Chapter 24 Sorcha
Sorcha
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, my voice rough with sleep as I sit up after listening to Axl’s phone call.
Axl turns. “The plan is, we wait for Ben to give us the green light. Then we go to St. Bart’s, and we introduce Mr Kavanagh to the new management.”
Ciar shifts under me, his body a tight coil of readiness. “It’s going to be hours before that happens.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “We’ve got nowhere else to be. Food?”
Axl snorts. “You think this sterile shoebox has food? Cillian lives on tactical readiness and the souls of his enemies.”
Cillian doesn’t even turn from the window. “There’s cold pizza.”
“That's it?”
“Yep.”
“Fine,” I say with a huff and get up to at least warm it up and see if there is any tea or coffee around.
The kitchen, which is less a kitchen and more a surgical suite, is spotless. I open the fridge. It’s a cavern of white emptiness, save for a single pizza box and a bottle of water.
“Fucking hell, Cillian,” I mutter to myself, pulling out a slice of cold pepperoni and shoving it into the microwave. While it spins, I search the cupboards. A single mug. A jar of instant coffee granules. A box of teabags.
The microwave pings. I grab the plate, the cheese a molten, greasy mess, and lean against the counter to eat it. It tastes like victory. Or desperation. I’m not sure which.
Axl appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed. His eyes are dark, the usual easy amusement replaced by something harder, sharper. “Bon appétit.”
“It’s this or I eat your arm,” I say around a mouthful of pizza.
“I’m calling Ben,”
“Why? It won’t be ready yet? It’s barely even sun up.”
“Because I’m an impatient fuck and I want to be annoying.”
I shrug as he dials and receives the information that it is barely sunup and nothing is ready yet. “Hours,” he says to me when he hangs up.
“Yes, I’m aware.” I roll my eyes at Axl’s impatience, shoving the last bite of pizza into my mouth as the greasy cheese clings to my fingers.
Washing my hands so I don’t smear grease all over Cillian’s monastery, I dry them and head back to the living room, where Ciar’s still slumped on the sofa like he’s guarding the gates of hell.
Cillian hasn’t moved from his spot in the armchair.
“Right, so we’re just sitting here with our thumbs up our arses until Ben decides to grace us with his legal magic?
” I say, flopping onto the sofa and kicking my feet up on the coffee table.
The cross mocks me from where Axl left it, all shiny and split open like it’s daring us to find more secrets.
I ignore it for now—I’ve had enough ancient riddles for one lifetime.
Ciar smirks, but it’s tight, laced with pain he won’t admit to. “Could be worse. At least no one’s shooting crossbows at us right this second.”
“Yet,” Cillian mutters, his gaze fixed on the window. Always the optimist.
Axl drops onto the sofa beside me, so the three of us are squashed together. His thigh presses against mine, solid and warm, and I lean into him without thinking. “This waiting is killing me.”
“Tell me about it.” I rest my head on his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of smoke that still clings to him from the explosion.
It’s a reminder of how close we came to losing everything, and it stirs that fire in my gut.
The one that wants to burn Kavanagh and his whole twisted legacy to ash.
“But we’ve got the upper hand now. He thinks we’re scrambling, but we’re the ones with the deed, the cross, and that creepy little book.
Once Ben comes through, we own this shitshow. ”
Cillian sits up, and then there is a knock at the door. He is out of his chair before I can register that he has moved. He yanks it open and lets Iain inside.
“Morning all,” he says briskly. “I brought supplies.”
By supplies, he means hot coffee and pastries. I practically leap at him. He chuckles as he hands over the food and drinks, which I place on the coffee table. Reaching for a cup, I inhale it deeply with a contented sigh and take a small sip of the scorching hot coffee.
“Don’t say I don’t bring you anything,” Iain says, holding up a small bag for Ciar.
He frowns. “What is it?”
“Needles,” Iain says wickedly and sits on the coffee table, budging the food and drinks over as he roots in the bag. “Antibiotics and painkillers. You’re going to need them.”
“Oh, the good stuff,” Axl says. “Hospital grade.”
“Yeah, I owe Dr Goodwin a massive favour. One you, my boy, will deal with when the time comes.”
“Assuming I live,” Ciar says in a droll tone that makes me scowl at him.
I glance at Iain, but don’t say anything as he preps the injections. This is good. Ciar needs both of these things to keep him going. He is practically dead on his feet.
“Which do you want first?” Iain asks.
“Does it matter?” Ciar growls. “Just get it over with.”
