27. Killian
KILLIAN
Walking into the bar, I let my eyes adjust to the dark environment.
With large black stairs leading to the second story, and a black-and-white tile under a dark bar, it reminds me of an old tavern from Ireland.
A few patrons sit at the bar, and at the far corner, Murray’s blazing copper hair sticks out against the shadows.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Princess: Where are you?
I can’t help my smirk.
Why? Miss me?
I can see her eye roll before the text comes in.
Princess: No.
Liar.
Glancing up at Murray again, I send a final text.
I’ll be home soon. And I’m bringing you a gift.
Dropping a hand onto Murray’s shoulder, I watch the beer spew from his mouth and across the bar top. The bartender gives me a dirty look, but once I lift my jacket and let him see my Glock, his attitude changes. In fact, most of the bar does, choosing to avoid my gaze.
Glancing around, I lower my lips to his pudgy face.
“Hi, Murray.”
He swallows thickly. “Reaper.”
“We need to have a chat.”
His jowls quake. “I’m under the Board’s protection?—”
“And last time I checked,” I say, digging my nails into his shoulder. He gasps, body caving toward me. “I’m not a part of the clan. Never was initiated.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” he amends. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend?—”
“It’s not me whom you have to apologize to.” Tugging him from the stool, he falls to the ground, a fallen turtle with no way of getting upright. “There’s a little devil who wants a talk.”
His face grows ashen, fear flashing in those dull eyes. “No. I can’t?—”
“C’mon, Murray,” I cajole, grabbing his arm. Pulling so hard, he rolls to his feet, panting heavily from exertion. “Where’s your sense of adventure? You’re being rude, making someone wait.”
He shakes his head, holding up his hands. “She’ll kill?—”
“Probably,” I say, winking. Gripping his little finger, I pull it back with barely a blink. The snap is music to my ears. “But think of how fun it’ll be for me.”
It’s like foreplay watching my girl be so unhinged and give into her bloodlust. A chaotic mess, full of fury and rage, that feels like home to the demons inside my soul. I’m giddy thinking about it.
He wails, holding his hand. It immediately turns purple—my new favorite color. Tsking, I snatch his collar, throwing him toward the door. “You really should’ve worked on your pain tolerance, Murry. She’s going to eat you alive.”
Striding into her office, I’m surprised to see her and Lex bent over her desk. Papers are lined out, stacks of contracts, and a few books. One is fake—she learned to cook them years ago to cover their trail—and the real one, open wide.
Taking in her long, dark hair and perfectly pink lips, I have to stop the groan that sits on my tongue at seeing her in my shirt and a pair of tight black leggings. Her long legs shift and move as she speaks, ignoring my presence.
Not a huge fan of the capo being so fucking close. They’re practically sharing the same air.
Crossing my arms, I slink behind them. Her eyes are focused on the papers, the capo pointing out a shipping route, but I see the moment her body reacts to me. Her shoulders bunch, her spine curves, and that perfectly taunt ass pushes out, expecting my touch.
Tilting, I see how her cheeks flush, and the sparkle in her eyes—something only I ever fucking get to see—takes over the dark green, making them look like unpolished gems.
I’m five seconds away from slicing the capo’s neck and taking her against the wall. How dare he see something so beautiful and live to tell the tale?
“Killian,” she says, tone brisk. Blinking, I notice both are looking at me, and I’m twirling my knife between my fingers. Delicious thoughts of blood dripping down from the capo’s neck make me smirk, and Maeve’s eyes narrow.
“Where have you been?”
“Shopping,” I say easily. Coming close, I brush my nose against her cheek, uncaring if the capo notices. “I left your present in the basement.”
His face takes on a cute shade of gray. He must remember that’s where we keep all our torture victims. His cousin was a guest there not too long ago.
Maeve stares back at me, black bleeding into those gorgeous elfin eyes. Eyes I could never paint—because they paled to the real thing.
Those same eyes that look at me now—no longer in pain, but a brightness that hasn’t been there since she killed Michael.
Because she’s finally trusting me. Maeve can try to lie to me—hide—but I know her too well.
Her eyes always give away her tells, and it’s only now that I’ve earned some of her trust back.
The capo holds his gut. “Who do you have in the basement?”
“A little fucking birdie.”
Maeve’s head tilts, and I see her calculating my words, her lips pouting slightly. Her cunning is one of her better qualities. She could take down the entire city with that strategic mind, and I’d sit back to watch it happen.
“What are you working on?”
“The future,” Alessio answers, waving a hand over the cluttered desktop.
Glaring at the capo, I say, “I wasn’t asking you.”
