Chapter Twenty-Four
Ronin
I come to with my head pounding. The left side of my face throbs, the ache running from my jaw up into my temple. I hold back a groan as pressure builds behind my eyes and a high ringing settles into my skull. My stomach rolls. For a second I think I’m going to throw up. I force it back down.
I flex my hands against the arms of the chair I’m sitting in. Thick rope is wrapped tight around my arms and legs. I pull against it slightly, testing it. It doesn’t give.
The room smells of wood smoke, and warmth hits me from one side. There must be a stove burning nearby. A heavy burst of laughter breaks somewhere in the room, and a chair leg grates across the floor. I keep my eyes shut. If they think I’m still out, I’d rather keep it that way for now.
More voices follow, overlapping each other. I recognise one of them—the younger man from the docks. And another.
Malachy.
He scoffs. “Ah now, Ronin. You may as well stop pretending.”
I open my eyes. The room swims for a second before it settles into focus.
I’m in a long stone room with a flagstone floor.
A couple of lamps throw enough light across the space to see by.
There are no windows. Heavy wooden tables run the length of the room, ten men or more settled around them.
Bottles and glasses sit among scattered hands of cards.
The men play and drink like I’m not sitting tied to a chair a few feet away.
Malachy sits at the nearest table, the younger man from the docks beside him. Malachy glances over and smiles. “Take it in, lad. You came a long way to see the place.”
A smirk pulls at my lip. It tugs at the split I can feel there, and I taste blood. “Well,” I say. “Now I’ve seen it. Bring me my wife and we’ll be on our way.”
One of the younger men pushes back his chair and gets to his feet, moving toward me. “You think you’ll get near my cousin again?”
My smirk turns into a grin.
“Declan,” the other man from the docks says softly. Declan stops where he is, jaw tight, his eyes still locked on me.
Malachy glances between us and smiles faintly. “Pay him no mind. We’re all a little protective of our Alannah.” The words land exactly the way he means them to. He’s wrong. Alannah is mine.
“Well,” I say, keeping my voice level, “then you’ll understand why I’m asking.” I look straight at Malachy. “So bring her in.” That earns me a few quiet chuckles around the room.
Malachy tips his head, studying me. “Bring her in,” he repeats.
“Listen to him.” A couple of the men smile into their glasses, but Declan doesn’t.
He’s still standing there, shoulders tight, hands curled at his sides like he’d be happier with them around my throat.
The man beside Malachy says nothing at all.
He just watches me with the same hard look he had on the quay.
Malachy reaches for his drink and takes his time with it. “You’ve crossed an ocean, got yourself picked up off a dock like contraband, and you’re tied to a chair on my land, and you still think you’re in a position to ask me for things.” He lowers the glass. “That’s almost admirable.”
I hold his gaze. “I didn’t come here for admiration.”
“No.” His mouth curves. “You came here because no one ever taught you the difference between wanting and having.” One of the men at his table grunts his approval, tossing a card down.
“Since you’re here, though, introductions are in order.” Malachy gestures lazily with the hand holding his drink. “You’ve met my son, Conor.” So that’s it—the resemblance I noticed on the quay. Seamus’s brother.
Conor tips his head in my direction, then turns back to the cards in his hand.
Malachy flicks his fingers toward Declan. “You’ve already met that one.”
Declan’s lip curls. “More than he deserves.”
Malachy turns his head toward one of the older men seated two chairs down from him, a broad-shouldered man with thick hands wrapped around a tumbler, grey starting at his temples and clear blue eyes.
“Eamon Walsh. That name should sound familiar to you. I believe I mentioned the Walshes in my letter.”
Walsh.
The man gives me a flat look, like I’m shit on his heel and he’s deciding if I’m worth the trouble of scraping off.
My eyes flick to the younger man beside him.
Same blue eyes. Same build. Same hard set to the shoulders.
Must be his son. Finn. He meets my stare, the corner of his mouth ticking up slightly. A fucking dimple appears in his cheek.
Eamon takes a slow drink, then sets his glass down.
“My lad would’ve done right by her.” Nobody argues.
Nobody looks away. I feel my jaw lock. He goes on like he’s discussing the weather.
“Would’ve courted her proper. Would’ve put a roof over her head without turning it into a grave for every decent thing in her.