Iain smirks, and I press my lips together. It’s clear that Ciar hates injections, and now he has to have two with an audience, no less. This is going to be fun.
Iain taps the syringe, flicking out an air bubble with a sharp snap of his finger. Ciar’s eyes follow the movement, his jaw so tight I’m surprised his teeth don’t shatter. The big, bad mafia heir, brought low by a tiny needle. It’s almost cute.
“You gonna cry, big boy?” Axl asks around a mouthful of pastry.
“Fuck off,” Ciar growls, his gaze fixed on the wall like it personally offended him.
Iain is quick, his movements economical as he swabs a patch of skin on Ciar’s bicep. The needle goes in, the plunger depresses, and it’s out before Ciar can even pretend he didn’t feel it. He doesn’t flinch, but I see the way his knuckles turn white where he’s gripping his thigh.
“One more,” Iain says, already prepping the second injection.
Ciar grits his teeth as the needle goes in again.
His face is a mask of stoic endurance, but I can see the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. When Iain pulls the needle out and disposes of it, Ciar lets out a steady breath.
“There,” Iain says, his tone brisk as he packs away his supplies. “That’ll keep you from keeling over for a few hours. Try not to get shot again today.”
“No promises,” Ciar mutters.
Iain claps him on the shoulder, a hard, affectionate gesture that makes Ciar wince. “Bandage time.”
“Jesus,” Ciar mutters.
“What? You think I’m going to let my only heir keel over from sepsis?”
“I don’t have sepsis,” Ciar argues, but if I thought Ciar was stubborn, Iain is the king of stubborn.
Iain just raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow, and Ciar’s argument dies in his throat.
He knows he’s lost this battle. With a sigh that’s pure, theatrical suffering, he starts to pull at the hem of his t-shirt.
“Here, let me,” I say, moving forward. I gently push his hands away and lift the shirt over his head, trying not to jostle him.
The bandage is a mess, soaked through with blood in a dark, ugly patch over the wound. A fresh wave of fury washes over me. Seeing the evidence of what was done to him makes my hands itch for a weapon to impale Kavanagh on.
Iain works with a grim efficiency, cutting away the old dressing.
Ciar’s body is rigid, his breath hissing through his teeth as the tape pulls at his skin.
The wound itself is a brutal, stitched-up gash, angry and red against his pale skin.
Iain cleans it with an antiseptic that makes Ciar’s entire body go taut, a low grunt escaping his lips.
“Ouch,” Axl murmurs from the sofa, not even looking up from his phone.
Ciar flips him the finger without opening his eyes.
Iain applies a fresh dressing, his movements sure and steady. “Done,” he says, taping it down. “Now, stay the fuck still for five minutes.”
Iain packs his medical bag with the same brisk efficiency, leaving no room for argument.
Ciar doesn’t even try, just slumps back against the cushions, his face pale but a little less strained now that the ‘good stuff’ is probably kicking in.
The scene is so fucking weird. A mafia boss playing nurse to his heir in a sterile bungalow while we plot to take down another rich arsehole.
“See?” I say, nudging Ciar with my foot. “All better.”
He cracks one eye open to glare at me. “Don’t poke the bear.”
“Or what?” I challenge, a smile playing on my lips.
He flicks his gaze to Iain, who is doing his best not to notice the chemistry that has been set on fire in front of his eyes.
Then he looks back at me with that sexy half-smile that gets me every time, and he knows it.
But he closes his eyes and leans back, looking a damn sight better than he did a few minutes ago.
“Have you got more of that painkiller?” I ask Iain.
He nods and gestures to the bag. “Three more doses are all I could wrangle out of the good doc. Use them efficiently.”
“We will. Thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me? He’s my son.”
I chew the inside of my lip. I have no answer for that.
But apparently, Axl does. “Because she has never had any parent care for her, she sees this as a weird set-up.”
My cheeks flush hot as Iain’s gaze pins mine. I want to look away. I need to look away, but it’s impossible.
He stands up, ready to leave. “Well, that’s all changed now, Ms Gannon. You are family.”
The words hang in the air, a declaration that feels both like a promise and a threat.
Family. I’ve never had one. Not a real one.
The word feels foreign on my tongue, a language I don’t speak.
I give a stiff, awkward nod, my gaze dropping to the floor because looking at him, at the sincerity in his hard eyes, is too much.
It makes my chest ache with something I don’t have a name for, and something I don’t have time for right now either.