Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
alastríona
Pain in my scalp tears me from sleep like a blade through flesh.
There are hands in my hair, dragging me from the bed, and I'm screaming before I'm fully awake. The world spins as they haul me upright, my feet barely touching the ground.
"Get off me!" I thrash against their grip, trying to break free, but there are too many of them. Three men, all bigger than me, all professionally silent as they drag me toward the door.
I manage to get my feet under me and drive my elbow back into one of their ribs. He grunts but doesn't let go. The second man produces a cloth from his pocket and presses it toward my face.
No. Not like this.
I bite down hard on the hand holding the cloth, taste blood, hear a satisfying yelp of pain. I use the momentary distraction to break free and stumble toward the window.
If I can just reach the glass, break it, and scream loud enough for someone to hear—
A fist connects with my stomach, doubling me over. I can't breathe, can't think. I can only focus on the agony radiating through my core.
"Feisty little bitch," one of them says.
They grab me again, but this time I'm ready. Dad's training kicks in, muscle memory overriding panic. I snap my head back, feel cartilage crunch as my skull connects with someone's nose.
"Fuck!"
The grip on my hair loosens. I spin, driving my knee up toward the nearest groin, but he's faster than I expected. He catches my leg and twists hard.
I go down, hitting the floor with enough force to rattle my teeth. But I'm not done fighting. Never done fighting.
I roll and try to scramble away, but hands are on me again. They drag me up then hold me still while the one with the bloody nose gets his revenge.
His fist crashes into my ribs, sending fire through my chest, then another to my stomach. It has me gasping, retching, struggling just to stay conscious.
"That's for my nose, you little cunt."
I look up at him through watery eyes and manage to summon enough saliva to spit blood in his face. "Fuck you."
His eyes go dark. He grabs my left arm, the one the other men aren't holding, and I know what's coming. Dad taught me to recognize that look, that moment when someone decides they're going to break you.
"No, please—"
The snap echoes through the room like a gunshot. Pain explodes up my arm, a white-hot agony that makes me scream loud enough to wake the dead. My arm hangs at an unnatural angle, bone clearly broken somewhere between my wrist and elbow.
"Jesus Christ, Tony," one of the others says. "Boss said to bring her in one piece."
"She'll live. Just won't be throwing any more punches."
They're right about that. My left arm is useless now, hanging limp at my side while waves of nausea wash over me. But I'm still conscious, still fighting.
"Fuck this," the third man says, producing a syringe from his jacket. "Let's just put her out."
The needle goes into my neck before I can protest. Whatever they've given me works fast; the world starts to gray at the edges, sounds becoming distant and muffled.
The last thing I see before darkness takes me is Freddie's note on the nightstand, promising he'll be back soon.
I pray it's not too late.
* * *
I wake up to the smell of decay and old blood.
The first thing I notice is the pain; my arm screaming in agony, my ribs aching with every breath, my head pounding like someone's using it as a drum. The second thing is the cold. It’s seeping through whatever I'm lying on and into my bones.
My eyes flutter open to reveal a ceiling covered in water stains and peeling paint. The walls are bare concrete, stained with substances I don't want to identify. A single bare bulb hangs from a frayed cord, casting harsh shadows that make everything look like a nightmare.
Which, I suppose, it is.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it as pain rockets through my broken arm. They've tied my good arm to something behind me—a pipe from the feel of it. My legs are free, but when I try to move them, pins and needles tell me they've been numb for a while.
How long was I out?
The room smells like piss and fear and something else; something rotten that makes my stomach turn. There are dark stains on the concrete floor that could be anything but probably aren't anything good.
Blood. Lots of it. Old and new.
This isn't the first time someone's been brought here. Won't be the last, either, unless Freddie finds me in time.
If he's even looking. If he's even alive.
No. I can't think like that. Freddie's alive, Henry's alive, and they're coming for me. They have to be. There is no reality where Freddie won’t come for me.
Footsteps echo from somewhere above, growing closer. Multiple sets of heavy boots on wooden stairs. I close my eyes and let my head loll to the side, trying to look unconscious. Maybe if they think I'm still out, I'll learn something useful.
