Chapter 3
Ciar
The incessant beeping is pissing me off, waking me up from a dead sleep where I was dreaming about Sorcha riding my cock, working those thigh muscles until she screamed.
I force my eyes open, blinking against harsh fluorescent lights.
Hospital. The beeping is a heart monitor.
I try to sit up, and pain explodes through my chest like someone’s driven a hot poker through my ribs.
“Easy,” a voice says.
Cillian. He’s in the chair beside my bed, looking like he went twelve rounds with a grinder. His face is a mess of bruises and cuts, one eye swollen nearly shut.
“What the fuck happened?” My voice comes out rough, like I’ve been gargling gravel.
“You got shot with a crossbow bolt.” He leans forward, wincing. “Missed your heart by two centimetres. Deliberately, I’d say. Or they have crap aim.”
“How deep?”
“Deep enough. You’ll be fine.”
“Sorcha?” The name comes out before I can stop it, panic spiking through my chest.
“Safe. Your dad picked her up on the other side of the woods.”
Relief floods through me, but it’s short-lived. “Axl?”
Cillian’s expression darkens. “Taken. We don’t know where yet.”
“Any idea who?” I grind out.
“Don’t know yet. They hit us at dawn. Professional job. Tranquiliser darts coordinated attack. They wanted Axl alive.” Cillian’s jaw clenches. “They shot you first, me and Axl moved out, and they hit us. Hard. The OCU came for Sorcha but left as soon as they knew she’d run.”
“Left?”
“Yeah. It makes me think something shady is going on.”
“Shady as fuck. Where are my dad and Sorcha now?”
He shrugs. “They’ve gone dark, which is probably for the best right now.”
I grit my teeth against the pain, but I’ve had worse. If they think this is going to keep me down, they don’t fucking know me at all. “Get me out of here.”
“You’ve got a bolt hole in your chest, mate. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Axl’s out there, and Sorcha—”
“Is safer with your dad than she’d be with you bleeding all over her.” Cillian’s voice is hard, but I can hear the frustration underneath. He’s as fucked off about this as I am.
I try to sit up again, and this time I manage it, though sweat breaks out across my forehead from the effort. The hospital gown is ridiculous, and I yank at the IV in my arm.
“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Cillian snaps, standing up. “You’ll rip your stitches.”
“Then help me get dressed or get out of my way.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. Finally, he curses under his breath and moves to the small cabinet beside the bed. “Your clothes are ruined. Blood everywhere.”
“Find me something.”
He disappears into the hallway, and I take the opportunity to assess the damage. I’ll live and that’s good enough.
Cillian returns with a set of scrubs and a hoodie that’s probably three sizes too small for me. I stare at the scrubs and hoodie. “Better than nothing.”
Cillian helps me stand, steadying me when I sway. The room tilts, but I grit my teeth and push through it. Every movement sends fire through my chest, but I’ve learned to compartmentalise pain. It’s just another thing to deal with, like hunger or exhaustion.
I strip off the hospital gown and pull on the scrubs. They’re way too tight, but hopefully no one will be paying attention. I pull the hoodie over my head with a grimace. It barely covers my torso, riding up to reveal a strip of abs and the edge of the bandage. Fuck it. It’ll have to do.
“You look ridiculous,” Cillian says.
“Don’t care.” I move towards the door, each step a new experience in grit and stamina. The pain is manageable if I don’t breathe too deeply. “We need to find Axl.”
We slip out of the room and into the corridor. A nurse glances up from her station, her eyes widening when she sees me.
“Sir, you can’t—” she starts, but we’re already at the stairwell.
We take the stairs instead of the lift, Cillian’s hands ready to catch me if I fall, but fuck that.
I didn’t become a machine of muscle and power simply to fall from a fucking bolt to the chest. Axl needs us.
Sorcha is alone and probably thinking I’m dead.
Dad is no comfort and will just be treating her as an annoyance rather than his daughter-in-law.
This entire shitshow just went up a few notches and now… now I’m pissed.
We emerge into the car park, and the cold Dublin air is a godsend after the stuffy hospital. It revives me slightly, and I soldier on.
Cillian leads me to Axl’s Brabus, and I slide into the passenger side, not bothering with a seat belt. He doesn’t comment, just fires up the engine and peels out of the car park like we’re being chased by the devil himself.
“Head home. I’m starting to think this OCU raid was a farce.”
