Chapter 48
DOMINIC
Ciaran and Cathal take three of the security team stationed at the house.
I take James and Lewis, leaving Logan, Matt, and Dylan at the house.
I don’t like leaving Aoife here, but I can’t risk taking her with me.
Not just because she’d be an accomplice, but because it’s one thing knowing what I’m capable of, and entirely another to witness it in action.
It will be brutal. Like the brutality he showed the women he was trafficking. And like the brutality he threatened my wife with.
Which is why I’m going to start with a broken baseball bat and finish with it up his ass.
‘Be careful,’ Aoife instructs me as I stride towards the BMW. James and Lewis are waiting inside with the engine running.
The rain has finally subsided. A full moon hangs brightly in the sky.
‘You never have to worry about me,’ I promise her.
‘Come home safe,’ she repeats, then presses her lips to mine.
I can taste her fear. ‘I promise, Aoife, nothing, nothing and no one is capable of taking me from you.’
She nods then. I kiss her once more before getting into the car. The second she closes the front door, we tear off down the driveway. Dylan mans the gate. James nods at him as the gates swing open. If anyone asks, I was here all night. And we’ll doctor the CCTV to prove it.
The warehouse sits ten miles from the house, tucked behind a wall of gnarly trees that soar high into the sky.
The building itself is a concrete shell with a steel roller door.
Motion lights snap on as we pull up, bleaching the gravel yard in a harsh white glare.
The BMW crunches to a stop. Lewis kills the engine. Silence settles between us.
I grab the baseball bat and step out of the vehicle. The scent of wet grass mixed with oil from machinery that hasn’t moved in months mingles in the air. And beneath it—the faint copper edge of blood.
Two more of my men stand at either side of the shutter door. Shoulders squared. Faces expressionless. ‘Boss.’
I nod once, and the floodlight above the entrance flickers, then steadies, throwing long shadows across the gravel, distorting shapes, stretching them into something monstrous.
James falls into step on my left. Lewis on my right. The roller door is shut. Locked from the outside. Kavanagh is contained.
I glance back once—towards the direction of my house. Aoife is there—safely tucked away from the monster behind the metal door.
‘Is he conscious?’ I ask.
‘Just about,’ one of the lads replies. ‘He’s still talking shit.’
I smile. Psycho Dom is officially activated and—spoiler alert—there’s nothing romantic about this version of me. I flex my fingers once, then step forward. ‘Open it.’
The chain rattles, metal groans against metal, and the door lifts slowly. The smell hits harder now. Blood. Piss. And something stronger underneath it—–fear.
The door rattles fully open. Rory Kavanagh sits slumped against a metal support beam, wrists bound behind him with industrial ties.
His face is a mess of swelling and split skin.
One eye is nearly closed. Dark dried blood decorates his nose, jaw, and his once white shirt.
From the amount of blood staining the floor, he’s got minutes left, not hours. So much for dragging this out.
Fucking Ciaran had all the fun.
But Kavanagh, the cunt, is still smiling. ‘Took you long enough,’ he croaks.
I step inside. The concrete floor is slick beneath my boots. ‘I was busy with my beautiful wife.’
Rory spits, then drags in a breath that never quite lands—ragged, wet, like something inside him is tearing wider every time he tries. Ciaran really did a number on him.
‘Sounds like you’re running out of air,’ I say, watching the way his chest stutters instead of rises. ‘Shame. I had so many plans for this baseball bat.’ I stand. ‘You threatened to rape my wife,’ I say evenly. ‘Fuck every hole she owns.’ My rage is blinding. ‘You trafficked women into my city.’
He huffs something that might be a laugh, but it collapses into a choke. Blood slicks his lips when he swallows it back down.
Every inhale is shorter than the last. Shallow. Desperate. His ribs barely move, like his body’s already given up trying. There’s a faint, sickening hitch at the end of each breath—as if his lungs are folding in on themselves.
I take another step closer, slow, deliberate. Lewis nudges a halogen lamp towards us. Harsh white light washes over him. ‘Leave us,’ I say. James hesitates for half a second. Then they step back, not far, but far enough.
‘You sent men to my house.’ My voice is low and cold.
Rory spits again, blood colours the floor. ‘You took what was mine.’
‘She was never yours,’ I snarl. ‘But she is mine.’
