Prologue
Niamh
I always knew I was going to die. Never in my wildest dreams did I think it was going to be like this. Staring at the man I thought I’d fallen in love with while my father pointed the barrel of a gun at the back of my head, the last thing I want to do was cry. Tears were signs of weakness. Even though throughout my life there have been many times I’ve wanted to succumb to tears, I’ve always stopped myself. If it wasn’t the memory of my mother, it certainly was the memory of my father.
I thought I’d gotten away from all of this, but that was the illusion. There is no getting away from the past.
The urge to scream was so strong, because of the pain in my body. It had been a long time since I took a beating like this. I didn’t know what was worse—the fact that I hoped I’d get something out of this, or the pain of looking at the man I thought I loved. There was nothing good about any of this. There was only pain and suffering.
Anyone would think I’d be used to being lied to. Nope. It would seem I’m still a sucker for lies, for the falseness of people. Look at what trust and love did to people.
I was forced to my knees on a dirty floor. The scent of dirt, shit, and piss filled every one of my senses. I had to control the urge to vomit. The gag they’d tied across my mouth dug into either side, and I was pretty sure blood dripped from my nose. One of my eyes was swollen shut. I think that came from the first punch, courtesy of my father.
In the last twenty-four hours, I’d been hit, kicked, spat on, called every single curse name in the book. I was pretty sure my wrist was broken, possibly a few ribs, my heart, and if I was completely honest, my entire soul was a shattered mess on the floor.
There was simply no way back from this.
It didn’t matter that the man before me held a gun, and it was unwavering. This was new, I was used to men being terrified of my father. Not Peter. No, he wasn’t afraid of anyone.
According to my father, this man was a monster, and nearly rivaled that of his boss, Ivan Volkov.
I didn’t know who Peter really was. I thought his name was Peter Shadows. I should have known it was a fake name. It was ironic, because I couldn’t criticize him for using a different name. My own was indeed fake.
Niamh was real. I was not Niamh Long. No, I was Niamh Byrne, daughter of Finn Byrne, who happened to be the head of the Irish Mafia. I’d not kept up-to-date with all the lingo.
For as long as I could remember, I’d wanted out of this life. I’d wanted far away from it.
I’d tasted freedom for just a short time, but I knew what life away from death, pain, and chaos was like. One thing was certain: I would never have that taste again. Death was a guarantee for me. There was no way I would see tomorrow.
The saddest truth to date, after everything I’d learned, was I didn’t want to see tomorrow. There was nothing worth living for.