CHAPTER TWO
KIERAN
THE FIRST TIME I killed a man, I was seventeen.
I stand in the alley behind O’Malley’s pub, the stench of spilled beer and garbage clinging to the damp night air. My fingers curl tighter around the handle of the gun, the metal cold and unfamiliar in my palm. I’ve held one before, but this is different. This time, it isn’t for show, this time, I’ll have to use it.
Across from me, Danny looks up, his eyes heavy with years of knowing me. He’s cuffed, kneeling, blood pooling beneath his busted lip where the Walsh goons worked him over. He’s been in my life since I was a kid—always quick with a story, quicker with a laugh. But tonight, he’s not Danny anymore. He’s a traitor. A lesson. A test.
"You don’t have to do this, kid," he says, his voice cracking just enough to betray the bravado.
But I do.
My chest tightens as I force my gaze to meet his. "Orders are orders." It’s a lie. Orders are an excuse, a shield against the weight of what I’m about to do. They tell me this is loyalty. But all I feel is the hollow ache of betrayal.
He nods, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "They got their hooks in you good, huh?"
I don't answer. I can't. Instead, I raise the gun, my grip steady now, even though my heart feels like it’s clawing its way out of my ribs.
Danny’s eyes never leave mine, and for a moment, the world goes quiet. No sounds from the pub, no wind, no heartbeat. Just him and me, frozen in time.
"I forgive you," he says softly, like it’s the last gift he has to give.
I pull the trigger.
The crack of the shot shatters the silence, and Danny collapses forward, lifeless. My stomach churns, but I keep my face blank. I have to. This is what they wanted—a cold-blooded killer. Someone who won’t flinch.
As I lower the gun, I tell myself it’s done. That this is the price of loyalty, but deep down, I know I’ve lost something tonight I’ll never get back.
The pub smells like damp wood and stale beer, even after years of abandonment. Dust hangs in the air, catching the faint beam of a single lightbulb swaying overhead. The Walsh family never cared about appearances; they only cared about power. Patrick’s waiting for me in the corner booth, his massive shoulders hunched over a whiskey glass. His face is unreadable—stone cold like always.
I cross the room slowly, boots scuffing against the sticky floor. My gut churns, and it’s not from the rancid smell. Patrick doesn’t call you here unless it’s serious. And I already know what this is about. It’s a small village, and news spreads fast about a recent killing.
“Sit,” Patrick says, not looking up.
I slide into the seat opposite him. The leather is cracked and cold against my back. He tosses a photo on the table between us. Hazel.
She’s younger than I expected, early twenties, maybe. Her red hair curls around her face like flames, but it’s her eyes that grab me—wide, green, defiant. They remind me of Saoirse, the way she used to look at me before everything went to hell. Innocent, but not na?ve. Determined to survive, even when the odds were stacked against her.
“She saw the McGrath thing,” Patrick says, voice low but sharp.
I nod. I know what he means. Hazel saw too much, and even though Michael—the clueless rookie Garda—ignored her report, the fact she made one is enough. Patrick doesn’t take risks, and he doesn’t leave loose ends.
“She needs to go,” Patrick adds, his eyes boring into mine.
My stomach tightens. Killing’s part of the life; I’ve accepted that. But women and kids? That’s where I draw the line. They’re off-limits unless they’re a direct threat to the family.
But is Hazel a threat? She saw a murder, reported it, and for that alone, Patrick sees her as a liability. My code tells me no. My loyalty to the Walsh family tells me yes.
I pick up the photo, studying her face again. Saoirse’s eyes stare back at me, stirring memories I’ve worked hard to bury. I feel the weight of Patrick’s gaze, waiting for my answer.
“I’ll handle it,” I say, voice steady, but inside, I’m anything but.
Patrick raises his glass, satisfied. “Good.”
Patrick leans back in his chair, removing a cigar from his breast pocket; he doesn’t offer me one; he knows me well enough to know that I won’t accept it. He lights the cigar and takes a puff before resting it between his fingers, the smoky haze swirling around him. His laugh rumbles low, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. I sit on the edge of the leather booth, trying to keep my expression neutral. He’s telling that story again.
“You know, Kieran,” Patrick begins, his voice a mix of pride and amusement, “there’s a reason they call you ‘Kill.’”
Oh, I know. I could probably recite the damned story myself at this point.
“You were just a kid back then,” he continues, his eyes narrowing with that look he gets when he’s about to impart some grand lesson. “There I was, in McDonagh’s pub. A regular night, nothing unusual. And these three bastards—tourists, they were—decide they’ve got something to prove. Start running their mouths about the Walsh name.”
