Declan #3
The warehouse is in the industrial district on the south side, in a sprawling complex of buildings that we use for storage and distribution. When I pull up, the scene is chaos. I park and get out, my legs unsteady. Cormac meets me, his face pale.
"How many?" I ask.
"Seven dead. One critical. He might not make it."
Eight men. Eight of my men, sent to help with a shipment because I thought it would build goodwill, because I thought I could do things differently.
"The Capettis?"
"Minor injuries. Cuts and bruises. They were in a different part of the warehouse when it happened. Our guys took the brunt of it."
Whoever planned this wanted to send a message, to show that the Irish don't belong in this world. That we're expendable. "Who did this?"
"We don't know yet. But the Capetti men said the attackers were shouting about the Irish and Italians working together. Said it was an insult to tradition."
Tradition. The word tastes like blood in my mouth. I walk toward the bodies, under sheets that are stained red. I can see the outlines of the men beneath—men I knew, men I led, men who trusted me to keep them safe. And I failed them.
"Declan." Cormac's voice is quiet. "You shouldn't—"
"I need to see them."
He doesn't argue.
I kneel beside the first body and pull back the sheet.
His eyes are open, staring at nothing. There's a bullet wound in his chest. Another in his throat.
I close his eyes and move to the next body.
And the next. Each one is worse than the last. Each one is a reminder of my failure.
By the time I reach the last body, my hands are shaking.
"Mr. Murphy."
I turn. One of the Capetti men is standing a few feet away, his arm in a sling, his face bruised. "This is your fault," he says, his voice shaking with rage. "You and your fucking alliance. You brought this on us. On them."
"I didn't—"
"You did!" He steps closer, his good hand clenched into a fist. "You think you can just waltz into our world and change the rules? You're a fucking joke, Murphy. And now good men are dead because of you."
I want to retort that if I hadn’t tried to make this alliance, if I hadn’t married Elena and tried to push further into this world, there would have been war, and more men dead.
But I know what he means is that I should never have come here at all.
That I should be back in New York, running my motorcycle club, not pretending to be a mafia boss.
Before I can formulate anything to say in return, he lunges at me, his fist connecting with my jaw. Pain explodes through my face, and I stagger back.
"You don't belong here!" he shouts, coming at me again. "You never did!"
I block the next punch and shove him back. "I didn't want this—"
"But you got it anyway!" He swings again, wild and desperate. "You got them killed! You could have gotten us fucking killed!"
This time I don't block. I let the punch land, giving him one. But he doesn't stop. He comes at me again, and this time there's a knife in his hand. It slashes against my ribs, cutting through my shirt and through skin.
Instinct takes over. I grab his wrist, twist, and the knife clatters to the ground. He tries to pull away, but I'm stronger and faster. I slam him against the side of a truck, my forearm across his throat. "Stop," I growl.
"Fuck you—" He tries to knee me in the groin. I shift, and his knee hits my thigh instead. He's still fighting, still trying to hurt me, and I realize he's not going to stop. He's going to keep coming until one of us is dead.
I don't want to add another body to the count tonight.
But he's not giving me a choice. I grab the knife from the ground just as he goes to slam his hand into my throat, and drive it into his side, just below the ribs.
He gasps, his eyes going wide. I pull the knife out and step back, letting him slide to the ground.
He's still breathing, but he won't be for long. "I'm sorry," I say quietly, as I hear his breath rattle.
I drop the knife and walk away to where Cormac is standing, his expression grim. "We need to go. We need to get you out of here before this gets worse."
I nod and let him lead me to the car. My hands are covered in blood, and I feel numb. Like I'm watching myself from a distance.
The drive home is a blur. Cormac talks, but I don't hear him. I'm thinking about the bodies. About the men I failed. About the soldier's words. You don't belong here. You never did.
Maybe he's right.
The penthouse is dark when I arrive. I let myself in quietly. My suit is ruined—blood on the shirt, the jacket torn. I’m not sure I care any longer. I head toward the bathroom, but then I see Elena sitting in the living room, a book in her lap. She looks up when I enter, and her eyes go wide.
The book falls from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
"Declan—"
I don't stop to explain. I just walk past her, toward the bathroom, leaving a trail of blood behind me.
I need to wash this off and scrub away the evidence of tonight. I need to pretend, for just a moment, that I'm not the man who got seven of his men killed.
The bathroom door closes behind me, and I'm alone. Finally, blessedly alone.