally reaching my breaking point.
"No," I say, surprising even myself with the vehemence in my voice. "No, we're not going to just... disappear him. He was our client. We owe him better than that."
Roman's eyes narrow. "We owe him nothing. He's dead. Our priority now is protecting ourselves."
"And how do you propose we do that?" I challenge, taking a step toward him. "By dumping his body in the Mediterranean? How long before it washes up on some tourist beach? Before the Carusos figure out what happened and come after us with everything they've got?"
"We could make it look like an accident," Troy suggests, but there's a hesitance in his voice that tells me his heart isn't in it.
I shake my head. "No. No more lies, no more cover-ups. We call it in. Tell the local authorities exactly what happened."
The room erupts into chaos, everyone talking over each other. Roman's face is thunderous, Savva looks like he's considering whether he can dive through the window, and Troy is frantically trying to play peacemaker.
But it's Cole's quiet voice that cuts through the din.
"He's right."
We all turn to stare at him, shocked into silence. Cole rarely speaks, and when he does, it's usually in monosyllabic grunts. But now he steps forward, his eyes intense.
"We call it in," he continues. "Take the hit to our reputation. But we walk away clean."
Roman looks like he's about to explode, but Savva beats him to it. "Clean? There's nothing clean about this! We'll be lucky if we don't end up in an Italian prison!"
"Better than spending the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders," I argue. "We've done nothing wrong here. Caruso died on our watch, yeah, but it wasn't by our hand. The guy probably had enough drugs in him to down a damn bull. If they do an autopsy, they'll find that. We're bodyguards, not counselors. We were never tasked with protecting him from himself."
The silence in the room is palpable, a living thing coiled and ready to strike. For a moment, I think it might come to blows. Part of me almost hopes it does. A fight, I understand. A fight, I can handle.
But then Roman's shoulders slump, just slightly. It's barely noticeable, but to those of us who know him, it might as well be a white flag.
"Fine," he says, his voice tight with controlled anger. "We'll do it your way, Rourke. But if this goes sideways?—"
"It won't," I interrupt, more confident than I feel. "We stick together, we tell the truth. We'll get through this."
As the others start to move, preparing for the shitstorm that's about to rain down on us, I find myself looking at Caruso's body again. In death, he looks smaller somehow. Less the larger-than-life mafia don, more just... a man. A man who died alone in a strange bed, surrounded by people paid to protect him.
Is this what we've become? Glorified babysitters for rich assholes, always one step away from disaster?
The doubts from earlier come rushing back, stronger than ever. I think about that pub in Dublin again, about quiet nights and simple problems. About a life where the worst thing that might happen is a brawl. All fists, no guns. Maybe a knife if it's extra spicy.
It sounds pretty fucking good right about now.
But those are thoughts for later. Right now, we've got a mess to clean up. A big, potentially life-ruining mess.
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. "Right then. Troy, you make the call to the local police. Savva, start gathering our gear. We need to be ready to move fast if this goes tits up. Cole, you're on watch. Anyone so much as looks at this place funny, you let us know."
They nod, moving to their assigned tasks with the efficiency of long practice. Roman stays behind, his eyes never leaving Caruso's body.
"You better be right about this, Liam," he says quietly. "Because if you're not..."
He doesn't finish the thought.
He doesn't need to.
I can fill in the blanks well enough on my own.
"I know," I reply, matching his tone. "I'll take full responsibility if it goes wrong."
Roman finally looks at me, his expression unreadable. "That's not how this works. We're a pack, remember? Where one goes, we all go."
He’s right about that.
We're a pack. A fucked-up, dysfunctional pack, but a pack nonetheless. And right now, that pack is in danger.
The thought sits heavy in my chest. I've never been one for introspection—leave that shit to Savva and his fancy education—but I can't shake the feeling we're at a crossroads here. That the decisions we make in the next few hours will shape the rest of our lives.
For better or worse, this is the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
And I, for one, am ready to turn the page.