The door opens with a squeal of rusty hinges.
"She awake yet?"
American accent. The voice is smooth but hard. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"Don't think so. Tony hit her pretty hard with the sedative."
"Good. Let me have a look at her."
Footsteps approach. I keep my breathing slow and even, fighting the urge to flinch when fingers touch my face.
"Pretty little thing, isn't she? I can see what all the fuss is about."
The voice is closer now, right next to my ear. I can smell expensive cologne and something underneath it, something sick and twisted that makes my skin crawl.
"Shame she won't stay pretty for long."
A laugh, cold and empty. Then the footsteps retreat.
"Wake her up. I want to have a conversation."
Cold water hits my face like a slap. I gasp and sputter, opening my eyes to see three men standing over me. Two I recognize from the kidnapping—Tony with his broken nose and bandaged hand and another thick-set brute who looks like he bench presses small cars for fun.
The third man is different. Mid-forties, expensive suit, perfectly groomed in the way that screams money and power. He's got dark hair going silver at the temples and cold eyes that study me like I'm an interesting specimen.
Trace Harrington. Has to be.
"Good morning, Alastríona," he says, like we're meeting for tea instead of him having me beaten and kidnapped. "I hope you slept well."
I don't answer. I just stare at him, trying to project more confidence than I feel.
"Not much of a talker, are you? That's all right. I do most of the talking in these situations anyway."
He settles into a folding chair someone's brought down, sinking into it like he's perfectly comfortable. Like this is just another day at the office.
"You know who I am?"
Still nothing from me.
"Of course you do. Your new family's told you all about the big bad wolf who's been hunting them. The monster who killed poor Jerry Houlihan, who's been picking off the Gallaghers’ closest allies one by one."
The way he says it, so casual and matter-of-fact, makes my blood boil. Jer was a good man, and this bastard talks about killing him like discussing the weather.
"What they probably didn't tell you is why. Why I've declared war on your precious grandfather and everyone he cares about."
He leans forward his eyes fixed on mine. There's something hungry in his gaze, something that makes me want to shrink back against the wall.
"It's because of a woman. It's always because of a woman, isn't it?"
Ava. He's talking about Ava, the woman Freddie loved. The woman who betrayed them all.
"Her name was Ava. Beautiful, intelligent, perfect in every way. She was my wife, the love of my life, the mother of my unborn child."
The pain in his voice sounds genuine, which somehow makes it worse. He really loved her, this monster. Loved her enough to start a war when he lost her.
"She died in Dublin. Shot down in the street like a dog while she was pregnant with our baby. Your people killed her, Alastríona. Your family took everything that mattered to me and left me with nothing but rage."
I find my voice finally. "You're wrong."
His eyebrows rise. "Am I?"
"She lied to so many people. She hurt them. And you know what? She got exactly what she deserved."
The words are cruel, calculated to hurt. But they have the desired effect. Trace's composed mask slips, revealing the madness underneath.
"Shut your mouth."
"She was leaving you. She saw how fucked up you were. Poor little Trace abandoned by his lying whore of a wife."
He's on his feet now, face flushed with rage. Good. Angry people make mistakes.
"I said shut your mouth!"
"Make me."
He backhands me hard enough to snap my head to the side. The taste of blood fills my mouth, but I'm smiling when I look back at him.
"Feel better? Or are you still the pathetic little boy whose wife chose to leave you?"
This time he uses his fist. Pain explodes across my cheekbone, and I see stars for a moment. But I'm still smiling when my vision clears.
"You know what I think?" I say, spitting blood at his feet.
"I think you killed her yourself. I think when you found out she was leaving you, you couldn't handle the rejection.
So you put a bullet in her chest and have been blaming everyone else ever since.
The truth is, everyone's known it's been you the entire time.
You're sick and twisted, Trace. You've got a couple of screws loose, huh? "
The silence stretches for a long moment. Trace is staring at me with something like respect mixed with hatred.
"Very good," he says finally. "You're smarter than I expected."
My blood runs cold. "Why did you kill her?"
"Do you really think I would let her leave me for that Irish trash? Let her take my child and run off to play happy families with a common thief?"
"She was your wife."