Chapter Eighteen
Flynn
We pull up to the docks just after midnight, concrete wet, air filled with salt and diesel. Declan’s already waiting, hands in his pockets, shoulders like iron rods under his suit, but it’s the two standing beside him that make my jaw tick.
John Flanaghan and Doyle.
What the fuck is he doing here?
“What do you need?” I ask, my tone flat, eyes locked on Declan.
He nods toward the warehouse, the one we just unloaded last week. “They’re inside.”
The vein in his neck is bulging, twitching beneath his collar like it’s ready to snap. He rolls his neck side to side, cracking it like a warning.
“Well,” I mutter, glancing at Kaden, then at the boys behind me. “Let’s clean up the mess.”
Declan’s crew fans out toward the front entrance. My men, six in total, peel off behind the building. John and Doyle take the side like they’ve done it a hundred times before.
“Ready?” Declan asks.
I smirk. “Always.”
He slams his boot into the metal door; it swings open with a shriek. The world explodes.
Gunfire erupts like thunder inside a coffin. The steel walls catch every shot, bouncing the sound until it feels like war.
They’re outnumbered, but not outgunned.
“Russian steel!” John yells, ducking behind a stack of crates.
Fucking AKs. I feel the bite of a round zip past my ribs as I dive behind a container, Doyle sliding in beside me. Kaden’s already moved; two shots fired, one man down.
I pivot, my Glock raised, firing at the flash of a muzzle behind a forklift. Blood sprays. Another body drops.
Smoke curls. Shouts echo. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the cacophony of war.
There is movement.
One of them breaks from cover, charging straight at me, gun raised. I try to pivot, but I’m boxed in, with metal behind me, crates to the side. No exit. No angle.
The muzzle lifts.
Shit.
A single shot cracks from the right.
The man stumbles mid-step, his neck jerks, a red bloom erupting just beneath his ear. He drops to his knees, gurgling, then faceplants in his own blood.
Doyle stands behind him, gun still smoking. Silent. Steady. Eyes sharp like he’s waiting to be useful again.
I nod once. “Thanks, kid.”
He doesn’t smile. Just watches me like he wants to prove something.
Declan stands beside a steel container, chest heaving, the veins on his forearms raised like cables. I move in beside him, gun still warm in my hand.
“Kid’s got more balls than Flanaghan,” I mutter.
Declan’s mouth curves. “Aye. Flanaghan pretended to go in but never left the side door. Eejit.”
“Dead weight.”
We lift our guns in the same heartbeat. Two shots from me, one from him; three men hit the ground. The air goes silent but for the metallic drip of blood pooling on concrete.
Kaden steps up, boots splashing through it, when a low groan breaks the quiet. One of them’s still breathing. Declan moves first. I follow, ready to drag answers out of the bastard, but before we reach him, a gunshot cracks.
“Wait—!” Declan roars.
Too late. The body jerks once, then stills.
Flanaghan lowers his weapon, face blank. “We don’t leave anyone alive. That’s the rule, right?”
Declan’s jaw flexes. “After we get answers, you useless fuck.”
He takes a step toward him. Flanaghan meets it, shrugging out of his jacket, squaring his shoulders. The idiot actually swings first. His fist connects with Declan’s jaw in a dull crack.
I grab Kaden before he steps in. “Don’t,” I say. “He touched the leader. He knows the price.”
Declan wipes blood from his mouth and grins, a cold, wolfish thing. “Finally.”
Then he’s on him. A blur of black suit and raw power. Each punch lands with the sound of bone breaking. Flanaghan folds to the floor, coughing, blood spraying his shoes.
Doyle starts forward, panic in his eyes. I catch him by the throat and slam him back into the container.
“Don’t,” I growl in his ear. “Rules are rules. You touch the boss, you pay the cost.”
He nods, breath shaking. I release him.
“Flynn!” Kaden calls. Declan’s still pounding Flanaghan, each strike harder, angrier. The man’s body jerks with every hit.
“Enough.”
I move, hard, fast, slamming my shoulder into Declan. The impact rattles the steel behind him. I twist, catching him under the arms, forcing him back.
He’s a fucking tank, but I’ve got weight and leverage. My muscles burn as I haul him off the man and pin him against the wall.
“Come here, fucker!” Declan snarls, trying to shove me off. His breath hits my face, hot, furious.
“Dec,” I snap. “Calm the hell down.”
He pushes again; I push harder, pressing him into the wall until the fight bleeds out of him.
If there’s anyone who can stop him when he loses it, it’s me. Always has been.
“Flanaghan isn’t worth it,” I hiss close to his ear. “You kill him now, we lose the trail. You want vengeance or control?”
