Chapter 1
Tomas MacGallan
Irina
I longed for summer, walking through the swirling snow as I wiped the blood from my leather shoes, heading back to the Lincoln Continental, where my older brother waited, engine running, breath fogging the windows.
The family business demanded sacrifices.
That night, my father ordered me to kill my cousin, who had sticky fingers.
He liked to skim off the profits from the local arena on fight night.
“It gets easier,” Ian had said, pulling away from the dock, his eyes never leaving the road. “That’s what Da always says.”
It felt like a lifetime since Ian had said that.
Now, thirteen years and thirty dead bodies later, exactly to the night of my first kill, all I want to do is leave. Leave for someplace warm, with white-sand beaches and plenty of women. “I need a drink,” I muttered, staring at my hands.
They weren’t shaking. That should have bothered me, considering we just offed an entire family, but it didn’t.
I was a twisted fuck, already third in command of the MacGallan clan, my future mapped out in territory lines and protection rackets.
The Irish mob owned me, and one day I knew I would own it.
Ian nodded, taking a sharp left toward The Titty Twister, our go-to place to let off steam, where the bartender kept the drinks coming, and the backroom was reserved exclusively for family business.
The neon sign buzzed and flickered against the falling snow, casting everything in a sickly green glow.
“Da wants us at the meeting tomorrow. Says the Russians are moving in on the docks.”
I nodded, not really listening. My mind was elsewhere, wondering if Tara was working tonight. Just thinking about her had my cock standing at attention. I’d been with many women in my time, but never had met one who could squirt clear across the room while I fingered her pussy.
I adjusted myself in my pants as we pulled into the parking lot, the bulge becoming uncomfortable against my zipper. The club’s throbbing bass pulsed through the car windows, matching the rhythm of blood pumping through my veins.
“You go ahead,” I told Ian. “I need a minute.”
He smirked, knowing exactly what was on my mind. “Don’t break her this time, Tommy. Da needs you focused tomorrow.”
I flipped him off as he left the car. The minute the door closed, I let out a groan, palming myself through my trousers. Just the thought of Tara’s wet cunt gripping my fingers had me ready to burst. Eager to get inside her, I left the car and headed to the door.
The club was packed with the usual Friday night crowd—desperate businessmen, off-duty cops we paid to look the other way, and girls wearing just enough to keep the place technically legal. The smoke hung thick in the air, mingling with perfume and desperation.
I spotted her immediately, bent over the bar, that tiny black skirt barely covering her ass. My mouth went dry. Three years of fucking her senseless, and still my cock twitched like a teenager’s at the sight of her.
“There’s my favorite killer,” she purred when I approached, her Irish accent thicker when she was already half-drunk. Her nipples pressed against the thin fabric of her top, and I knew she wasn’t wearing a bra. “Thought you might stop by tonight.”
“Back room free?” I growled in her ear, my hand already sliding up to cup her ass cheek.
“For you? Always.” She bit her lip, eyes dilating as my fingers found her already soaking through her panties.
I didn’t wait for her shift to end. I never did. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her through the crowd, nodding at the bouncer who unlocked the private room for us. The moment the door closed, I had her pinned against it.
“Jesus Christ, Tommy,” she moaned as I ripped her panties clean off and she wrapped her legs around my waist. “I’m still sore from last time.”
“Good,” I grunted, freeing my cock and sliding it through her slick folds. “Then you’ll remember who you belong to.”
I entered her in one brutal thrust, her scream muffled against my shoulder as her nails dug into my back. The violence from earlier still hummed in my veins, making me rougher than usual, but Tara could take it. That’s why I kept coming back to her—she understood the darkness in me, craved it even.
“Harder,” she begged, her Irish lilt breaking as I pounded into her against the door. “Make me feel it for days, Tommy.”
I obliged, one hand gripping her throat just tight enough to make her eyes roll back. The other found her clit, rubbing it in tight circles until her pussy clenched around me like a vise. Her first orgasm hit as I carried her to the leather couch, never breaking our connection.
