Chapter 30
Sean
Love.
I didn’t really know what that was until Ciara O’Byrne was forced into my life like a life-preserver with claws.
Part of me wants to take it back because what if I’m wrong?
What if what I’m feeling is transference over not drinking?
But the part that isn’t panicking, the part that is calm and in control, knows I’m so far gone with her, there is no coming back.
Even if she never feels the same, I know my soul belongs to her.
I pull out of her, avoiding her eyes, but she murmurs, “Eyes on me,” and I look at her because I can’t not obey her.
“I don’t know if this is love, Sean,” she whispers. “It’s sudden and crazy, and I barely know you. But I am your wife, and I care about you and what happens to you, not just because I was arranged to be here. That’s all I can give you for now.”
I tangle my fingers with hers and kiss her fingertips to hide my disappointment, even though I know better. “That’s enough. I’m not asking for anything you can’t give.”
She looks like she wants to say something, but she stops herself. I let her.
Moving away from her, I pull my joggers up and hope the next time we have sex, it’s in a decent bed, in decent surroundings, with rose petals and chocolates. It’s nothing less than she deserves.
“I can’t wait,” she says, getting up and pulling her pants back on. Her socks and shoes are next. “I’m going to message them to say it’s done, and I want to meet now instead of hanging around with your dead body for hours.”
I snort at her impatience. She is gorgeous. “Works for me.”
She nods and grabs the phone, tapping in a secure message.
“Done,” she says, the screen illuminating the hard set of her jaw. “They bit. Said if I have the body, bring it to the South Side Industrial Park now. Warehouse nine.”
“Let’s go.” I bend down and pull a loose key out from under the mattress. “Old sedan parked out back. Untraceable in case Connor has decided to track us down.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t burst in here already demanding you to go home and be locked away for your safety.”
I grimace. “I’m hoping Dermot and Millie persuaded him otherwise.” It’s unlikely, but it’s why we have to take the sedan.
We move quickly, descending the stairs and slipping out an exit further down the building into the parking lot at the back.
The sedan is still there, a gray, rusted Toyota that looks like it belongs in a scrapyard.
“Get in,” she mutters as I open the trunk.
I make a face, but climb in anyway, resting the Glock against my chest, loose in my hand. “Be sure to stand back when they open it.”
“What if they make me open it?” Her expression is panicked for a second.
“Then make sure to talk so I know which side you’re standing.”
She nods quickly. “Okay, talking. I can do that.”
I give her an encouraging smile as she reaches up to close the lid. She returns it and pulls down. It squeaks and slams shut like a fucking coffin.
The car jostles as she gets in and slams the door shut. The engine croaks over after a few tries, and she revs it to get it going.
Darkness swallows me whole, thick with the scent of gasoline and rusted metal.
It’s a fitting place for a man who spent the last decade burying himself in a bottle, only now, I’m buried in the back of a shitbox Toyota with a Glock resting on my sternum.
The suspension is shot to hell, and every pothole Ciara hits sends a jolt through my spine that rattles my teeth.
I focus on the rhythm of the road to keep the claustrophobia at bay. My thumb brushes the safety, flicking it off. Muscle memory. It’s the only thing I trust right now besides the woman driving this death trap.
My mind ticks over, wondering who it could be that wants me out of the way to get to Ciara. I know in my gut that is the reason for all this. The timing is too coincidental otherwise.
The suspension groans one last time as the car slows, the tires crunching over bits of loose gravel. We’re here.
The engine sputters and dies, plunging me into a silence that rings louder than the road noise.
I lie still, listening to the blood rushing in my ears, counting the beats to keep the claustrophobia from clawing my throat out. I focus on the gun in my hand, the cold reality of the polymer grip grounding me when the darkness tries to convince me I’m already in a coffin.
The driver’s door creaks open, then slams shut.
The seconds tick by. I don’t hear anything. I strain my ears to catch a sound of anything, but it’s quiet.
I tighten my grip on the gun as I hear voices.
“I thought I was meeting with the person who put out the hit, not their sideshow,” Ciara’s voice rings out.
“Boss wants to remain anonymous,” the male voice replies. “Until after I’ve verified O’Neill is dead. You understand the delicacy of this.”
“Well, no, not really,” Ciara says, sounding bored. “I want my money. You and your boss have to understand that I need to go on the run after this. I’m going to have both my father and his on my arse.”
Her emphasis gives me the intel that he is alone.
“Not my problem,” comes the reply. “Take it or leave it.”
She huffs out a breath. “Just get it over with. The latch sticks. You have to give it a good yank.”
Good girl. She’s clearing the line of fire.
The lock tumbles with a harsh metallic clack. The lid pops, and gray light slices through the darkness, blinding me for a split second, followed immediately by the silhouette of a man leaning down to inspect his prize.
I don’t hesitate. I double-tap the center of his chest, the shots deafening in the enclosure, ringing in my ears like a church bell from hell. The man jerks back violently before he collapses out of sight.
I scramble out of the trunk, my legs stiff, nearly tripping over the bumper in my haste to put myself between her and any other threats. I sweep the area with my weapon, chest heaving. It’s a ghost town. Just empty warehouses and the guy bleeding out into the dirt.
“Just him?” I clarify.
She nods as a phone starts to ring. It’s coming from the dead guy’s pants. I crouch down and haul the corpse over to reach into the back pocket of his jeans.
“What does it say?” Ciara breathes, leaning over me.
I chuckle and turn it around to show her the Caller ID. “Boss.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, that’s fucking helpful. I don’t like this, Sean. We are sitting ducks.”
“Get back in the car,” I say and straighten up, sliding my thumb over the screen to open up the line, but I don’t say anything as I get in the car next to Ciara.
“Well?” a voice barks out, and my eyebrow goes up. “Is it done?”
I catch Ciara’s gaze, and she frowns. She doesn’t recognize the voice, but I fucking do.
Son of a fucking bitch.
Connor is going to rip this arsehole a new one, possibly two, before he storms over their territory like a demonic plague from the pits of hell.