Chapter 24 AIDEN
AIDEN
Katie stares, and stares, and stares as if I were handing her a dead puppy instead of a gun. “Master has giving Dobby his Glock,” she mutters, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Dobby doesn’t know how to use the Glock. Dobby’s going to shoot herself in the foot!”
Of course, her ADHD is rearing its head with her vocal stimming. It was Gollum earlier and Sam Wise last night at dinner when she wanted me to peel potatoes.
“You’re not going to shoot yourself in the foot, bug,” I position her in front of the target and guide her hands to hold the gun properly.
Pointing to the back sight, I explain how to aim and gently remind her to focus.
“Remember, Dobby, take a deep breath and squeeze the trigger slowly; don’t panic and yank it back. ”
“I don’t know how to load it.”
Placing her hands on the slide, I show her how to chamber a round and release the safety. “You got this, Dobby.” Nudging her legs apart, I stand behind her, adjusting her arms as needed to stop any potential recoil. “Breathe.”
“You couldn’t just give me a knife, no?” Katie snaps, clearly uncomfortable with my Glock in her hands.
“Knives are messier. More personal. You’re less likely to be traumatised by shooting someone from a distance.”
“I’m traumatised enough, what’s one more notch in my belt?” Katie grumbles, doing her pouty face again.
“If you want a knife, I’ll get you one, but first.” I pull her shoulders back and remind her to focus on her target. “Just breathe; squeeze the trigger gently.”
She does, more so to shut me up than wanting to follow my instructions.
“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Katie glares at me, clearly not amused by my attempt to lighten the mood. “I missed.”
“Try again.”
Her middle finger flips up in front of my face before she turns back to the target. “How do I reload?”
I show her how to reload the gun, ignoring her grunts of protest. “You can pretend it’s my head you’re aiming for if it helps.”
Katie rolls her eyes, reloads the gun and takes aim once more.
“Both eyes open. Don’t drop your arm. And remember to breathe.” Katie takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger, hitting the target dead centre. “See, I told you that you could do it.”
“Shut up,” she mutters, a small smile playing on her lips. “Now, about those knives.”
I quirk an eyebrow and grin down at her. “What kind would you like?”
“What kind have you got?”
Grabbing her hand, I lead her into the house and up to my office. Opening the safe, I reveal six guns, a case of syringes and two shelves filled with various knives of all shapes and sizes. “Take your pick,” I say, watching Katie’s eyes light up at the array of weapons before her.
“I didn’t realise you were so well—”
“Endowed?” Folding my arms across my chest, I meet her glare with a wink.
“—Equipped.” She deadpans, scanning the weapons with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. Her beautiful eyes fall on the buck 120. I know exactly what she’s thinking as her head tilts to the side while she examines the blade with interest.
“They modified it for the movies, but yeah, same knife.”
“Fuck me, you really are like Ghostface.” Her delicate hand reaches for the blade, but she hesitates before touching it.
“Go ahead, bug,” I say with a smirk, watching as she finally picks up the knife, feeling the weight in her hand.
“That’s eight inches of pure lethal steel.”
“Bigger than you then,” I love the way her eyes light up when she’s trying to wind me up.
I love how comfortable she is knowing what I am.
I’m glad I told her in my office after Moore’s departure; it would have made things a hell of a lot more awkward to explain if I kept the lid on the whole “I’m a killer” thing.
“Just a smidge,” I say, my smirk widening. She takes a step closer, the knife glinting in the dim light. “For the record, I don’t run around in a Halloween costume or hunt innocent virgins.”
“It’s probably a good thing,” she mutters, twisting the blade in her hand. “With the number of Ghostface groupies on TikTok, I think you’d put yourself in danger of being kidnapped and tied to a bed.”
“As long as that bed is ours, bug, I wouldn’t mind.” I grab her wrist and pull her closer. “Just promise me you won’t start a true crime podcast about us.”
She laughs, pressing the knife against my chest. “What would they call you, huh? What name would the world know you by? Ripper is so unoriginal.”
“I don’t have a preferred method of killing,” I admit. “But if you keep pointing that blade at me, I can think of a position you’ll find favourable.”
Katie turns, placing the knife back in the safe, then reaches for the Buck knives 110 folding hunter. “And this oversized pocketknife is useful for?”
I suck on my teeth. “That can be used for a number of things.”
She raises a challenging eyebrow. “Like?”
“Skinning, carving, gutting.” I shrug. “And the odd time, shanking.”
She jerks as if to take a step back, but thinks better of it. “You’ve shanked someone?”
“You make it sound so dirty,” I chuckle. “In most cases, it was me.” I step closer, grazing my nose against hers. “Or them.”
“And the other times?”
Plucking her lower lip with my thumb, I lean closer, my lips ghosting hers. “For fun.”
“And…” she breathes, her breasts grazing my chest. “If anyone hurts me?”
“Bug,” my lips fuse with hers, strawberries and cream explode on my tongue as I deepen the kiss. “I’ve killed for you before I loved you.”
She gulps. “And now?”
“They’ll still be alive while I dissect them.” My fingers tangle in her silken hair. I haven’t let Katie out of my sight since the incident in Foxrock. Walsh has been receiving packages all week with parts of his men inside.
This week alone, two of his men were taken out by a sniper, another killed in a “freak road accident,” and my personal favourite, the one who drowned in his own bathtub—not a trace of foul play—Walsh must be doing his nut in.
That last one was worth the quarter-million-euro price tag attached.