“It seems that way. They barely even glanced at you or me. Searched the house for Sorcha and then moved out when they didn’t find her.”
Cillian’s phone rings, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, handing it to me.
“It’s my dad,” I say, and then answer. “Where’s Sorcha?”
“Still with me,” Dad’s voice comes through, clipped and tense. “We’re circling back to the townhouse now. Where are you?”
“Just left the hospital, heading home.”
“Good. We need to regroup and figure out our next move.” There’s a pause, and I hear Sorcha’s voice in the background, sharp and demanding. “She wants to talk to you.”
The phone rustles, and then her voice fills my ear, rough with emotion. “Ciar? Are you—fuck, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a scratch.”
“A scratch? You had a fucking bolt through your chest!”
“Still breathing, aren’t I? Where are you?”
“About ten minutes out from the townhouse. Iain says it’s safe to go back, that the OCU raid was unsanctioned, a rogue team. They missed their chance to grab me.”
“A rogue team?” I repeat, frowning at Cillian. I put the phone on speaker. “Sent by who?”
“That’s what we don’t know,” Dad says. “But this is all to do with someone making moves on St. Bart’s.”
“How so?”
Sorcha’s voice comes back on the line. “The dads think that my marriage to Axl created some kind of power alliance. Apparently, if we wanted to, we could stage a coup against the board and take control of St. Bart’s. Someone doesn’t want that to happen.”
“A coup?” I repeat, glancing at Cillian. He looks as confused as I feel. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
“Regardless, someone thinks we’re a threat.”
“But we’re not making a move,” I say, though even as the words leave my mouth, something clicks into place. “Unless someone thinks we are.”
“Or wants to make sure you never do,” Dad cuts in. “The Rhodes family has founding ties to St. Bart’s. The Gannons have history and legacy. Together, they’re a legitimate threat to whoever’s planning to take control.”
I lean back in the seat, ignoring the pain in my chest. “So this is all about Smythe’s murder and whoever is positioning to be the new VC.”
“Pretty much.”
“And we’re caught in the crossfire with our own fires burning around us,” Cillian mutters.
“Yep.”
The line goes dead.
“Fuck’s sake. Who? Who the hell wants control of St. Bart’s that badly they risk going up against our families?”
Cillian shoots me a look. “Someone with a death wish.”
I grip the door handle as Cillian takes a corner hard enough to make me grunt. The pain is a constant throb, a reminder that someone wanted me down but not dead. That’s the part that doesn’t sit right. A professional hit doesn’t leave loose ends, and yet here I am, breathing.
“This wasn’t crap aim. They wanted me alive,” I say, thinking out loud.
“I noticed,” Cillian says, his eyes fixed on the road. “They could’ve gone for a headshot. Could’ve finished you off when you were down. But they didn’t.”
“Because killing me wasn’t the objective. Incapacitating me was.” I run through the sequence of events in my head. “They hit me first, took me out of the equation. They went for Axl. You were just collateral damage.”
“Cheers for that,” he mutters.
“They wanted Axl specifically. The question is why.”
“Leverage,” Cillian says immediately. “Whoever it is thinks that by using Axl, they can get her to do what they want.”
“So why not just take her and try to convince her?”
“Because this isn’t just about her. It’s about both of them.
Let’s face it, in the world of the mafia, Axl has more power.
He could stage a coup on his own and probably get enough support to pull it off.
With a Gannon next to him, that likelihood doubles.
This isn’t about Sorcha, exactly, but both of them.
Whoever took Axl is using him to convince Sorcha to do something, but they have no intention of letting him live. ”
“Which brings us back to who the fuck wants control of St. Bart’s badly enough to orchestrate all this.”
The townhouse comes into view, and Cillian pulls into the drive. Dad’s car is already parked up. The place looks normal. No obvious signs of the chaos that erupted here hours ago. But I know better.
We get out of the car, and I move towards the door, Cillian right behind me. Every step sends pain through my chest, but I push it aside. Pain is just noise.
The front door opens before we reach it, revealing Dad, his expression grim. Behind him, Sorcha appears, and the relief on her face when she sees me nearly knocks me on my arse.
“Ciar,” she breathes, running towards me.
She stops short, her hands on my face, my shoulders, checking me over like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. “I thought—”
“I’m fine,” I tell her, though the way I’m holding myself probably contradicts that. “Takes more than a bolt to put me down.”
