CHAPTER 6
The Stranger
The estate smelled like turf, smoke and old money—the kind that clung to your clothes, seeped into your lungs, and reminded you whose ground you were standing on.Not wealth, ownership.
The kind of power that didn’t need to announce itself. It just existed—in stone, in land, and in the men buried under it.
Sean Coonan—my ex’s father. They called him The Cuckoo because once he fixed on an idea, he didn’t let it go. He drove it into existence through sheer force of will until it was finished, buried, or burning. No one stood in his way.
He’d burn through men, money, and blood until the thing was done. Obsession was his gospel. Deals. Feuds. People.
He didn’t forget. He didn’t forgive. He just… waited until the moment was right to strike. And when it came, he never missed.
My life was proof of what happened when Sean decided he wanted something badly enough. Years ago, he’d looked at his daughter and seen an alliance. He tied us together and called it strategy. She chose another man anyway.
He poured two glasses of whiskey. He never asked. Asking implied choice. He slid one glass toward me. I picked it up and walked to the window, watching the clouds hide whatever sunlight this dreaded weather could offer before winter hit.
The glass was heavy, cold in my hand, the whiskey sharp enough to sting my nose before it touched my lips.
He took a large sip and leaned back in his chair, boots planted wide, king on a throne that had been paid for in other people’s graves.
“You’ve been sloppy,” he said.
“The only reason I tolerate your Sicilian ass is because you married my daughter and kept her with respect. Too bad she had to go around and shag with the Bratva. Good for me, I got an alliance with the Muscovite dogs.”
I took a slow sip. I let the silence work. It always did.
“You killed a man two nights ago,” he continued. “Not for business or territory.”
His eyes flicked up. Sharp. Knowing.
“For curiosity.”
My jaw tightened. My molars ached from the pressure. I took a large sip of the whiskey, letting it burn down my throat. I lifted the amber liquid and pretended to look at it through the glass.
“He was asking questions,” I said.
“About a woman,” he corrected.
Recognition settled low in my ribs, sitting there before I could name it. The glass clicked as he set it down.
“Do you know how long it’s been since your name surfaced in conversations it shouldn’t?”
I said nothing.
He stood then—tall, silver hair slicked back, cigar clamped between his teeth like it had grown there.
He wore suits cut from the finest cloth but strapped a cheap watch to his wrist, always saying time was the only constant that showed a man what he was made of.
The metal was scratched to hell. As though time had tried to fight him and lost.
Broad-shouldered, belly softened with age, but still lethal at sixty-five—like a wolf that had learned patience instead of losing its teeth.
He circled me slowly, like assessing a horse that might need to be put down.
“You’ve brought noise to my doorstep, lad,” he accused.
“All for pussy.”
My fingers tightened around the glass, crystal groaning under pressure. My jaw ached from clenching, tongue pressed hard against my molars until I tasted iron. My shoulders went still. The kind before bones break.
I rolled the whiskey in my glass. Watched the light break through it.
“Some things,” I countered, “aren’t meant to be touched once they’ve been claimed by fate.”
His mouth twitched in recognition.
I swallowed the whiskey, letting it burn my throat. Because breaking him would start a war, I didn’t feel like fighting tonight.
He leaned back in his seat, smoke curling from his cigar.
“You wanted distance,” he said. “I gave you distance.”
Ronnie called it strategy. Sean called it exile with better weather. I never cared what name they gave it as long as it put oceans between her and me.
He took another drag, then studied his cigar.
“I gave you refuge when you needed to disappear.”
The word refuge sat wrong in my chest. Too close to truth. It tasted bitter, like ash caught at the back of my throat.
“Because blood isn’t always born,” he said, with a dramatic pause. “Sometimes it’s chosen.”
Sean had trusted me after Cork—after I took a blade through the shoulder meant for him and buried the two men responsible before sunrise.
Now, he let me take care of dock routes, collections and enforcement.
The kind of work Sean handed only to men like me—men trusted to keep their mouths shut and their hands dirtier than his own.
His gaze hardened.
“Don’t make me regret choosing you.”
He stood up from his chair and strolled toward me, taking the other side of the window.
“You’re killing men on my turf because you can’t keep your hands off a memory.”
I met his gaze without flinching.
“She doesn’t belong to you,” he said. “She never did.”
An old and violent feeling stirred in my chest.
“She belongs to herself,” I replied.
He laughed, dry, unamused.
“That’s what you tell yourself when you don’t want to admit the truth,” he said. “You don’t want her safe. You want her untouched by anyone else.”
His eyes darkened. “And that makes her a liability.”
My spine went rigid.
“You bring war to my door,” he continued calmly, “I won’t protect you from it.”
He walked back to his desk, tapping the cigar once, ash falling like grey snow into the tray. Like he was marking territory.
“Blood buys silence, not forgiveness,” he said. “And pride is the one debt no man can pay. Remember that.”
The tap against his temple echoed like a gavel. Judgment passed. Sentence delivered.
I nodded once. Acknowledged the sentence without accepting the judgment.
“I’ll handle it,” I said.
His gaze sharpened.
“You already are. That’s the problem.”
He didn’t raise his voice. Men like him never needed to.
Rooms bent around his decisions.
Graves existed because of them.
I left before reason could get the better of me.
I didn’t trust myself, not when he spoke of her like she was some item to own and possess.
I wanted to break something—preferably bone, hit until the pain took over the noise in my head.
Maybe bleed a little too. My knuckles itched, phantom bruises already blooming beneath the skin.