Pure brilliance. Meanwhile, I have made sure to be seen in public around the time of these incidences.
Katie wraps her arms around my neck. “No toys tonight; you promised to be on your best behaviour.”
Ah, yes. Her nephew’s twenty-first. “Is your mother going to be there?”
“Most likely.” She yanks me closer, eyes narrowing. “Don’t start.”
“I promise not to kill your mother.” Yet. “Even though she’s a colossal thundercunt.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got some weird form of Stockholm syndrome when it comes to her. Don’t hurt her. Don’t threaten her. Don’t even speak to her if it can be avoided. She’s still my mother—”
“Still a cunt.”
“—And you’ll hurt me if you touch her.”
I nod, knowing that, as much as I despise her mother, I would never do anything to hurt Katie. She knows it too, or she wouldn’t be using herself as a shield to protect the bitch. “I can’t even kneecap her, no?”
“Aiden!”
“Fine,” my jaw tics. “But if she starts—”
“You don’t hit women,” Katie interrupts.
“I can make an exception!”
She traps a growl low in her throat, turns, and marches for the door.
“Bug!” I call after her, she doesn’t turn back. “Katie!” I rush for the door, and I’m met with a flyaway middle finger. “I love you.”
“You’re an arsehole!”
“You knew that when you met me!” I catch up to her, grabbing her arm. “I promise, I won’t kneecap, stab, shoot, hit, kick, or strangle your mother.”
“I know you won’t,” Katie sighs. “And no pushing her down the stairs.”
“Now you’re tying my hands!” I bend, pressing my lips against the crook of her neck. “At least make good on your threat to tie me to the bedpost.”
Katie sniggers, her tension melting away as she leans into my touch. “Maybe later.”
“Do you still have that guy’s number?”
“What guy?”
“The tattoo artist.”
Her eyebrows shoot into her auburn hairline. “Cillian? What do you want with Cillian?”
“Thinking of getting another tattoo,” I trace the outline of her jaw with my finger. “Maybe something to remind me of you.”
Katie’s eyes soften, a smile playing on her lips. “Me?”
“You,” I plant a soft kiss on her lips. “My fiery little snuggle bug.”
Katie’s cheeks flush a rosy-red, her musical laugh makes me want to take her back to bed and never leave.
“Get ready, behave yourself, and maybe I’ll think about asking Cillian to squeeze you in. If he’s not scared away by your name, that is.”
“I can be a very good boy for you, bug.” I lean in to kiss her again, but I’m interrupted by my phone buzzing away in my pocket. “Go shower; I’ll catch up.”
Craig’s name flashes on the screen—not necessarily unusual but definitely not expected. “Craig Barnes, what can I do for you?”
He practically growls in response. “Why did Walsh try to hire one of our guys to keep tabs on you?”
“He did?” There is no point in asking if he allowed his men to take the job. He did say try. Most of the time, the answer is in his responses; he’s blunt like that. I wouldn’t be half surprised to find out he was on the spectrum too. I think he’d love Katie. “How much was he offering?”
“Nowhere near enough to make me even consider humouring him.”
“Not enough as in triple digits?” I want to know how much that rat bastard thinks I’m worth.
“Go again.”
“I should be flattered.”
Craig scoffs. “Only you could see a potential bullet to the back of the skull as flattering.”
“You’re private security, not a hitman,” Strolling down the hallway, I stop outside the bedroom door and catch a glimpse of Katie’s naked body disappearing into the en-suite. “If you were, I’d send you after my future mother-in-law.” That way, I wouldn’t be breaking my promise to Katie.
I hear a sharp intake of breath before he replies, “éabha said you are seeing someone. I didn’t realise how serious it was.”
Neither did I until I thought I was about to lose her. “As serious as dropping the soap in a prison shower.”
He barks a laugh. “Pretty fucking serious then.” He pauses briefly before pressing, “does she know?”
“That I’m a handsome bastard? Of course.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. Craig knows without knowing, as in, he knows he’s just never asked for confirmation about his suspicions. He and Jay have kids; they have made a point of saying they’d do the very same thing if anyone were to touch one of theirs.
“She knows,” I nod, not that he can see me. “Kind of hard to bypass that conversation when she had a run-in with Walsh’s men.”I say no more. There is no way I’m leaving anything incriminating that can be later found in the phone company’s storage.
“Is she ok?”
“A little rattled, that reminds me, I want either you or Jay to come up and teach her self-defence. I’d do it, but every time I try, I just end up mounting her.”
Craig stifles a laugh. “Thanks for that image.” The sound of drawers being opened and shut is quickly followed by his admission. “I had the very same problem with Lottie. I get it. I’ll sort something out with Jay and let you know what works.”
“Are you going to tell Lottie?”
“The fuck I am. She’ll think it’s éabha all over again.”
To be fair, it was more of Jay’s arse on the line with the éabha thing.
I imagine that he hasn’t told his wife about getting a car full of lead and nearly ending up in the Liffey.
Tiffany Singh despises me enough as it is, having never gotten a single charge to stick against me when she was prosecuting a few of my cases back in the day.
Hell, she doesn’t even use Jason’s last name in her professional life.
I doubt that ball buster would take too kindly to her husband being within fifty yards of me again, never mind working for me.
“Fair point.”
“I’ll let you go, and we’ll organise something later this week, yeah?”
“Yeah, no bother. Thanks, Craig.”
“Don’t mention it,” he mumbles, then hangs up.
This is great. The old gang is coming back together and if I time this right, I can end Walsh and keep the gardaí off my arse for good.