Chapter 7
Sorcha
Nobody speaks. My hand rests on Ciar’s thigh next to me, and the muscle is granite-hard beneath my palm. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t made a sound since he got in, but I know he’s in pain. He is pale and barely holding on. We’re a fucking mess. Broken and bleeding but not beaten. Not even close.
The Brabus pulls into the drive next to a sleek, black Mercedes.
“Cian doesn’t fuck around,” I mutter.
We all pile out. I follow Axl, my hand finding his again, needing the solid, real contact. He squeezes back, his knuckles raw and bloody. Ciar gets out of the back, moving with a stiff deliberation that makes my stomach clench.
A man in a sharp suit stands on the doorstep, a small, silver briefcase in his hand. He’s older, with silver hair and a face that gives nothing away.
“Miss Gannon?” he asks, his voice smooth and neutral.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Dr Walsh. Cian sent me.” He glances at the guys flanking me, his eyes taking in Ciar’s ridiculous outfit, Axl’s bloody state and Cillian’s bruised face without a flicker of surprise. “If you’d come inside, this will only take a moment.”
We follow him into the living room. He sets his briefcase on the coffee table and opens it with a soft click, revealing a sterile kit. “A simple buccal swab is all that’s required. The results will be expedited.”
I sit on the edge of the sofa as he puts on a pair of latex gloves. Ciar, Cillian, and Axl form a semi-circle behind him, a silent, menacing wall of protection.
I open my mouth for the swab, the plastic stick scraping against the inside of my cheek. It’s over in seconds. Dr Walsh seals the sample in a vial, packs up his case, and stands.
“You’ll have your answer within twenty-four hours,” he says, and then he’s gone, as quietly as he arrived.
I stare at the door he just closed. One more piece of the puzzle. One more step towards the endgame.
“What happens if it comes back negative on the Gannon blood?” I mutter, suddenly very aware it’s what everyone is thinking.
“Then we deal,” Axl says. “Right now, I need a fucking shower and Ciar needs to…” He waves his hand at the giant.
Ciar glares at him, and then he’s gone.
Cillian catches him before he hits his head on the coffee table and hauls him over to the sofa. I move quickly as Cillian lays him down, and I kneel next to Ciar, stroking his face. “You are an idiot.”
He doesn’t reply.
“Get me the scissors,” I say.
Cillian disappears and returns a few moments later, handing them to me. I cut off the scrubs top and stifle my noise of horror. How the fuck is this man standing, let alone walking around and doing shit?
Well, I guess, he isn’t right now. And a good thing too. He needs rest.
“Blankets,” I murmur. Cillian goes off again as Axl stares down at him.
“Shit,” he says.
“Yeah.” I place my hand on Ciar’s chest, needing to feel the rise and fall.
Cillian returns with a thick duvet and drapes it over Ciar.
I smooth it down, my hand lingering over his heart.
It’s beating. Slow, but steady. That’s all that matters.
Axl moves to the drinks cabinet, the clink of glass on glass unnaturally loud in the silence.
He pours three whiskeys and hands one to Cillian before bringing the other to me.
“Drink,” he orders, his voice low.
I take the glass, my hand shaking so badly the amber liquid sloshes inside.
I don’t drink it. Whiskey has never been to my taste.
I just stare at Ciar’s pale face, the dark stubble stark against his skin.
The bandage around his chest is soaked through with fresh blood, where he’s obviously torn his stitches.
He pushed himself too far for us. For Axl.
A fierce, protective rage wars with the terror clawing at my throat.
“We need to get him back to the hospital,” I say, my voice a croak.
“No,” Cillian says from behind me. “They’ll ask questions we can’t answer. We handle this ourselves now.”
He pulls a first-aid kit from under the coffee table and gets to work with a quiet efficiency that’s both terrifying and reassuring, cutting away the ruined bandage.
The wound is raw and angry, the stitches pulled tight against inflamed skin.
My stomach lurches, but I don’t look away.
I need to see this. Need to remember it.
This is the price. This is what they risk for me.
The front door opens, and the dads walk in. Their casual conversation dies the second they see us.
“He’s an idiot,” I say before either of them can comment. “He thought he was invincible.”
“He is,” Iain says. “He’s a MacMahon.”
I don’t refute it, I just look at Axl. “Do you need help?”
“Showering? No, I’m good. Mentally? Probably.” He flashes me a wicked smile.
I snort. “You’re an arse.”
“Someone has to bring the levity, seeing as you three are completely doom and gloom the entire time.”
“Not the entire time,” I argue, but he’s right. We are fun sponges.
Axl downs his whiskey in one go and sets the glass down with a decisive clink. “Right. I’m going to wash the last twenty-four hours off me. Don’t let him die while I’m gone.” His eyes are hard as he disappears up the stairs.
I turn my attention back to Ciar. Cillian works with a surgeon’s focus, cleaning the wound, his movements sure and steady. I watch, my stomach a tight knot of uselessness. I should have heard them. I should have been awake.
“I need to talk to Cian,” I say quietly. “Alone.”
Cillian pauses briefly, but then he nods. “Go.”
I walk out into the hallway, needing space, needing air that isn’t thick with the smell of antiseptic and blood. I move into the study and close the door behind me, the heavy wood a flimsy barrier against the chaos. The cross sits on the desk, a silent, glittering accusation.