Fighting became easier than sleeping. Easier than silence. Easier than remembering her and living with the fact that I walked away anyway.
So, I went to the one place where the noise on the outside would make the internal noise quieter—the fighting ring. Where beating a man didn’t provoke questions, instead earned me a name.
The fight ring was underground—literally. A converted meat locker beneath a closed factory, walls sweating with damp and iron. The air smelled like blood, sweat, and money changing hands.
No names here. No loyalties. Just fists and the agreement that pain was temporary and scars were the marks of victory.
The crowd parted when I entered.
“Rossi!” Someone screamed in the distance.
“Rossi is here.” Another said. The name moved through the room like a warning.
“Make me some good money today, Rossi,” Greg said, patting my chest as I walked towards the cage.
Greg worked doors at a local club and spent his free days betting on me. And like the generous friend I was, I made sure his kids ate.
I stripped off my jacket, wrapped my hands without care, with the low hum of anticipation. Men and women alike, eager to watch someone get broken so they didn’t have to think about their own fractures.
The ring looked more like a cage than a fighting ring. The cage was welded iron, chain-link walls bolted into concrete—rusted in places, reinforced in others.
Old blood lived permanently in the seams of the floor. No one cleaned it properly. Just enough to keep it from smelling like death.
Fights here had one rule: beat or be beaten, until your opponent couldn’t stand. No killing. Not officially, at least.
My opponent was built like a wall—so big he probably couldn’t scratch his own back without help. They called him Big Bob. His bald skull shining under bad fluorescent lights. Neck thick as a tree trunk. Eyes too small for a face that size. Like they got squeezed out by muscle.
“First round?” someone shouted.
I stepped forward. He cracked his knuckles.
“Will you be able to handle it, pretty boy?” he asked.
He swung first. I let it land. The first punch slammed into my ribs—hard. The sound cracked through me, sharp and hollow. Pain flared, bright enough to almost drown everything else out. Almost. My teeth rang.
The second hit landed lower. The third clipped my jaw.My vision blurred and the crowd roared.
“I’ll try.” I laughed, rubbing my jaw, and that made him angry.
He went for my side again. I felt something give—not break, but complain loudly. Every muscle roared with pain as my breathing turned shallow.
Then he leaned in and grinned.
“Do you always fight this way?” he sneered.
His eyes flicked over my face.
“Like somebody else get their hands on what you wanted?”
The words slid under my skin like venom, cutting deeper than his fists ever could.
The monster inside me broke its leash.
Flashes came before my eyes. Black lace. Red mouth. Limp in my arms. Her breath shallow.
Mine.
Mine to protect, to destroy myself over.
The leash inside me snapped loose. Most days I kept the worst parts of myself chained tight behind my ribs. Tonight the chain slipped.
I drove my forehead into his nose. Heard it crunch. Then skin split and blood sprayed across the floor like a confession. Drove him back with a knee to the gut, then another to the ribs, until his breath turned wet and panicked.
He swung blind and missed. I hit him until my hands went numb. Until the crowd stopped cheering and started wincing. Until he was on the floor, curled in on himself, blood pooling beneath his mouth like a confession he couldn’t take back.
The crowd roared, not in approval or outrage—release.
They didn’t see violence. They saw permission. Permission to be monsters for a few minutes, to let someone else bleed so they didn’t have to bleed themselves.
Someone tried to pull me off. I shook them off. I knelt, leaned close enough for him to hear me through the ringing in his ears.
“Next time,” I whispered in his ear, “choose your words better.”
Then I stood over him, chest heaving, blood running down my forearms—some mine, most not. Every inhale catching on bruised ribs.
Cash was shoved into my hand. I didn’t count it. As I turned away, a man stepped into my path. Older. Smarter. Eyes cold with calculation instead of fear.
“You cost me a lot of money tonight,” he said.
I leaned close enough that he could smell the violence still clinging to me.
“Too bad,” I spat, “you chose the wrong man to bet on.”
His jaw tightened. I walked past him without another word.
Outside, the cold Irish night slapped against my overheated skin.
Steam rolled off me like I was something still cooking.
I sucked in a breath that tasted like rain and rust. My ribs screamed with every breath, each inhale punishment, each exhale confession.
Blood ran down my side, soaking into my shirt.
Pain was a dear friend that kept me going.
I would usually head to a bar and get a fuck to blow off excess adrenaline. But today, I rode without thinking. Streets blurred. Corners passed. My body knew where to go long before my mind tried to reason me out.
By the time I realised where I was, I was already parked.Her place. I didn’t go in.
I sat on the bike and lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl up into the dark dead night.
I took in a deep drag and watched the cottage. The stupid guards were probably curled up senseless in their beds, unaware that the treat loomed just outside her door. They were good. Just not good enough.
The windows stayed dark. I knew which one was her bedroom without thinking. And which light she left on when she couldn’t sleep.
I smoked another.
Then another.
Smoke burned my lungs. My ribs pulsed in time with my heartbeat, every breath dragging across bruised flesh.
I wondered—
If going inside would save her. Or ruin her completely.
The problem was, I no longer knew which outcome I wanted more.
The cigarette burned down between my fingers. The thought twisted like a blade. Saving her and destroying her felt like the same act, just different names.
I had already made a mistake of touching her, getting her here the other night. And my body hadn’t forgiven me for stopping.
Smoke curled up into the dark night. And all I could see was her. Her body beneath strobe light.
Black lace. Red mouth.
Mine.Fuck.