Chapter 2
Sean
Iwake up on a bench in St. Stephen’s Green with a pigeon staring at me like I’m an exhibit in a zoo.
“Fuck off,” I tell it, squinting into the weak sunlight.
It doesn’t move. Just keeps watching with those beady little eyes.
“He lives.”
I groan at Liam’s voice. “You can fuck off as well.”
“Not happening, because if I do that, you are dead. Who did you piss off this time?”
I push myself up, a symphony of agony playing through my ribs and head.
The pigeon, finally sensing a better show elsewhere, flutters away.
Liam stands over me, not a hair out of place in his tailored suit, looking more like a banker than the heir to Connor O’Neill’s criminal empire. He doesn’t offer a hand. He never does.
“Oisin Murphy,” I manage, the name tasting like blood and stale whisky in my mouth.
“How much?” he asks, staring over me in the way he does, which makes me feel like nothing.
“Thirty grand,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face.
“That’s it?” he scoffs. “I’m impressed. You’ve changed.”
His sarcasm grates on what is left of my last nerve.
“He wanted information. On the family.”
That gets his attention. His blue eyes, so much like mine but without the exhaustion weighing them down, snap to mine.
He grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet.
The world spins, and I have to lean against him for a second, hating the weakness, hating that he’s the one holding me up.
Again. He smells clean and responsible. I smell of stale whisky, sweat and blood.
“And what did you tell him?” Liam’s voice is low, dangerous. The voice of the O’Neill heir, not my brother.
“To go fuck himself,” I spit, shoving away from him. I stumble but catch my balance. “What do you take me for?”
He doesn’t answer, just studies my battered face. “Did you pay up?”
“Not yet,” I admit, pulling out my empty pockets. “I’m a bit short of cash.”
He sighs, closing his eyes briefly before they open and pin me in place like two lasers. “I’ll take care of it.”
I start to say thank you for bailing me out again, but I just can’t bear to say the words. “No,” I say, swaying slightly. “I’ve got this.”
His gaze rakes over me. “Yeah, looks like it.”
“I said, I’ve got this,” I growl, my head banging like a fucking drum. “Stay out of it.”
“Oh, I’d love to. But when landlords of pubs call me up to tell me my brother has started a bar fight that will cost them thousands to fix, I’m kind of dragged into it, you fuck.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
He stares at me for a long time, and then he comes to some sort of decision.
Whatever it is, I know I’m not going to enjoy the consequences of it.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He stalks off, leaving me swaying in the morning chill.
I give him the finger and turn the opposite way.
I need to get to my car, get home, shower and then hit something until it breaks.
He doesn’t get it. He never will. He doesn’t have to deal with Connor’s disappointment on an hourly fucking basis.
Fishing around in my suit jacket for my keys, I pull them out and consider calling a cab, but fuck it.
It’s not that far to my apartment. The walk is a special kind of hell.
Each jarring step sends a wave of agony through my ribs.
My head feels like it’s full of broken glass, and the crisp morning air does fuck all to clear it.
It only sharpens the pain. Dublin is waking up around me with suits rushing to work, tourists with their maps, the whole fucking world moving on while I’m stuck in last night’s wreckage.
Fuck Liam. I’ll find the money to pay Oisin, even if I have to extract it from a business account somewhere deep in the forages of Connor’s portfolio.
My car is parked two streets over. By the time I reach the black Bentley, I’m sweating through my ruined shirt, and my vision swims at the edges.
Fumbling with the keys, I finally manage to unlock the door and collapse into the driver’s seat.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, resting my forehead against the cool leather.
Reaching for the bottle of water in the middle console, I pop the lid, sit up, down the entire contents, then scrunch up the plastic and throw it into the passenger-side footwell.
Firing up the engine, I set off at a steady pace, making sure not to draw too much attention to myself.
Being pulled over now would be about my luck, but it also means Connor will find out.
I crawl along, and ten minutes later, I pull up outside my building and breathe out.
I recoil from the stench and crack the door, tumbling out of the car and nearly meeting the pavement with my face.
I lean against the metal of the car, my breath coming in ragged pants.
The building’s lobby is a trek that feels like a fucking marathon.
I push off the Bentley and stagger toward the glass doors, my reflection a ghostly, bruised stranger I don’t want to know.
Inside, the doorman, a young lad named Finn, takes one look at my face and his polite smile vanishes. He makes a move to help, but I shoot him a glare that freezes him in place. I don’t need his pity. I don’t need anyone’s.
The lift ride up to the penthouse is torture. The mirrored walls show me exactly what Liam saw. A fucking disaster. The spare part, broken and stained.
