Chapter 29
TIERNEY
When I come around, the room I’m sitting in appears in slow, fractured pieces, my awareness bleeding back into my body and my memory stitching together.
My head throbs, and my throat is too dry as I swallow. When I curl my fingers, they’re slow to respond. I blink my eyes open and take it all in.
The box-sized room must be a rental apartment where these guys have been staying.
It stinks of greasy fried food and stale cigarette smoke. There’s a narrow couch against one wall, a table cluttered with takeaway cartons, and a television flickering in the corner.
The curtains are half-drawn, letting thin beams of daylight stream across the floor.
After a quick count, I’m certain there are only three men.
One stands by the window, shifting his weight every few seconds, favouring his left leg just enough to tell me there’s an old injury there. Something I could exploit if I get close enough.
Another leans against the kitchen counter, phone in hand, thumb flicking over the screen, distracted in a way that makes him careless.
The third is the problem. He’s sitting opposite me, elbows on his knees, and a gun held in his ringed hand.
“Wakey wakey, little Blakey,” he grins.
I keep my breathing slow and uneven, pretending I’m still dragging myself out of whatever they used on me, while my mind sharpens behind the act, slotting details into place, mapping faces, measuring distances, listening to the rhythm of noise drifting in from the street outside.
There’s one exit at the far left.
So far, the gun in his hand is the only weapon I can see.
“Where am I?” I ask, keeping my voice rough, with just enough confusion to sell it.
He huffs a laugh and leans back in the chair.
“Above ground,” he says. “For now.”
I stay where I am, my back pressed to the wall, and say nothing.
“Your brother’s been busy,” he continues. “Slipped out of Dublin, vanished for a while… then turned up here thinking he’d be out of sight, out of mind.”
I keep my face blank and clear my throat, the dryness biting.
“Leave Connor out of this,” I say, straightening. “Whatever my da owes ya, I’ll sort it out.”
He grins, slower this time. “You really don’t know, do ya?”
My chest tightens.
“Connor Blake is buried in this,” he says. “Your da owes us two mill, little Blakey. Your brother’s part of it.”
“That’s bullshit,” I grit. “My brother doesn’t work for our da. He’s a student. He wants better than waving a gun in people’s faces.”
“Right.” He tilts the gun in his hand. “This gets respect, though.”
The man by the counter lets out a raspy chuckle.
“Connor met with O’Rourke yesterday,” he says without looking up from his phone. “Sat nice and cosy, takin’ envelopes. Looked like he’s been doin’ it his whole life. And none of that money has landed in our hands.”
The room closes in; the air turning hot and tight in my lungs. I shake my head.
“That’s not possible.”
The man in front of me sits forward.
“Your da’s run up a debt he can’t hide from,” he says. “A debt your brother can’t fix with cash.”
My stomach twists.
“Marrying a Viacava was a bold move, but they don’t pay debts for men like Declan. Unless they’re pushed.” He scratches his hand over his stubbled face. “Either they settle the score, or you die here. That’s how this works.”
“I’ll get your money.”
“Your da has tested Murphy’s patience already. We’re done talkin’,” he says. “You’re the message. And maybe after this, we’ll put a bullet in Connor too. Just to drive the message home harder to your old man.”
I let that sit for a second, then push myself to my feet and glare at him.
“I’m guessing the Viacavas know you’ve taken me hostage?”
“They do now… but the question you should be askin’ is do they give a fuck?”
I thumb the wedding ring on my finger and push down the bitter truth. Bronx doesn’t care about the woman he married. He didn’t fall in love with me, or decide to renew our vows so they’d actually mean something.
I believed the lie and almost let him win.
“None of you will leave New York with your lives,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “You’ve messed with the wrong person.”
The guy smiles and stands, his full height towering over me. “Ya think?”
“The Viacavas will shut this city down,” I continue. “Airports, bridges, streets. They only have to make one call and you won’t make it two blocks. You think you can just fly back to Dublin after this?”
The guy by the counter looks over at me, and the one who’s peering through the split in the curtains glances over his shoulder.
“And you believe the Viacavas will trade two mill for Declan Blake’s daughter?” he asks. “You’re nothing to them. Murphy already asked Kingston to pay up. What makes you think they’ll pay now?”
I hold his gaze. “So why the fuck did you bother taking me?”
“You’re still a Viacava wife.” He shrugs. “Murphy asked nicely the first time. Now we have to prove a point. So you’d better get on your knees and pray for a miracle.”
“They’d never let scum like you succeed. Even if I’m just a Blake, you crossed into their territory and fucked with them. You won’t leave New York with your head.”
My words come out convincing, even if uncertainty twists low in my gut. Because I don’t know what’s real anymore.
