Chapter One
Flynn
Six Months After
“How was the belated honeymoon?”
He looks at me, one eyebrow up. “Good…”
“What? Can’t I ask?” I shrug, rolling my shoulders; the muscles tighten under my shirt.
“You could just wait until this fucker stops screaming and we aren’t stepping on blood and guts.” Declan moves around the man and pulls his hair so he’s facing me.
Peter Kellan. Another deep shit who thought he could steal from us while Declan took a one-month honeymoon to Italy. He wanted to show Viviana her mother’s town, and I still think he went to kill her sister but didn’t tell anyone.
“So?” I ask the fucker again as I lean in, grabbing his chin and thumbing another tooth loose. He screams; blood sprays and beads on my knuckles.
“I—” He gags on the blood. “I’m sorry.”
I roll my eyes. Of course you are.
“Mister Callaghan, I didn’t mean to—” He coughs.
I step back, giving Declan space as his brothers bring the concrete blocks.
Kian and Connor are, besides Declan and my security chief, the only people I trust. The Irish Consortium has four families: the Callaghans, the Bradys, basically me, my uncle and his family, the Flanaghans, and the Keeffes.
Four families that control the docks. No one ships anything or makes deals in this city without our say-so.
He screams when he sees the concrete blocks. Kian chuckles. “Come on now, you knew this would happen.”
Connor chains his legs, and Declan lands another punch so hard the man goes out cold.
“Finally he’s out.” I walk to the counter and rinse my hands; my white shirt is more red than its original colour. Another one to burn. The warm iron smell clings to my skin.
“I need to ask you a favour.” Declan reaches for the sink next to me.
“Sure.” I roll my shoulders, the tension slipping from my traps with each pull of muscle.
We walk outside. The sea air hits us, briny and clean. For a second it feels like the two hours inside never happened. Almost enough to wipe it from the edge of me.
“Viviana needs some pictures for a stylist.” Declan leans on the steel wall of the warehouse while I swing a leg over my bike.
“She wants me to model for him?” I grin. Declan chuckles; a sleeve rolls up, and tattoos peek from under his shirt.
“Arsehole.” He shakes his head. “She asked if they could use your club.”
“Which one?” I straddle the bike and pick my helmet. I need to take the edge off.
“Teine.”
I nod. “Sure.”
“She’ll text you the details later.” He claps my shoulder; I give him a smirk.
I start the bike. The beast rumbles under me; I put the helmet on and drive off. The wind is a blessing after two hours in a warehouse. My hands still taste faintly of iron.
The Callaghans love to torture; it’s their method, though Declan likes the fist fights as much as I do. When I’m in charge, we fight. I love the rush: the crack of bone under my knuckles, the sour heat that blooms when a man quits fighting. It makes me feel clean.
The street blurs. Darkness swallows the docks as I head toward town.
I have a house near Declan on the outskirts, barely used.
I got it after his penthouse was attacked last year, a security thing.
He was right: it’s harder to secure a building full of offices and tenants than a lonely mansion.
Still, the centre of the city is where I’d like to be.
From my penthouse I can see it all, including my club, Teine.
Red velvet, black leather, industrial furniture. Packed every night.
Insomnia keeps me awake; instead of staring at a wall, I go there, drink, watch, fuck. Could be worse.
My building comes into view, massive and modern. The gate opens at my nod. The bike’s sound echoes off the concrete as I roll down. Near the private elevator is Kaden, my chief of security and a close friend. He’s a wall. He moves like a man who’s ready for a fight.
“Finally,” he grunts. I smirk.
“Missed your shiny face.” I remove my helmet and walk toward him.
“How was the…drive?”
“It was good. Another one to feed the fish.” I shrug as we walk to the elevator. I punch the code, and the machine rises.
This elevator is private. Only I, Kaden and the Callaghans have the code. It stops at the penthouse.
When the doors open, Kaden steps in first, always playing the role of a bodyguard from hell waiting for someone to come at me. The apartment is dim, all black and grey. It’s my sanctuary.
