Chapter 3
FIONA
My kidnapper makes me sit in the middle of his couch as he makes a call.
I fidget with the hem of the shirt I wear—his shirt, so big on me it’s a dress, reaching my knees.
I still don’t know what I’m doing here. Why did he take me?
Why doesn’t he ever mention stealing my money or something?
Yeah, he took my phone from me and my wallet, but they’re both in sight, untouched.
He doesn’t want my money. Then what does he want?
The kidnapper kneels next to me, his phone in hand.
His fingers are so big, so meaty, the device looks like a toy.
I watch him call someone, and it rings several times before the person picks up.
A man appears on the screen, older than my kidnapper, who must be in his forties.
This man has hoary hair, combed away from his face.
His mustache is also white, trimmed so straight it must have been made with a ruler.
Though his skin is thin, stretched over his sharp cheekbones, he is anything but the image of a good old man.
His eyes are hard, pools of nothingness, staring at the phone like it did something wrong to him.
His sharp jaw is set in almost anger, and his aquiline nose makes him look like a bird of prey, ready to swoop in and capture me.
I shudder, then close my hands into fists, sinking into the couch, hoping I’ll disappear.
My captor opens his mouth, but the man on the phone cuts him in. “Let me see her.” His voice is as hard as the look on his face.
The phone turns in my direction; the white-haired man opens a smirk the moment our gazes meet. He studies me, narrowing his eyes, analyzing. I feel like a product. Like he’s judging my price. I look away.
“Do not be upset, Fiona Byrne,” he says. Why do they know me? How do they know my name? I’m no one of importance. “This is a family reunion.”
His words catch my interest. I snap my attention back to him. “I have no family.”
“Oh, but you do. Your father is very much alive, though I’m not the happiest man about that.”
My father? “I don’t have a father,” I insist, but my voice trembles this time.
My stomach feels weird. I mean, of course, I have a father, but he was merely a sperm donor.
Someone who impregnated my mother then abandoned her.
She never liked to talk about it. She never told me he left her, but the memory of him hurt her so much I’m sure that’s what happened.
“But you do,” he repeats, his smirk widening. All this time, my kidnapper just stays there, holding the phone, unmoving like a statue. “And he has been a lifelong enemy, Fiona. I’m sure he’ll enjoy knowing I have you.”
A knot tightens in my throat. Is that why I’m here? Because the sperm donor who created and then abandoned me is someone important? I can’t believe this. I can’t believe someone kidnapped me and is trying to sell me to my father, the man who never gave a shit.
A wry chuckle leaves my lips. “You’re going to have a hard time with that,” I challenge the man. “I never knew my father. He won’t care.”
The smirk never leaves the old man’s lips.
It makes me want to slap him, just to see him doing any other expression.
“Family is still family,” he says with a sort of finality that tells me he’s done with me.
His eyes look for my kidnapper. “Keep her in there until further notice, Killian. You’re doing a good job. ” And he ends the call.
I can’t take it another second. Shooting to my feet, I rush to the bedroom and climb under the sheets.
I bring my knees to my chest, hugging myself close, burying my face in my legs.
I don’t care how immature this looks. Pain rattles through me.
This man I’ve never known, this father who never cared, is the entire reason I was kidnapped.
He broke my mother’s heart, left us living through hardships, and now I also have to deal with this.
Whoever he is, he must be someone with money.
Someone who could pay for my ransom. If he had so much money, why wouldn’t he help us?
Why didn’t he help my mother with her hospital bills when she got sick?
Tears spring to my eyes. I hate this man. I hate this sperm donor who never helped. Who never even tried.
Soft steps enter the bedroom. The bed shifts with his weight as he sits down next to me. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t force me out of my cocoon. I hear him breathing, and the sound of it calms me down.
“My father uses people, Fiona,” he says. “Don’t take it personally. He’ll use whoever he can to get what he wants. He’s always been like this, even to me.”
I peek from under the sheets. “Your father?” He nods. “Why do you let him?”
“Family is family,” he says the same thing his father did, but there’s a bitterness to the way he says it. Like he doesn’t believe it, or like he’d rather not believe it. “I’m sorry he’s using you to get to your father. Byrne has been a lifelong enemy of my family.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Why? What did he do?”
He shrugs. “They’re competitors. He and my father sell stuff to the same areas.”
Stuff? What kind of stuff? I narrow my eyes, trying to guess it.
This man is all rough edges, handsome but hard.
Not a marble statue, but granite, with ragged, broken pieces.
“What does your father sell?” My voice comes out small.
If they deal with kidnapping people, I’m pretty sure they can’t be good.
The man sitting next to me looks away. There’s something like shame on his face. Doesn’t he agree with his family business? “Guns. Drugs. You know, the usual.”
“The usual?” I snort because I sell the usual in the bar. Beer. Whisky. Guns are not the usual.
“The usual for the mob.”
The word consumes the sound in the room. It’s there, hanging between us, feeding off the light. The mob? His family is part of the mob? Realization hits me like a slap.
“My father is part of the mob?” I squeal. He merely nods. He doesn’t look like he enjoys it. Maybe I could use that. “You don’t enjoy being in the mob, do you?”
He takes a beat, then shakes his head. “Too problematic. I’d rather have a regular life and do some blue-collar work. Something with my hands. My father keeps bringing me back, and I was raised to be useful.” His eyes widen like he thinks he said too much. His jaw clenches.
I sit up, the sheets falling to my lap. “Then let’s run away,” I blurt. “Come with me. There’s a mechanic across the street from my bar. You could work there, and I would give you free beer for the rest of your life.”
He stares at me, then the ghost of a smile crosses his face. “We can’t do that. It’s not that simple.”
“Of course it is,” I insist, but he gets to his feet.
“We can leave, and you won’t pick up your father’s calls...
” He keeps moving to the door. He won’t stop; he won’t listen to me.
I don’t know how his father raised him, but it seems he wanted a soldier, not a son.
“Killian!” I cry his name out. The name I heard his father use.
He stops and turns, taking a step out of the bedroom. Something glints in his eyes as he looks at me. As he takes me in. There’s a rope between us, taut, and pressure pushes into my ears. Air locks in my lungs. I’m hypnotized by the mix of pain and wonder in his eyes when our gazes connect.
Then the moment shatters and Killian takes a step back. His hand falls on the doorknob as he looks away. “I’ll bring you lunch in an hour,” he says, then closes the door.
And in the pit of misery I bury myself in, I almost miss it. I almost don’t notice it. Killian doesn’t lock the door this time.