I don’t have time to waste wondering if Bronx will arrive with a case full of cash. I never needed him before. And sure as hell don’t need him to save me now.
The man with the phone shakes his head and continues to stare at his phone while the guy in front of me lowers the gun a fraction.
And in that second, I move fast.
My hand clamps around his wrist, twisting hard before he can bring the weapon back up. I step into him, driving my shoulder into his chest, shoving him off balance as the gun jerks sideways.
He swears, his grip tightening, but I’m already turning with him, pushing his arm lower, my fingers locking over the handle.
The shot goes off between us at close range, and his body drops.
I secure the gun and level it at the guy by the counter at the same time as the man by the window draws his weapon and aims at me.
“Don’t,” I snap before either of them can pull the trigger. “You fire, he’s dead before your shot misses.”
It’s a gamble.
One I can’t afford to lose.
The man by the counter freezes, eyes flicking between me and the body at my feet.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he hisses. “You killed him.”
“Of course I killed him. You know who I am, asshole. And you’re both next unless you come over here and sit the fuck down. Give me that phone, and I’ll speak to Murphy myself.”
“You’re dead, bitch.”
“And you need to think this through,” I say, keeping the gun steady even as my pulse hammers in my throat. “Kill me, and you don’t get paid. The Viacavas will hunt you down even if you land in Ireland.”
“They’ll never find us,” he replies, voice tight, finger tightening on the trigger. “But I know Connor’s movements and who he spends time with these days.”
I walk a few steps, putting the couch between us, making him move if he wants a clear shot.
“Then you’re gonna die for nothing,” I fire back. “Because I’m not gonna let you threaten him and walk away.”
On my next breath, the door bursts open.
The impact cracks through the apartment like thunder, wood splintering, hinges tearing loose as the frame gives way under the force. Armed men flood the space in a surge.
And then I see Bronx.
My heart stutters.
He came.
Moving inside, he doesn’t stop to look at the men being tackled to the ground, or take in the body on the floor. His gaze locks on me and everything else falls away.
For one stupid, fragile second, it almost undoes me. But this is a show of power and strength in their territory. Nothing more.
He kills the distance in long, confident strides, stepping over the man at my feet as if he’s nothing more than debris, his hands already reaching for me, cupping my face, sliding to my neck, my shoulders, probably checking for injuries.
“Are you hurt?” His voice is rough, threaded with an urgency that tightens low in my belly.
I feel the pull. The fire inside me fuels a hunger for him while I fight the instinct to lean in. Because his intentions for our marriage are clear now, and that has done more damage than my da’s betrayal ever could.
I step back and slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
His hands hover where I left them, his expression tightening. “Tierney—”
“Back off. We have nothing to say to each other.”
My voice comes steadier than I expect, even as my pulse kicks hard in my neck. I tug at the wedding band and twist it off my finger. The absence of it seems immediate, and my stomach drops.
I take his hand and press the ring into his palm.
“Our marriage is over,” I say, holding his gaze now, making sure he hears every word. “We don’t need to pretend anymore.”
As the armed men wrestle the two Irish men, darkness passes behind his eyes.
“I wasn’t,” he says. “And neither were you.”
I shake my head.
“I’m going home to Dublin,” I continue, even as my ribs ache from the pain in my chest. “Back to my old life. To my ex… if he’ll have me.”
His jaw flexes.
“To someone who’d never mess with my emotions to get what he wants.”
Bronx closes his hand around the ring for a beat, then uncurls his fingers and holds it out in the space between us.
“Put your wedding ring back on, Mrs Viacava,” he orders. “Now.”
“That’s not my ring anymore.” I clear my throat. “Give it to another woman. Someone you care about.”
I shove the gun into the waistband of my jeans and drag my hair over my shoulder.
“What we had was fake,” I tell him. “I don’t care about you, Bronx. I know how to survive, and that’s all I was doing in our marriage. None of it mattered.”
The words scrape on the way out, but I don’t stop there.
“Sure, we fucked a few times. You’re a decent looking guy so it wasn’t a hardship. I told you from the beginning we’d last six months at the most. I’m done.”
Something flickers across his face as if I’ve hit a nerve.
When he steps into me, the smell of his cologne threatens to drag me under.
“Tierney—”
But that very second, there’s movement behind him and my focus snaps past his shoulder.
The man I shot is dragging himself upright, blood soaking through his shirt, one hand braced against the wall while the other raises above his head with a blade catching in the light, ready to stab Bronx in the neck any second.
Without weighing it up, I move.
My hand slams into Bronx’s chest, shoving him hard and turning him while I position myself in the space where he’d stood. The blade drives into me with brutal force in a single, violent rush.
For a second, there’s nothing.
No pain.
Just pressure.
Then heat floods outward, and my knees give as the room tilts.