“Are you going to Teine tonight?” Kaden tosses his jacket aside and collapses onto the couch. He’s six-foot-six and two-sixty, a walking brawl.
“Maybe.”
I head to my room, toss the bloody shirt into the bin and go to the bathroom. The mirror reflects the day: blood, sweat and boredom. I tilt my head and study my chest. I need a new tattoo. My arms are full, my back too, but the neck and chest still have room.
The water heats up, and I step into the shower, resting my forehead on the tiles as the heat tries to wash the day away.
My muscles stay coiled; the veins at my temple throb with a leftover edge.
I scrub the warehouse off me: the sour iron on my hands, the grit under my nails.
I dress in a black shirt, suit pants, boots, leather jacket with simple, clean lines.
I walk out and hear Kaden laugh from the living room bar. “I knew we would be leaving.”
“You don’t have to come, mate.” I grab the bike keys.
“The fuck I don’t. You have that killer look in your eyes.” He follows me to the garage. I swing a leg over the bike while Kaden climbs into his bulletproof SUV with enough guns hidden in there to start a war.
The night’s cold and still; the streets are loud. We pull up behind the club, and the line snakes toward the alley. The bouncer already expecting me. I head straight for the VIP balcony. The waitress drops my drink as I sit; Kaden scans the room, hunting potential threats.
“Relax.” I grunt and down my whisky in one pull, the burn hot and sharp. Kaden finally settles and sips his Guinness, eyes flicking to the bar. “Dina’s here.” He murmurs, then looks to find her.
Dina MacCally: rich parents, eager to please, no backbone. Too submissive, too rehearsed. Most women from prominent families are taught to give us what we want. That’s why I stay single. I fuck and leave before daylight. No strings.
“Flynn Brady,” she purrs. I tilt my head and meet her; she flushes, her eyes drop to my hands, then to my tattooed forearms.
“Dina.” I raise my glass. “Dance for me, sweetheart.” It’s an order; she obeys.
She grinds in front of me, hips circling to the beat. I spread my legs, one arm on my thigh, the other holding the glass. Her dress rides up; the room smells of sweat and perfume. Kaden exhales, bored already.
My phone buzzes with a message from Viviana.
“Thank you so much for lending us the club for the photoshoot. I can’t be there; I have another meeting, but Autumn will be there taking the pictures along with three models, the stylist and a makeup artist. It should take three to four hours. Can they be there after lunch, around two?”
Oh, fuck no.
I sit up straighter, reading the message over and over. “Motherfucker,” I mutter. Kaden leans in and grins like a dog smelling a bone; I want to wipe that grin off his face.
“So all that work last month to avoid Miss Autumn, and now she’ll be at your club?” He snorts, half-laugh, half-wheeze.
“Flynn?” Dina’s voice comes from the table, and I look up. I can’t do this now.
“You can go,” I say, rising.
“Are you leaving?” Her voice goes higher, embarrassed. Her eyes drop.
“Yeah. Enjoy your night.” I turn and head down the stairs.
“No happy ending?” Kaden calls after me.
“No,” I snap. There’s something about Autumn that unlocks the fucked-up part of me I’ve kept latched for a decade.
She’s been working with Viviana full-time; they build and maintain websites for the city’s rich. I’ve been avoiding Declan’s mansion like the plague because I know she’s there.
“Home?” Kaden asks, unlocking the SUV.
“No. I need blood.” He hates it when I say that; he knows what I mean.
I pull my helmet on. The bike roars; a woman near the alley flinches and screams. We head east, to the Keeffes’ fight pit.
Nothing fancy, just pissed men and cheap beer.
Tonight, I don’t want pretty or practised.
I want to smash something that isn’t mine.
I want the crack of bone and the immediate, stupid ache that proves I’m still alive.
Fuck me.
We arrive at the docks, and Christian Keeffe is already at the door; Kaden probably texted him that I was coming. He stands broader than I remember, hands folded, the light catching the gold at his temple.