“On your knees,” I ordered, pulling out and flipping her over. She complied eagerly, presenting her ass to me, her pussy slick and glistening.
“When are you going to make an honest woman out of me?” she asked, looking back at me with those green eyes that always seemed to see right through my bullshit.
I sent her a wicked grin while sliding back into her heat.
The room filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, her filthy encouragements, and my grunts as I claimed what was mine. In that moment, with my cock buried deep inside her and her cunt squeezing me like she wanted to drain every last drop, I felt something close to peace.
She straightened her clothes and turned to look at me. “Well, are you going to answer me?”
“Answer what?” I said, stuffing my limp dick into my pants.
She stamped her foot. “Marry me! When are you going to marry me?”
I stared at her, taken aback. Marriage? We weren’t even in a relationship. I reached for her, pulling her against my chest, feeling her warm curves press into me.
“Never,” I said with a cruel laugh. “Why pay for the cow when you can get the milk for free?”
The words had barely left my mouth when her palm connected with my cheek, a sharp crack that echoed in the small room. The sting spread across my face, and I tasted blood where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek. I let her have that one—I deserved it.
Her hand flew up for a second strike, but this time I caught her wrist mid-air, squeezing just hard enough to make her wince.
“Don’t push your luck, darlin’,” I warned, my voice low.
The door burst open, slamming against the wall with enough force to rattle the framed pictures of naked women. Ian stood there, chest heaving, face white as a ghost. His eyes were wild, unfocused, and I knew immediately something was terribly wrong.
“Tommy,” he gasped, not even registering Tara’s presence. “It’s Da. Someone gunned him down outside. Right in the fucking parking lot.”
The world tilted beneath my feet. I released Tara’s wrist, barely noticing as she stumbled backward.
“What do you mean?” I asked, but I knew exactly what he meant. The words just wouldn’t process.
“He’s dead, Tommy. The Russian crew. They didn’t even try to hide it—left a fucking vodka bottle next to him. He’s gone. Four shots to the chest, one to the head.”
I was already moving, shoving past Ian, my mind shifting from lover to soldier in an instant. Behind me, I heard Tara call my name, but it sounded distant, like it was underwater.
The club’s music pounded in my ears as I pushed through the crowd, faces blurring into a meaningless mass. Outside, red and blue lights flashed against the falling snow. A small crowd had gathered, held back by yellow police tape.
And there he was. Our father. The great Connor MacGallan, king of the Irish mob in Toronto, sprawled on the dirty pavement like garbage. Blood pooled beneath him, turning black in the cold night air.
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered, crossing myself out of habit rather than faith.
Ian appeared beside me, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. “They’re saying it was Petrova’s crew.”
Something cold and familiar settled in my chest—colder than the December air, colder than the gun I’d held earlier that night. This was what our father had prepared us for. This was why he’d made me kill at nineteen.
“Get the others,” I said, my voice steady despite the rage building inside me. “Call everyone in. Tonight.”
Ian nodded, already pulling out his phone. “What about the cops?”
I glanced at the officers milling around the scene, recognizing faces we’d paid off for years. “They’ll look the other way. They always do.”
Tara emerged from the club, her makeup smeared, eyes red-rimmed. She reached for me, but I stepped back. There was no room for her now, not with what needed to be done.
“Go home,” I told her, my voice harder than I intended.
“Tommy, don’t do anything—”
“Go. Home.” I cut her off, watching her flinch at my tone.
As she turned away, I felt a momentary pang of regret for my earlier words. But there was no time for that now. No time for apologies or explanations.
The Russians had declared war. And I would give them exactly what they asked for.
“Ian,” I said, turning to my brother as the police began covering our father’s body. “Call Uncle Patrick in Belfast. Tell him we need the shipment early.”
Ian’s eyes widened. “The weapons? Tommy, that’s—”
“They killed our father,” I said, each word precise and cold. “So I’m going to kill every last one of them.”