TWENTY-SEVEN Killian
TWENTY-SEVEN
Killian
We call Dr. Hino.
The aloof doctor arrives at Callahan House with his fedora and leather medical bag, offering few words before he sets to work in Ronan’s office.
Standard considering he’s been stitching up criminals longer than I’ve been alive.
He doesn’t even blink when he walks into a room full of bleeding Irishmen. It’s all part of a normal day at work for him. He’s the underworld’s treasured private physician for a reason.
Tonight he’s got plenty to do. Between me and Lochlan, we’ll make sure he earns his paycheck.
He removes the bullet fragments from Lochlan’s gunshot wound first, then moves onto stitching him up. I’m waiting my turn in one of the armchairs, shirtless and bruised up like a piece of fruit from the produce section.
Fights always leave you feeling like hell afterward.
But it’s especially rough when going toe-to-toe with a powerhouse like Sharapova. I’ve got bruises and swelling all over, along with my brow that’s been split open and the graze on my shoulder that’s still bleeding.
Ronan stands by the fireplace, arms crossed and a disapproving, agitated look on his face. He seems torn between going off on us and congratulating us for what we accomplished.
“You’re lucky to have made it out alive,” he says. “Only three of you barging onto Fedorov’s main estate? You know what a suicide mission that was?”
“Yet here we are,” Lochlan replies through gritted teeth as Hino pokes away at his flesh with a needle and thread. “Alive… and mostly in one piece.”
“Mostly.” He shakes his head. “It was fucking stupid.”
None of us object to that remark. It wasn’t only fucking stupid what we did, it was risky as hell.
But we knew that going in. I knew that the moment I made the decision to abandon my match at Madison Square Garden and go rescue Jhene.
“Do not worry,” Hino says coolly. “You’re not the only ones who needed patching up tonight. My son was up to some mischief of his own, it seems.”
I glance over at the Japanese doctor, my mind going back to what I’ve seen tonight. I’m pretty sure I know who the other visitor the Raguzins had tonight was.
“Your son’s Kai Hino, right? He wouldn’t’ve paid Fedorov Raguzin a visit tonight, would he?”
Hino gives no hint either way. His face remains neutral, his ministrations on Lochlan skillful and steady handed.
“I don’t discuss family business,” he says. “My son does as he wishes.”
Soon the Japanese doctor moves onto me, spending the next half hour treating the battle wounds I’ve collected over the night.
Once done, he packs up his bag and heads out the door.
Ronan closes it after him. “You should’ve told me. Before you went charging off on your little rescue mission, you should’ve come to me.”
“What would that’ve done?” I fire back. “You’re telling me you would’ve offered up some buttonmen? Loaned me some firepower? We both know you wouldn’t’ve lifted a finger to help me get Jhene back.”
He doesn’t bothering denying it, simply scowling in answer. He strolls across the office and throws himself into the chair behind his desk.
“Still stupid and reckless.”
“Trust us, Ro. Nobody’s disputing that,” Lochlan says, green eyes gleaming with dark humor.
“We’re aware shit could’ve ended a lot worse than it did.
But look at it this way—from what the stray told us, Fedorov took a bullet to the gut.
He was bleeding out when she left him. So you and the clan benefit from our little reckless mission. ”
“That does work in our favor,” Ronan admits.
“There’s still a chance he might not be dead.” I wince walking over to the minibar to fix myself a glass of whiskey. I’ve got two broken ribs and it hurts to even breathe, let alone walk. “But even if he survived, a wound like that’s gonna slow down a man as old and frail as he is.”
“Sounds like it might leave the Bratva scrambling to regroup.”
“Except when Rurik returns,” Lochlan points out. “Seems he was out of town. Missed all the action. He’ll be coming home to find out his dear ol’ dad’s knocking on death’s door.”
Ronan waves an unconcerned hand. “We’ll handle Rurik when that time comes.”
“There’s The Deathless on the back burner too—he was absent tonight,” I add, guzzling down the whiskey I’ve poured. “Thought that was interesting.”
“Probably up to something.”
“Fedorov’s a cocky bastard,” Lochlan says. “He didn’t count on needing his A team against us. Thought a few low ranking henchmen would be enough.”
“It was ’til our special visitor helped us out,” I say.
Ronan tilts his head in curiosity. “You mean Hino’s son? What part did he play in all this?”
“It wasn’t clear,” I answer. “But he set off the alarm the second time and distracted Fedorov’s men. That’s when we were able to turn the tables on ’em.”