“Without the Board, we’re losing money,” she reminds me quietly. “Lex has connections we can exploit.”
“And he’s doing this out of the goodness of his heart?”
The capo stares at me, dark brows heavy over his bright eyes. “If O’Brien goes down, then so does De Luca. It’s only right to work together to keep both families going.”
It’s a good idea—but it pisses me off that she’s relying on Alessio for help.
“I assume you have a buyer,” I say, tapping the page. “For gun and pills.”
“I do.” He shrugs. “And hopefully it’ll lead to more buyers down the road. But we still have things left to discuss.”
Glancing at Maeve, I notice her chewing her lip, looking at the papers, unseeing. She’s not focused on this task—she’s thinking of the man in the basement who could blow all of this wide open. Who could give us the leverage to end it.
My girl lives for torture. Whereas her prince loses his stomach over tight spaces, or her sister, who cannot stand to see someone ripped apart—or rather gets turned on by it—Maeve lives for it. She becomes alive—a demon feasting on the screams of her enemy.
We grew up the same, and both know how to make someone talk. How to break a body, let it fester, and then go back for more. We know how to use their agony as substance for life—we worship it.
“Princess?”
She blinks once, exhaling, lips wet. I want to bite them, feel them again.
“Lex,” she begins, and I grunt at the familiarity. “We’ll continue in a few hours. I have to handle this now.”
Holding up his hand, he twists his face to the ceiling. “Say no more. I don’t need to know what you’re going to do.”
“Who would’ve thought the capo can’t handle a little bit of torture?” I wink, egging him on. “I figured this was normal for you.”
“Torture?” He scoffs, organizing the desk. “Sure, I can handle that. But your specific brand? The O’Brien way? No.” Green colors his cheeks. “I can still see my cousin’s head rolling across my desk. It’s not natural.”
“I took it easy on him.” Maeve walks past me, and I follow, compelled to be near her.
“We’ll send you a note when we’re finished. Wouldn’t want you throwing up all over your expensive suit.”
Once in the hall, I slip my hand into hers, tugging her close. She’s stiff at first, but once my arm curves around her shoulders, she melts. She knows she’s safe with me.
Pressing a kiss to her temple, I inhale her scent. With a shower, fresh clothes, I can still smell me on her, and it makes me fucking feral.
“Still with me?” A saying that seems to be more than a simple statement—it’s a check-in. A way to gauge how the other is doing. A way for me to decide if she needs grounding, if she’s losing the battle against her demons.
She almost did when we were younger, and I promised to never let her do that again.
Nodding, she clings to my side as I direct us to the elevator. “I’m with you.”
“And the ghosts?” I glance down at her, entering the steel box.
She chews on her lip, and I tug it free.
I know how the voices torment her—how every single horrible thing that’s happened to her seems to replay on loop in her mind.
She hears the despairing comments from Ferguson and the disgusting words from Michael as if she’s stuck there again.
If I could erase those memories, take them from her and live them instead, I would.
All I can offer is my support.
“They’re there,” she admits quietly. Wrapping her close, I tuck her under my chin, feeling her curves press against mine. Her nails dig into me as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear. “But they’re quieter.”
“Why?”
She sighs. “Because you’re louder.” Looking up, I’m struck by the intensity in her gaze and her heat that seems to lull me into a peace I’ve never found elsewhere. “I hear you in my head, battling back their thoughts. It sounds weird?—”
“It’s not weird,” I interrupt. Lifting her chin, I run my lips over hers, inhaling her essence. “You might hear me in your head, but I feel you in my chest when you’re gone. If that’s weird, then we’re both a little fucked up.”
The elevator stops, the bell chiming overhead.
“We’re both fucked, Pup,” she says, smiling slightly. It’s a small grin, but it’s enough to lighten a gray sky, turning everything rosy and bright.
Lifting her knuckles to my face, I press a soft kiss to the scarred skin, never breaking eye contact.
“Then two fucked-up halves of one whole. Pretty fitting. Shall we?” I tug her toward the side of the basement that holds the interview rooms.
A bullshit name her father gave them. They’re torture rooms, with one-way mirrors, a broken chair, a dirt-packed floor, and musty cement walls. Most of them still smell like leftover vomit and blood.
At the far back corner, around a few broken chairs and old leather restraints, I open the door. The hinges squeal, and Maeve’s breaths increase, pulse jumping in anticipation.
I knew my girl would love this.
Walking in, I shove my hands into my jeans, staring down at the bruises and sweaty face of Murray James. He’s passed out, but no matter. He’ll come to soon enough.
“Wake up, Murray,” I coo, kicking the chair. “It’s time to play.”