My key card fumbles in the lock before the door clicks open.
I stumble into the sterile silence of my pristine apartment.
White walls, minimalist furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows showing a panoramic view of a city I feel no part of.
It’s a showroom, not a home. I rip off my ruined jacket, the movement sending a fresh bolt of agony through my ribs.
Fuck it. Fuck everything. I head for the bathroom, shedding clothes as I go, leaving a trail of failure on the polished hardwood floors.
The shower is my only destination. I need the cleansing water to burn the night off me.
I turn the chrome tap until it won’t go any further and step under the punishingly freezing spray.
I grunt as it takes my breath away, but it also clears my head.
It’s a fucking ritual at this point. Stand here until my balls shrivel and then down three coffees with two painkillers until I’m sober and can do this all over again later.
“It’s a charmed fucking life,” I mutter and turn my face into the arctic blast, reaching for the soap and sponge. The water stings the split in my lip and the raw scrapes on my knuckles. I scrub at the dried blood on my inked skin, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain.
Feeling halfway back to human, I shut off the water.
Grabbing a towel, I dry off before reaching for my toothbrush, followed by enough mouthwash to mask the scent of stale booze.
Wrapping the towel around my hips, I stride through the bedroom and see that Millie has arrived.
She has tidied the clothes, and the scent of hot coffee wafts through the air.
With a smile, I move through the apartment until I reach the kitchen and see her pouring a mug.
“You’re a godsend, woman.”
“And you’re a fecking mess, man,” she retorts, shoving the coffee at me and then two painkillers.
“Ah, but you love me anyway,” I say, popping the pills and chasing them back with hot, black coffee.
“No, I tolerate you because your da pays me to be here to clean up after your sorry arse.”
The caffeine kicks in, and I grin. “Says you.”
She narrows her eyes. In her late forties and a looker, she wouldn’t have me even if I declared my undying love.
Her husband would have my fucking head, for a start, and I would literally die without her.
It is one relationship I won’t fuck up, even on my drunkest night. The rest… they can go to fucking hell.
I finish the coffee and pour another one as Millie goes off to clean, who knows what?
The apartment is spotless. I’m barely here.
Gripping my mug, already feeling like a new man, I wander back to my bedroom and place the mug on the dresser.
Grabbing some sweats and a tight tee, I pull them on and sit to yank on my socks and running shoes.
“You headed to Seamus’?” Millie asks, eyeing me up when I return to the kitchen for coffee number three, which I down in four gulps.
“Yeah. I need to hit something.”
She tuts at me, but says no more as I grab my keys from the bowl where she placed them after finding them either on the floor or in my pants. I can’t remember. The lift ride down is faster than the one up.
The Bentley roars to life, and I peel away from the curb as the engine growls with power and control. Two things I haven’t had in a long time.
Five minutes later, I pull up outside Seamus’s gym. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and liniment. It’s a cathedral of controlled violence, and it’s the only place I ever feel anything close to peace.
Seamus is punching a bag with controlled strikes, and he looks up as I enter. He takes in my face, the split lip, the bruising bloom on my cheekbone. “O’Neill,” he grunts. “Looks like you lost.”
“Round one,” I correct him, stripping off my tee.
I stalk past the grunting men heaving weights and the rhythmic skip of ropes on wooden floors.
My target is in the back. A heavy bag, scarred and stained, hanging from a rusted chain.
I don’t bother with wraps. The pain will be part of the penance.
I square my shoulders, plant my feet, and let the rage fly.
The first punch is a raw, guttural explosion of everything I’ve been swallowing for the last twelve hours. The impact jars my arm to the shoulder, a brutal shockwave that makes the bruises on my ribs sing.
I hit it again. Harder.
Another punch.
Again.
My knuckles split, a raw scrape of skin against worn leather.
Blood smears on the bag, dark and satisfying.
I ignore the sting, the fire that lances up my arm.
The pain is a good thing. It’s real. It’s a fucking anchor in the shitstorm of my life.
I pour every ounce of failure, every drop of whisky-soaked regret into my fists.
The bag swings, a heavy pendulum marking the rhythm of my self-destruction.
Sweat drips into my eyes, blurring the already bruised world around me.
My breathing comes in ragged, tearing gasps.
I can feel Seamus’s eyes on me, can feel the judgment from every corner of the gym, but I don’t give a fuck.
I hit the bag until my arms are lead, until my ribs are screaming with every twist of my torso, until the only thing left inside me is the hollow, aching burn of exhaustion.
I slump forward, resting my forehead against the still-swaying leather, my bloodied knuckles pressed against the rough surface.
Thirty grand. I still have to find thirty fucking grand.