She pulls back slightly, her eyes searching mine. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“What, get shot? Can’t promise that. Wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last.”
Her eyes flash, a familiar storm gathering in their icy depths. She takes a step back, her hands dropping from my arms. “Don’t be a fucking arsehole, Ciar. I thought you were dead.”
Her voice is low, laced with a fury that’s just a thin layer over raw fear. I see it. I feel it. But admitting the pain, the weakness, isn’t an option. Not now.
“But I’m not,” I say, my voice harder than I intend. “And we have bigger problems to deal with.”
Dad nods, his gaze sweeping over the three of us. “Inside. Now. We talk strategy.”
He turns and walks back into the house without waiting for a reply. Sorcha glares at me for another second before following him, her back ramrod straight. I watch her go, the sway of her hips a familiar sight that settles something in my soul. She’s safe. For now. That’s all that matters.
I follow her in, Cillian at my side. The pain is a constant throb, a dull fire spreading from the wound, but I ignore it. Inside, the kitchen is halfway through being cleaned. Sorcha picks up the mop and carries on as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Alex is on his way,” Dad says, standing by the table. “He’s been dealing with the OCU fallout. They’re denying any official operation on campus this morning.”
“No shit,” Cillian mutters, grabbing a cloth and sloshing it in the bucket of clean water before he gets to work helping Sorcha.
Sorcha’s movements are jerky and aggressive.
She’s scrubbing the floor where my blood pooled, trying to erase the last few hours with bleach and sheer force of will.
The sight twists something in my gut. I want to take the mop from her, tell her to stop, but I know she won’t.
This is how she deals. She fights. She cleans. She doesn’t break.
“Sit down,” Dad says, gesturing to a chair. The order grates, but my body agrees with him. I lower myself carefully, the pull of stitches a sharp reminder of my own vulnerability.
The front door bangs shut, and moments later, Alex Rhodes strides in, his face a thundercloud. “Whoever took my son is going to regret being born,” he growls.
Dad slaps a tumbler of whiskey in front of me, and I pick it up gratefully. I don’t give a shit what time it is. It’s pain o’clock where I live, and I need to fucking dull it so I can think straight.
“We need to think this through,” Dad says calmly, pouring out another whiskey. Instead of knocking it back himself, he hands it to Sorcha, taking the mop from her and resuming the task of cleaning up his son’s blood. I’m fascinated by his reaction to her. It’s almost like he… cares.
He catches me watching him and scowls. I stifle a laugh. Oh, yeah. I’ve caught him out, and we both know it.
“Who do we think might want that VC position so badly they would risk fucking off the Rhodes family?” I ask and take a deep gulp.
“I’ve got some people asking some very strategic questions,” Alex grits out. “To some very strategic people.”
“In the meantime, we should look at the cross,” Dad says, sloshing the mop back into the bucket.
“Why?” I ask.
“Your dad thinks something is hidden inside it,” Sorcha explains.
“Do we even know where Axl hid it?” I ask.
“I don’t.”
“Me either,” Cillian says.
Alex and Iain exchange an eyeroll, and then Alex turns to us. “And you didn’t think that was a dumb move? Him being the only one who knew where it was?”
Chastised by our stupidity, I chew the inside of my lip. “There was a lot going on. We’d come out of the tunnels after the fight with Ahearne and his men and then—”
“Wait? What?” Dad snaps. “Ahearne? James Ahearne?”
I keep my gaze level with his. “He followed us into the tunnels under the chapel. Brought four of his men.”
“And?” Alex asks, his voice dangerously quiet.
“And he’s not a problem anymore,” I say, the words flat and final.
“You killed him?”
Sorcha sighs. “He put a knife to my throat. Ciar finished it.”
The finality in her voice silences the room for a second. My dad looks from me to Sorcha, his expression unreadable. He’s processing, calculating the fallout. A power vacuum. Liam Ahearne stepping up. War.
“Okay, so James Ahearne has been removed. Liam will step into his shoes, but that will take time. He will need to settle. I think we can safely say the Ahearnes are out of the game for now.”
“Unless Liam wants Sorcha back in his life that badly, he will come for her regardless,” I point out.
The dads both look at Sorcha with interest, but neither of them says anything.
“We need that cross,” Dad says, focusing again. “If Axl’s the only one who knows where it is...” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. We all know what it means. If Axl’s dead, the cross is lost, and whatever secrets it holds are lost with it, while we tear this house apart looking for it.