” His eyes move over me once, cool and dismissive.
“But Seamus chose this instead.” That gets a low murmur out of the men nearest him.
Malachy swirls the whiskey in his glass. “Aye. It’s no surprise my son chose a weak husband for his daughter. He was too weak to carry on the family business here in Ireland. Ran off to Boston to stand second under your da.” His lip curls in a sneer. “Another lad who couldn’t cut it.”
“My wife and our marriage are none of your business,” I say through clenched teeth.
Declan laughs then, one ugly bark of sound. “Your wife?” He takes a step toward me before Conor puts a hand out without even looking at him. Declan stops short, breathing hard through his nose.
Malachy’s voice cuts in. “What wife would that be, Ronin? You were entrusted with my granddaughter, a fine lass, and you proved yourself unfit to keep her.” There’s no heat in it. That’s what makes it worse. No raised voice. No outrage. Just certainty. Flat and final.
Before I can think better of it, the urge to get on my feet and face Malachy hits hard, and I start tugging against the ropes, the chair creaking under me. A couple of the men glance over, but most don’t even bother to look up from their cards or their drinks.
Malachy doesn’t even look at me as he continues.
“I warned her father years ago. Told him Ireland’s where she belonged.
But Seamus had notions. Cormac Byrne had ambition.
Men like them have a talent for convincing themselves they’ve done the right thing.
So they carried her across the water and laid her at the feet of a boy they mistook for a man. ”
I twist against the ropes. “Say what you like about me, but leave my father out of it.” That makes Conor smile for the first time, and it isn’t a pleasant sight.
Malachy looks almost bored. “You don’t get to tell me who I may speak of under my own roof.”
“Speaking of roofs,” I say, making a show of looking around the room. “This where you do business, Malachy? Thought a man like you might manage better than a barn.” That earns a few laughs around the tables. Real laughter this time.
Malachy’s eyes sharpen. “And there he is.” He reaches into the pocket of his coat and draws out a familiar envelope.
The papers. He sets them on the table in front of him and taps them once with two fingers.
“You carried these all the way from Boston,” he says.
“Tucked against your heart, if I’m not mistaken. ” One eyebrow lifts. “Almost romantic.”
My mouth tightens, but I give him nothing.
Malachy tuts softly. “Paulie Shea. There’s a man who’s done all right out of this business.
Two crates of Paddy’s for the crossing, wasn’t it?
You’ll be happy to hear I asked Paulie to hold the ship in harbour after you docked.
Thought it best to keep your passage home ready.
” He tilts his head. “In return he’ll be taking a few more crates than you originally agreed upon when he sails. Seemed a fair trade.”
If he’s hoping for a reaction, he’s not getting one. I don’t give a damn about the extra crates.
He leans back. “I told you on the telephone you weren’t welcome here.
I told you I’d know if you set foot on Irish soil before your boots ever touched it.
I knew when you went looking for Paulie.
I knew what you offered him. I knew the day you boarded.
I knew the hour you docked.” He glances at the envelope.
“And I knew what you brought with you. You’re not difficult to follow, Ronin Byrne. Men full of pride rarely are.”
Malachy opens the envelope and slides the papers halfway out. “The Church already has what it needs. The rest is a formality.” He looks at me over the top of the pages. “You can save us all a little time and sign these now.”
I laugh once through my nose. “No.”
He slides the papers back inside and folds the envelope shut without even glancing down. “That wasn’t me asking.”
“Still no.”
Declan mutters, “Stupid prick.”
Malachy ignores him. “You’ve made a long journey to be told something very simple.” He tucks the envelope back into his coat pocket. “You will not see her. You will not speak to her. You will not write to her. You will not put yourself in her path again.”
I look right back at him. “I didn’t cross an ocean to sit in a chair and be told no.”
“No,” he says softly. “You crossed an ocean because you still haven’t grasped that what you want ceased to matter the day you shamed her.”
He knows exactly what he’s doing. Now the whole room’s watching. Conor reaches for the bottle on the table and pours himself another drink. Declan doesn’t take his eyes off me while Eamon leans back in his chair, watching like he’s waiting to see how much worse I’ll make this for myself.
But I didn’t come this far to stop now. “Alannah is my wife.”