He answers on the first ring.
“Is it done?”
“Yes, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
“What is it?” His concern is immediate. I don’t know how I’m going to break this to him. Robert is his full-blooded brother. I’m just the bastard their father spawned. It almost makes me back down, but I can’t.
“It’s Robert,” I say, eventually. “Your brother is making a play for St. Bart’s. He took Axl, shot Ciar with a crossbow and beat up Cillian. Or his guys did, anyway.”
The silence borders on painful, but this time I don’t babble. I need him to talk next.
“How sure are you?”
“The guys who took Axl told him it was Robert. He wants to be VC, is positioning himself, took out the current VC, and apparently, sees me and Axl as a threat to his plan.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“I haven’t seen him. No one has. But did you hear what I said about my guys?”
“I heard you. You are my concern.”
“And they are mine.”
A long, heavy sigh crackles through the speaker. “I will handle Robert.”
The words are a death sentence, delivered with the cold detachment of a man ordering a hit. For his own brother. For me. The weight of it settles in my gut, a sick, heavy stone.
“What does that mean?” I ask, the words feeling stupid and small.
“He made his move against family,” Cian says. “Not to mention the Rhodes’. There are consequences for that. You stay out of it. This is Gannon business now.”
“It became my business when he put a bolt in Ciar’s chest and took my husband,” I snarl, practically spitting at the word as it rolls off my tongue cleaner than I’d like. “Don’t you dare tell me to stay out of it.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, my hand trembling. “Well, that went about as well as I expected,” I say to Alex as he pushes open the study door.
“As in not at all?”
“Pretty much. He said it’s Gannon business.”
“You are a Gannon.”
“Yeah, but I’m not the head of a family. He is. I get it, in a way. Maybe…” I trail off, staring at the cross.
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe it’s better if we let him deal with it? It’s one less thing for us to worry about.”
“Is that how you really feel?”
“Yes. Whether the guys will or not, I can’t answer that. If they want revenge, then we go in all guns blazing. But I’m giving them the option.”
“He took my son.”
“I know that.”
We lock gazes. His is hard, challenging. Mine is weaker and tired. He must see it as he takes pity on me and sighs.
“It’s not about revenge, Sorcha,” he says, his voice losing its hard edge and becoming something colder, more calculated. “It’s about sending a message. Robert Gannon threatened a Rhodes. He took my heir. He involved my family. Cian can have what’s left, but the first move belongs to us.”
He’s right. I know he is. Letting Cian handle this feels like running away, and I’m done running. Axl is my husband. He, Ciar, and Cillian, they are my everything. This is my fight.
“Sorcha is right,” Axl says, moving into the room.
He’s clean, dressed in fresh jeans and a t-shirt, the bruises on his face already darkening.
His hair is still damp, and he looks tired but lethal.
“We have bigger things to worry about right now. This isn’t just about Robert trying to take over St. Bart’s.
We’ve still got all the rest coming at us.
And when someone, namely Liam, realises his dad isn’t coming home, we will be the first fuckers he comes for. ”
“You trust Cian Gannon to handle this?” Alex asks. He isn’t pissed, he’s curious.
Axl meets his father’s gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in his green eyes.
“Trust is a strong word,” he says, his tone deceptively casual.
“Let’s just say I trust his self-interest. Cian won’t let his brother’s mess tarnish the Gannon name or start a war with the Rhodes family.
He’ll clean it up, quietly and permanently. It saves us the petrol.”
Alex doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue. He knows his son. Axl isn’t backing down out of weakness; he’s conserving energy, focusing on the bigger picture. It’s a calculated move, and a part of me is relieved he sees it the same way I do. We can’t fight a war on multiple fronts.
“Liam Ahearne will be a problem,” Iain says from the doorway.
“Regardless of whether he will be happy about this or not, he will want answers. His crew will demand them. He has something to prove now. The Ahearne name is a brutal, bloody statement in the underworld. He has a very strong, savage legacy to live up to.”
“So, are you in agreement that we let Cian handle this, even after what Robert did to Ciar?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “Splitting yourselves too thin and focusing on the wrong thing will get you all killed.”
His words are cold, hard logic, and they sink into my bones like the Dublin damp. Letting Cian take out his own brother feels like a betrayal of the rage burning in my gut, but my guys are broken. We’re bleeding. One less fire to fight is a mercy, even if it feels like cowardice.
I look over at Cillian, who has joined us, his face still, but he nods. The decision is made. Not for revenge, but for survival.
Axl moves closer. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. We’re in this together, a united front against whatever shit comes next.
“Okay,” I say, my voice steady despite the tremor running through me. “While we wait for the DNA results, we find out what that key opens.” It’s a tangible goal, something to do besides wait for the next disaster to strike.
“Someone needs to stay with Ciar.”
“We will,” Iain says. “You three try and solve this mystery.”
Alex pulls out the key and places it on the desk. He turns to the fireplace, where the hidden ledge is still open and places the deed inside. Axl closes it and nods. It’s as safe as it’s going to be.
I pick up the key and shove it in my back pocket along with my phone. “Ready?” I ask the guys.