Chapter Twenty-Four
Rian
I love you.
Two days later, and that’s still all I can think about. Abbott had said he loved me…which I know can’t be true. We’ve known each other for no time at all, and I kidnapped him and held him hostage for nearly two weeks of it.
He can’t. It must be some kind of Stockholm thing, which makes me feel even worse about having been at his house that night, sneaking in and listening to him while he showered, watching him while he lay in bed, then going to him when he called out to me.
I shouldn’t have fucked him. I shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I’d been so strong not going to see him since we’ve been back—just following his dot on my app, but I hadn’t been able to stop myself that night.
He said he loved me. I don’t know if he realizes he said it aloud, but he had.
It took you a week to tell Moira…months for her to say it back, but you knew, so why can’t Abbott?
No. I shake that thought from my head.
All I’m doing is making this worse for him. How can he get acclimated back into his life if I slip into his room and fuck him anytime I want? That hadn’t been the plan. I don’t want to do this to him, don’t want Abbott to sacrifice who he is for me.
It’s why I took the ankle monitor off him once he was asleep, and when I slipped out of his house in the middle of the night, I decided that’s the end of it. I can’t let him see me again.
My cell rings.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“I have a surprise for you. Come to the warehouse,” Conan says.
A smile stretches across my face. There’s only one reason he would be asking me to go there, and it’s exactly the distraction I need. “I’ll be right there.”
I don’t bother changing, just tuck my phone into my pocket, grab my keys, and head out.
Forty minutes later, I’m pulling into our warehouse outside of the city.
A lot of people have died and been tortured behind these walls, dating back to the days when my father ran our family.
So much of what we do, of how we do it, and who we are is steeped in tradition, only I try to do better by Cillian, Tiernan, and the younger generation than was done by us.
I don’t know if I’m succeeding since my son is a killer like me, and my nephew leads this family with me, but that’s why it was so important to me that Cillian knew he had a choice.
If walking away with Ollie was best for him, I would have made that happen.
Blain, another of my men, is standing guard outside the door when I walk up.
“They’re already crying like a bunch of little bitches.” Blain gives me a grin.
“Did they get started without me?” The fucking bastards. I know they did.
“Just a little, Boss. It was too fun not to.”
“Assholes.” I playfully nudge him with my arm before going inside. Sure enough, three men are strung up to bars hanging above, ropes around each of their wrists, feet just barely touching the floor. There’s a drain beneath them, which we had installed a few years back for easy cleanup.
They’re slightly bloody and bruised, but nothing too bad, and I can’t blame the guys for having some fun before I arrived.
“Looks like I didn’t kill one of them at the hospital that day,” I say.
“Guess not,” Conan replies—he, Flynn, Finan, and Torin, all standing around them.
“We’ve been dying waiting for you,” Finan says.
“I don’t think you did.” I pull my suit jacket off, and Torin takes it, laying it over a table, while I begin rolling up the sleeves on my shirt.
“Vivaldi—‘Summer’ from Four Seasons,” I say, and Torin turns the music on.
There are many things I like to do to classical music, and torture and murder are two of them.
Flynn points to each man as he says their names, “Frankie, Donny, Pete.”
“We didn’t do nothin’!” Frankie says. “You’re the one who killed Joey. It should be you tied up right now.”
“It could be,” I say as I walk closer. “The problem is, you’re not as good as we are. You tried to come at me, but you missed. We don’t miss.”
“We didn’t come after you!” Donny yells as I slip the brass knuckles on that Conan hands me.
“Ask me why I don’t believe you,” I say, taking a swing that lands right across his jaw. His head snaps back, his jaw already crooked as he screams.
“Shit. You made of fucking glass or what?” Flynn taunts.
“Fuck you!” Pete says before I swing on him next, breaking his nose, blood gushing out of it and down his chest.
I hate that something inside me relaxes with this, that it reaches corners of my mind, of my whole fucking being, that shouldn’t be there. The ones that crave violence, enjoy power…hurting people, that have always enjoyed these things, no matter how wrong it is.
The shrill yelling is like a woodpecker beating against my head, so I say, “Gag them. I need to concentrate while I continue.”
Torin and Finan take care of them as I move over to stand beside Conan. “I’m going to drag this out a while,” I tell him.
“As you should,” he replies, and I do. I break fingers on each of their hands, smash others with a hammer, pull out teeth, punch, burn, and brand them.
What I really love is the knife though, making cuts into their chests, thighs, stomachs, enough to make them bleed and hurt, but not enough to kill them.
All three piss and shit on themselves. Frankie pukes on himself more than once.
I let them pass out—something they did when I used the branding iron—then eventually we wake them up and give them something to drink to keep them hydrated, only to start all over again.
Flynn and Finan both take photos—proof of what happens when you try to come after an O’Shea.
It’s the middle of the night, and we’ve been at this for close to eight hours when I’m finally over it.
“Take off the gags again,” I say, and Finan does. They’re unrecognizable—nothing but spit, puke, blood, bruises, and torn-up flesh.
“Do you see what happens when you try to come for me?” I ask, walking in a slow circle around them.
“Didn’t…do…it…” Pete says.
“Can’t even admit to it now? Fucking weak,” Flynn says.
“Doc…” Frankie grits out, and my back stiffens like someone shoved a metal rod down my spine.
“What did you say?” I ask, his head dropping as he starts to pass out again. “What the fuck did you say?” I shake him.
“The doc,” Donny says for him. “Word…on the street…someone looking to have him killed…”
I turn and look at Conan, who’s paying really close fucking attention, moving toward us.
“Why?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” Pete mumbles. “Not us.”
“Why were you in hiding?” Conan asks.
“Heard you were looking for us…didn’t want to take chances.” This is from Donny.
I’m surprised when Frankie lifts his head and gives a slow smile, mouth bloody and gummy. “We would have gotten…the job done…if it had been us…would have killed the doc…then did you just for fun.”
All I see is red. It’s like I’m not even in my body anymore, like the whole thing is burning up from the inside out. My brain shuts off, all logical thought gone as I rip my gun from the holster, spraying their bodies with bullets, watching their brains splatter from the backs of their heads.
It wasn’t them? The hit wasn’t on me?
That’s him, but who the hell is the other guy? That’s what they’d said. I assumed it meant they wondered who Abbott was, not me.
The brothers could have been lying…but they weren’t, somehow I know they weren’t.
It felt…messy, different. Not what I would have expected.
Plus, whoever it was would have had to follow me to the hospital that day, which is obviously a possibility, but so is the fact that they were waiting for Abbott to get off work…
in the same row where his vehicle was, as if they’d been staking it out.
Nowhere near my car…
“Fuck!” I shove my gun back into the holster and grab my jacket.
“Should you clean up before you go wherever you’re going?” Flynn asks.
“Who is the doc?” Torin adds.
When we were in bed together, he said he felt like people were watching him. He thought it was me. I just believed it was his imagination. What if it wasn’t?
“Have you been to his place since he’s been home? Followed him anywhere?”
“No,” Conan answers.
“Motherfucker!” None of this has been about me. It was about Abbott all along.
Someone wants Abbott to die.
“I’m going to get him,” I say.
“Need me to come?” Conan asks.
“No. I want you to find out who the fuck wants him dead, though.” I turn to the others. “Clean this mess up for me. Get rid of the bodies.”
“You got it, man.” Finan’s looking back and forth between me and Conan like he’s trying to put the pieces together on what’s going on.
“I’m bringing him home,” I tell Conan. “He’s under my protection now.”
Without another word, I run for the door.