I glance at him, watching the glint in his eye, the subtle smirk tugging at his mouth. He’s relishing this—the power it gives him.
Patrick chuckles, rolling the cigar between his fingers. “You stood up and squared your shoulders.” Patrick mimics the movement and glances at his men, who stand a few feet away. He always has protection with him. “You taught them a lesson they wouldn’t forget. Broke a chair over one of their heads, smashed a pint glass into the second’s face. The third? Well, he made the mistake of pulling a knife on you.”
“I put him through the bloody window,” Patrick says, laughing like it’s the best joke he’s ever told. The men around him join in, their laughter filling the room.
I can’t help but wonder if he’s looking at me when he says it. If he notices the flicker of doubt in my eyes.
That name, Kill , it’s more than a story. It’s a warning. A reminder of what happens to anyone who disrespects the family. And maybe, just maybe, it’s a reminder to me of the man I owe everything to—and the man I can’t afford to cross gave me that name and can take it back just as quickly.
Patrick catches my eye, and for a moment, I think he sees it. The hesitation. The conflict at killing a woman.
I’ve already made one mistake in my life; I don’t want to make a second. I don’t think about him often. I can’t. If I did, I’d never stop. But every now and then, he finds me. In the dead of night, when the house is quiet, and the weight of what I’ve done gets heavy enough to crack through the armor I’ve built.
He wasn’t supposed to matter. Just another name on a list. Another job. Another body.
But I can still see his face. Eyes wide, not with fear, but with confusion. Like he didn’t understand why the world was ending at that moment, at my hands.
I told myself it was the right call. He’d been marked as a threat. Orders are orders. Duty is duty. And loyalty? That’s not something you question—not in this life, not if you want to survive it.
But he wasn’t guilty. That much I know now. Hell, I think I knew it then. Just a kid trying to scrape by, caught up in something he didn’t even understand. And I put a bullet in him before he had the chance to plead his case.
The guilt twists in my gut, a familiar ache I can’t shake. It’s buried deep, hidden beneath the layers I’ve built up over the years—loyalty, duty, survival. The things I tell myself matter more than the ghosts that haunt me.
But tonight, I need to bury it for good, or it will pull me down with it.
“Anyway,” Patrick breaks into my thoughts.
Patrick stubs out his cigar, pressing the glowing tip against the ashtray. The image of Hazel lies on the table like a reminder I didn’t ask for. Patrick’s voice cuts through the silence.
“We need this cleaned up quietly,” he says, his tone as sharp as the edge of a knife.
I nod, and he strides out with his men, leaving me alone in the dim light. My mind churns. I could go to Michael—an idea I toy with, though I know it’s useless. A few years ago, I caught Michael drinking while on duty, and I’ve used that as leverage ever since. Michael looks the other way when the Walsh family needs more time to tidy up their messes. But Patrick’s already issued the kill order. It’s out of my hands now.
I pick up Hazel’s photo, studying her face for a moment before shoving it into my pocket. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out. Saoirse’s name flashes on the screen.
Saoirse. My sister. She’s up north, safely tucked away in college, studying to be a midwife. I don’t want her anywhere near this life or the man I’ve become.
“I have news,” she says the second I answer.
“You qualified,” I tease, leaning back against the chair.
She lets out a dramatic sigh. “I’ve only done one year, you know that. No, I got my provisional license.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “Congratulations.”
I rise, stepping out of the pub into the cool night air. Hazel’s house isn’t far, and I figure I might as well familiarize myself with the surroundings.
“I’m starting lessons next week,” Saoirse continues, her voice buzzing with excitement. “And I’ve been saving for a car.”
I cut in. “I’ll buy you a car. I told you that already.”
She huffs. “I know, but I want to do this myself.” Always so strong. So stubborn. “I’ll be able to visit home more regularly,” she adds.
That part doesn’t sit right with me. The idea of her showing up unannounced, stepping into my world without warning, makes my stomach twist. I need time to prepare, to make sure my work stays out of sight.
“One step at a time,” I say, keeping my voice light.
She laughs, a sound that tugs at something buried deep in me. “I better go. I have pilates class.”
I can’t help but smile. We’ve come so far from the life we once lived. Two kids left to fend for themselves after our mother disappeared. We never knew our father, and I had to step into the role—keeping us afloat, out of the system where kids like us got lost. I wouldn’t let that happen to Saoirse. Not then. Not ever.
“Okay. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
“Love you,” she says softly.
“Love you, too.”
I end the call just as I reach Hazel’s house. The lights are out, and the street is quiet—time to get to work.