Declan glares at me, chest heaving, knuckles split. “I want him dead.”
“I know,” I say, still holding him there, muscles trembling with the effort. “But not tonight.”
His eyes stay locked on mine for a beat, then he exhales and finally stops fighting.
Around us, no one moves. Every man knows better than to interfere when the leader loses control.
Doyle and what’s left of Flanaghan’s crew step in, hauling the bastard out of the warehouse. His boots drag through the blood streaking the concrete.
“He’s not dead,” Kaden says, coming up beside me.
“Yet,” Declan mutters. His chest still heaves, eyes wild, suit spattered in red. He strips off his jacket, the white shirt beneath soaked through, clinging to the muscle across his shoulders.
“Twice in one week,” I say, backing off a step to give him air. “You’re running out of patience.”
“I’m done with patience, mate.” He wipes his face on the ruined jacket, smearing blood across his jaw. “Founding family or not, he keeps this up and he’ll be sleeping with the fishes like every other rat I’ve buried.”
I glance over the bodies scattered across the floor, the stink of cordite still heavy in my throat. “Weird move, coming here just to put a bullet in that man. Check them for IDs, tattoos, anything that tells us who the fuck they were.”
The men obey. Boots splash through crimson puddles, steel echoing underfoot.
Flanaghan’s gone, but Doyle hesitates, eyes darting between me and the corpse pile.
“Kid,” I call.
He comes over, nervous as hell. I can hear it in his breath. “How’d you end up working for him?”
“He—uh—he was friends with my father,” Doyle stammers. “Did some jobs together. When I couldn’t find work, he offered me one.”
“But now you’re with him full-time,” I say. He nods, throat bobbing.
“He trusts me. Says I’m good with a gun. Smart.” His gaze lifts to mine for a heartbeat before dropping again.
I want to push harder, but I can’t read yet if he’s a snake or just a scared kid.
“Good work tonight.” I clap his shoulder once. He flinches, then walks off to help search the dead.
Declan watches him go. “What d’you think?”
“Not sure,” I answer. “Feels genuine, but have Connor dig anyway. See what he finds.”
Declan hums, still breathing heavy. He grips my shoulder. “Thanks, mate. I was gonna kill him.”
“I know.” My mouth lifts. “He earned it.”
We start for the cars. The adrenaline fades slow, leaving the ache of spent muscles and ringing ears.
By the time I roll my shoulders, my mind’s already somewhere else—home.
Her.
Autumn.
Lying in one of my beds, under my roof.
I exhale, a sound half growl, half sigh.
“You can’t fuck her,” Kaden says quietly, because of course he knows what’s running through my head.
“I know,” I mutter.
Not yet.
The first time hadn’t meant a damn thing. But now she’s living in my house, breathing the same air, walking past files the Consortium would kill to protect. When they find out a civilian’s inside the walls, there’ll be questions—threats.
For now, she’s a prisoner. That lie will hold… for a little while, but with Flanaghan stirring the waters and Declan ready to drown anyone who crosses him, I can already feel the tide turning.
I haven’t slept. Not a fucking wink. My mind loops the warehouse on repeat. Flanaghan materialising like smoke to sink a bullet in the last bastard still breathing.
Fuck.
He’s a reckless prick sometimes, but betrayal? He wouldn’t. I hope.
I stalk to the shower and crank the dial until the water scalds.
Grab a towel. Then I catch it. Her soft footsteps padding across the floor next door.
One quiet pad and my brain flips traitor.
Her cunt clenching around my fingers yesterday.
Those perfect tits jutting like arrows aimed straight at my chest. My cock jerks hard, instant and aching.
I could smash through that wall, haul her in here, slam her against the tiles and fuck every ounce of fight out of her until she’s limp and leaking.
Christ, I want to. Need to, but I need to check the plans for the Bratva at the hotel.
I step under the spray. Water burns like punishment, steam chokes the air thick and hot. Still my cock stands rigid, veins pulsing, demanding. It’s got its own goddamn plan.
Fuck this.
I fist it rough. Hips snap forward. Breath hisses between clenched teeth.
“Fucking girl’s driving me insane,” I snarl low, pumping harder.
Veins throb thick along my shaft and forearms. Muscles lock tight across my chest and abs, every ridge straining under the water.
Tonight I’m done with games. I’ll bury myself balls-deep while she screams my name.
Watch her cunt drip down my thighs. Mark every inch of skin until she wakes branded, remembers exactly who I am.
One brutal stroke. Another. Grip slick and punishing. I slam my free palm against the cold tile. Chest heaves. Water sluices over my inked shoulders and down the deep V carving my hips. Orgasm barrels closer, coiling viciously in my gut.
Tonight she will swallow every drop while I choke her with my belt.