‘You’re no better than me,’ he says, as I stalk towards him, twirling the baseball bat languidly.
His eyes follow the motion, then flick back to meet mine.
‘I bet you fucked her.’ His lips curl, like he’s imagining it.
Cunt. ‘Took her virgin pussy every which way you fucking wanted,’ he pants, grasping for his next breath.
‘Yes, I did.’ My lips lift in a cruel grin.
‘And she loved every second, you know why?’ I crouch in front of him, resting my forearms loosely on my thighs.
‘Because she wanted me to. Begged me to. Unlike you, I don’t force women to do things they don’t want to do.
I don’t use them. Rape them. Sell them to the highest bidder. ’
He huffs out a laugh that turns into a cough. ‘Such a fucking hero,’ he stammers slowly. ‘You should wear your underwear on the outside of your trousers. Put a fucking K on the front of them.’ He chortles, spitting up more blood.
‘You’re awfully cheerful for a man who’s about to meet his maker.’ The beating he got must have caused brain damage.
He shrugs then.
‘It’s like you wanted me to take you out. First the trafficking, then pushing the Colombian’s heroin,’ I click my tongue off the roof of my mouth.
I smash the baseball bat off the concrete in front of him, and he flinches.
So cliché.
My wife has bigger balls than this fucker.
‘I’m not pushing it for them. We’re partners.
And I haven’t paid for it yet.’ He tips his head to the side and laughs again, almost hysterically, revealing two missing front teeth.
Fucking Ciaran. Apparently he had a lot of fun with our friend while I was away.
‘The Colombian’s send their—’ He breaks off, coughing hard.
Dark blood spills from his mouth this time, thicker, heavier.
It stains his chin, his chest, the floor between us.
His gaze struggles to hold mine, blinking slower now, unfocused.
His lips part, maybe for another smart remark—but nothing comes. Just a thin, rattling breath that shudders out of him. His chest barely moves. I watch as he bleeds out in front of me.
Fucking cunt wouldn’t even give me the satisfaction of killing him.
For a moment, I consider making good on my promise—shoving this baseball bat up his fucking ass, but Aoife is waiting for me.
And I choose her love over his fear.
That doesn’t stop me swinging the bat against his temple, and a sicking crunch splits the air. The sound of his skull shattering isn’t as satisfying as I anticipated.
I toss the bat to ground, surveying the mess in here. ‘Burn him, and the entire warehouse down,’ I say to James.
Then I step back out into the cold Wicklow night.
The air feels sharper.
Cleaner.
The Colombian’s are going to be livid about the heroin.
But that’s their problem for partnering with an unpredictable prick like Kavanagh. They should have taken his money upfront.
Not my fucking problem.
For the first time in weeks, I feel something close to relief. I pull my phone from my pocket. I need to hear Aoife’s voice. I tap her name as I cross the gravel to wait in the car.
It rings once. Twice. Then finally connects.
‘Aoife.’
Heavy breathing sounds into my ear. Not the soft intake of breath I’m used to. It’s measured. It’s male.
My steps slow.
‘Who is this?’ I ask, voice steady.
‘Mr Kincaid.’ A smooth South American accent purrs.
My pulse doesn’t spike. It narrows. Because I recognise that accent. It’s the fucking Colombian’s. What have they done?
Looks like Kavanagh’s debt just became ours.
Fuck.
‘Where is my wife?’ I ask.
A soft chuckle. ‘Safe. For now.’
The gravel crunches under my boots as I stop moving entirely.
James and Lewis both look at me.
They know.
‘If you’ve touched her,’ I say quietly, ‘there won’t be enough left of you to identify.’
‘Relax,’ the voice replies. ‘We’re businessmen. This isn’t personal.’
It’s always personal.
‘Rumour has it that you have something that belongs to me. Now I have something that belongs to you.’
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
‘I want my stock back. All of it. The heroin—and the women.’
‘I didn’t think women were Cruz’s currency.’
‘They weren’t until Kavanagh approached us.
’ He pauses, heavy breathing echoes into my ear.
‘Deliver the goods to the warehouse in Belfast before midday and your wife will be fine. If you’re late, or if you don’t show, I’ll let every single one of my men take turns with her before selling her off to the highest bidder. ’ His voice is low and cold.
The line goes dead.