Chapter 1
Carnage
Liam
Blood.
It’s everywhere.
Pooling beneath the chair, splattered across my knuckles, dripping from David Morrison’s shattered face. The warehouse reeks of it, mixed with piss and the particular stench of a man who knows he’s got minutes to live.
I prefer it that way. Fear has a smell, sharp and acrid, and it makes men tell the truth faster than any amount of persuasion.
“Please,” Morrison whimpers through broken teeth, the sound wet and pathetic. “Please, I swear, I didn’t—”
My fist connects with his ribs again. The crack is satisfying, but not enough.
Satisfaction isn’t the point. Clarity is.
Fear makes men tell the truth; pain makes them remember who they betrayed.
He’s tied to a metal chair in the center of the empty space, and we’ve been at this for over an hour now. I’m just getting started.
“You didn’t what, exactly?” I shake out my hand, flexing my fingers. “Didn’t skim from the protection payments? Didn’t pocket fifteen thousand euros that belonged to my family? Didn’t think we kept records?”
Behind me, Cillian O’Riordan looms, watching with the detached interest of someone who’s seen this play out a thousand times. My father’s most loyal enforcer for thirty years, Cillian knows better than to intervene. This is my work. My lesson to teach.
“I can explain—” Morrison starts, then screams as I drive my knee into his stomach.
“I don’t want explanations.” I grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back so he’s forced to look at me. One eye is already swollen shut, the other swimming with tears and terror. “I want to know why you thought stealing from the O’Neills was survivable.”
“I needed the money,” he chokes out. “My daughter’s medical bills, the treatments—”
I release him so abruptly his head snaps forward. “Your daughter?” A laugh escapes me, genuine amusement cutting through the violence. “So you stole from us to pay for her care? How noble.”
I circle him slowly, rolling up the sleeves of my dress shirt. The Tom Ford suit jacket is already draped carefully over a crate twenty feet away—I’m not an animal. Blood is a bitch to get out of good fabric.
“Do you know what your theft cost us, Morrison?” I ask conversationally. “Not the money—fifteen thousand is pocket change. But the principle? The precedent?” I stop in front of him again. “You worked for Michael Kelly. His logistics manager for how long? Eight years?”
“Nine,” he whispers.
“Nine years. And then you came to us six months ago, all desperate loyalty and useful information about Kelly operations. We took you in. Gave you work. Paid you well.” I crouch down so we’re eye level.
“And you repaid us by stealing. By thinking we wouldn’t notice.
By treating us like we’re fucking amateurs. ”
He tries to speak, blood bubbling from his mouth, but I’m done listening. I pull my Glock from the back of my pants.
The gun’s appearance transforms Morrison’s fear into pure animal panic. He starts thrashing against the zip ties binding his wrists, making sounds that aren’t quite words anymore.
“My father taught me something when I was sixteen,” I say, checking the magazine out of habit though I know it’s loaded. “He said every person is either an asset or an obstacle. Assets we cultivate. Obstacles we remove.”
I press the barrel against his forehead, watching sweat and blood mix on his face.
“You made your choice, Morrison.”
“Please!” The word comes out as a shriek. “I can fix this! I can pay it back, I can—”
“You can die quietly or screaming. Those are your options.”
“Liam, please—”
The presumption of using my first name, the intimacy he hasn’t earned, ignites something cold and vicious.
“Mr. O’Neill,” I correct softly.
I pull the trigger.
The gunshot cracks through the warehouse, echoing off bare walls. Morrison’s head snaps back, brain matter and blood spraying across the concrete behind him. The body slumps forward, held upright only by the zip ties.
I holster the weapon, examining my shirt for blood spatter. Clean, surprisingly. The angle was good.
“Clean this up,” I tell Cillian, who’s already moving toward the body with a tarp. “Make it disappear. No body, no investigation.”
Cillian confirms with only a nod. “What about his end of the dock work?”
“Promote Rafferty. He’s been reliable.” I check my watch. Seven-thirty. The gallery event starts at eight. “I need to go.”
Cillian glances up, one eyebrow raised. “The gallery?”
“Connor’s orders.” I shrug back into my suit jacket, careful not to disturb the perfect drape. “Apparently Michael Kelly’s daughter is having some charity auction. Perfect opportunity to make contact.”
“You’re going straight from here?” There’s judgment in Cillian’s voice, faint but present.
“Problem?” I meet his gaze steadily.
“Just saying, you might want to wash your hands first.”
I look down. My knuckles are split, blood dried in the creases. The cuts aren’t deep—they’ll pass for boxing injuries if anyone asks. “Noted.”
Cillian just shakes his head, returning to his work.
Outside, Dublin’s evening air hits me—cool, damp, carrying the salt tang of the Liffey.
My Aston Martin sits where I left it, gleaming under a broken streetlight.
I slide behind the wheel, grabbing a bottle of water.
I lean over and tip the bottle over my left hand and then my right, rinsing them of Morrison’s blood.
My phone buzzes in its cradle as I start the engine. Connor O’Neill.
Dad.
“It’s done,” I answer.
“Clean?”
“Very. Cillian’s handling disposal.” I pull away from the warehouse, heading toward the city center. “I’m on my way to the gallery now.”
“Good.” Papers rustle in the background—my father never stops working. “Remember what I told you. Assess her operation. Make contact. See if she can be useful.”
“And if she can’t?”
“Then she’s an obstacle.” Simple. Final. “But Liam? Don’t underestimate her. She’s been back three years and built something legitimate. That takes intelligence.”
“Understood.”
“Sean’s outside, keeping watch. Try to keep him from embarrassing us.”
The call ends before I can respond.
I navigate Dublin’s evening traffic, as the security detail falls into formation around me. It’s a front. All a big show that my father enjoys but I hate. My mind shifts gears from violence to strategy. From Morrison’s broken body to Siobhan Kelly’s carefully constructed world.
The Kelly Gallery sits in a renovated Georgian building on the north side, respectable but not ostentatious. Smart. Drawing attention to wealth in Dublin invites questions about its source.
At a red light, I lean over to tap the phone’s screen and navigate to the gallery’s website, finding the “About” section. The photograph of Siobhan Kelly loads slowly.
Copper hair. Green eyes. Bone structure that suggests both elegance and steel. She’s not smiling in the professional headshot, she’s serious, composed, every inch the successful businesswoman.
But there’s something in her eyes. Guardedness. Walls built high and maintained carefully. The look of someone who learned young not to trust easily.
I recognize it because I see the same thing every morning in my mirror. I touch her face, a shot of possession firing through my veins.
“Mine,” I murmur.
The light changes, and I continue driving, but the image stays with me.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling up to the gallery. Valets in black uniforms direct traffic, and well-dressed people stream through the entrance. Classic charity event where the wealthy pretend to care about art while networking and being seen.
I hand my keys to a valet, straightening my cuffs. The split knuckles sting faintly, but they’re not obvious unless you’re looking for them.
Asset or obstacle, I think, climbing the steps to the gallery’s front door.
Tonight, I’ll find out which one Siobhan Kelly is.