“Brady.” Christian chuckles and reaches for my hand. Nolan was the old head of the Keeffe family, a piece of shit, but Christian keeps his head down, works, obeys.
“You got anything for me?” I ask as we move inside. The place smells like old blood and whisky, piss and sweat. Money slides between hands. Concrete, benches, two bars, music low and heavy.
“Depends.” Christian points to the ring. “That fucker’s taken two of my lads; he’s rough.”
I look. Big guy, power, no finesse. Thick neck, heavy shoulders. He moves like a bulldozer. I’m six-five and two-twenty, and this guy is even bigger, and that’s exactly what I need.
“I’ll take him,” I say, stepping to the side and peeling off my jacket. Kaden watches the room.
“You are seriously going to let him fight him?” Christian asks, nodding at the man. Kaden shrugs.
“It’s not him I’m worried about.” He lights a cigar. I unwind my shirt and feel the cool air on my sweaty skin.
When I step into the ring, the other bloke looks straight at Keeffe; he knows who I am and what it costs if something goes wrong. Here, inside the ropes, we’re all equal for a second.
“Don’t kill him,” Christian says, laughing too loud. “Declan will have my ass.”
I crack my neck and roll my shoulders. The text from Viviana is a hot coal behind my ribs; my blood is pumping fast. I raise my hands and bait him. He comes at me like a bull. The first hit lands on my ribs, and the pain burns like a brand. I taste copper and grin.
The ring floor is slick, sweat and blood stamped into the concrete. The crowd closes in, pressing heat and stink, but all I see is him. Wide chest, thick arms, a fucking tree trunk with fists.
He lunges, swinging for my jaw. I duck low, ribs still burning from the first hit, and drive my fist into his gut. The sound is wet, the breath knocked out of him in a grunt. He swings again; knuckles scrape my cheek, the sting sharp, the taste of copper on my tongue.
Good. I need that taste.
I slam my shoulder into his chest, shove him back against the ropes. The crowd howls. My blood surges, pulse hammering in my ears. He claws for me, grabs my arm, but I twist free and bury my fist into his face. Cartilage crunches. Blood sprays warm across my knuckles.
And for one second—just one—Autumn’s face flashes in my head. Bent over her laptop, glasses sliding down her nose, oblivious. Innocent. The kind of girl who should never be in a place like this. The kind of girl who should never be anywhere near me.
My grip tightens. I hit harder. Again. Again.
The man staggers, his nose split, mouth leaking red. He charges, wild, no technique left. I let him come. My fist meets his jaw with a crack that echoes through the pit. He drops.
The crowd roars. My chest heaves, sweat slick on my skin. My knuckles throb, split and raw, but it feels clean.
I spit blood onto the floor and look down at him, twitching on the ground. One more punch and I could end it. I almost do.
Instead, I lift my head, jaw tight, and breathe through the ache. I can’t shake her. Autumn. She’s in my veins now, and that thought is more dangerous than any fight.
My breathing is still ragged when the ref signals it’s over. The crowd is already shifting, cash sliding from hand to hand, booze sloshing. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand; blood streaks across my knuckles. It isn’t mine. Not all of it.
Kaden pushes through the bodies, cigar still clamped between his teeth, grinning like a bastard.
“You got what you wanted?” His voice is rough with smoke.
I flex my jaw; it aches where the punch landed. “For now.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing. “You’re wound tighter than normal, boss. Usually a fight knocks it out of you.”
I roll my shoulders, cracking my neck. The ache feels good, but the coil in my chest is still there. Still her. Autumn. Freckles, lips pressed together in concentration. She shouldn’t be in my head, not here, not now.
Kaden’s grin shifts. He sees it. He always sees it. “What is it then? You want to fight more, or you want to fuck?”
The crowd noise fades under the weight of the question. My fists clench, blood sticky between my fingers. I should say fight. That’s always the answer. But the image of her won’t leave.
I snarl and shoulder past him, heading for the exit. “Neither.”
Kaden laughs behind me, too loud, too sure. “Then you’re fucked, boss.”
He’s right.