“The Bratva and Yakuza have never been chummy,” Lochlan says. “Seems we’re not the only ones who’ve got a problem with Fedorov and the Russians.”
Ronan reclines in his chair, arms folded behind his head. “Maybe we need to send this Kai Hino some flowers as a thank you.”
Eventually, I leave Ronan and Lochlan in the office and go wandering Callahan House. Jhene’s here somewhere, holed up in whatever room Oona’s stashed her in.
It takes me five minutes and cracking open a few different doors to finally find the right one.
Oona’s fussing over Jhene like a mother hen, applying a Band-Aid to a scrape on her elbow and lecturing her about the bath salts she’s placed by the tub.
“They’ll help with the soreness,” she says. “Don’t be afraid to use them. Empty the whole bloody jar if you must.”
Jhene offers a small, hesitant nod as if unsure what else to do. She’s never been one to easily accept letting someone care for her.
Simone’s sitting beside her on the bed, a sympathetic frown on her face. “Oona, you’ve already told her three times. I’m sure Jhene will use as much of the bath salts as she wants.”
“It’s my job to remind her!” Oona says defensively, hands notched on her thick waist. “And don’t forget to change into the pajamas we’ve provided. Those are straight from Simone’s closet. They’re real silk!”
I clear my throat, finally interrupting the moment. The three women look up in unison.
“Can I have a moment with Jhene?” I ask. “Alone.”
“Oh,” Simone says, glancing from me to Jhene. She rises from the bed, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Of course you can. Come, Oona. Let’s go check on the other Callahan brother. He was shot tonight or something.”
Both women pass me up at the door, except Oona pauses for a quick second. She issues a warning look and says, “You be nice to this girl. She’s been through enough without you being mean to her.”
I shake my head, half tempted to laugh at how she sizes me up.
Oona’s an old-school Irishwoman, neither gentle nor timid. She’s the backbone of Callahan House for good reason and probably wouldn’t hesitate to knock somebody over the head the way many grandmothers do.
I wait for us to be alone before shutting the door and shoving a hand through my hair. I hadn’t planned this far ahead.
Suddenly, me and Jhene are alone together for the first time in over a week. Since our big fight when I discovered her burner phone.
What the hell am I supposed to even say to her?
It’s an understatement to say things are a mess. Everything about the situation’s difficult and complicated on both sides.
But as soon as I look at her, I’m aware my feelings have gone nowhere. They course through me, beating hard inside my chest.
…inside my damn heart.
I’m in love with this girl. A complete fucking goner as far as she’s concerned.
It’s been like that for weeks now, even as I’ve fought it and denied what was happening.
I draw a heavy breath and sort through where to begin.
“Um…” she murmurs. She goes from peering at the floor beneath her bare feet to sneaking a glance up at me. “Hey?”
“Hey,” I answer. We pause again, more uncertainty swirling in the air. I take a couple steps closer. “Thanks for… for rooting for me during the fight.”
Her brows raise in question, confusion flitting across her features.
“I heard you,” I say. “In the middle of it. When I almost got my ass knocked out. I was down on the mat and heard your voice above the others. It helped. Made me push harder.”
“Oh,” she says, fussing with a button on the folded up pajamas she’s been given. “Right. It’s what every girl wants to watch. Her boyfriend’s blood spraying across the floor as he’s knocked down.”
It occurs to her only half a second later what she’s said. Her eyes widen behind her glasses and the faintest flush creeps onto her cheeks, a light pink shade on brown skin.
“I mean… um, bad word choice,” she mumbles. “Sorry.”
“I understood what you meant,” I say. My hand finds my hair again, fingers sifting through the strands as I settle on addressing what’s necessary. “Jhene… I owe you an apology.”
“Killian… don’t.” She shakes her head.
“Too late. Because I am sorry—for all the shit that’s happened.
I should’ve given you the chance to explain yourself.
That night, when I found the phone... I should’ve listened instead of assuming the worst. I should’ve been open-minded about it.
Trusted that what we had was real. So I’m sorry. For all of it.”
“No,” she says glumly, dropping her gaze to the floor again. “I’m the one who wasn’t honest with you. I kept things from you. You deserved to know about the burner and the fact that I was still in contact with Fedorov. I should’ve told you the truth from the beginning.
“But I was scared and I didn’t know how and I just...” She trails off, pressing her lips together as if holding back a sob. “I never planned on developing feelings for you. But the longer I was in your world, the realer it became. The more I wanted to stay.”
A few seconds go by where we let our apologies hover in the room with us. We digest what’s been said and the many regrets we seem to share.