Chapter 28 #2
When we pull up to the warehouse, cars are already packed in the lot—more than usual. I scan the crowd as we walk in, looking for faces I don't recognize, but nothing jumps out at first. It's just the usual suspects. Irish. McCarthy fans. Some independents, looking to place bets.
The warehouse is packed. They're already screaming my name.
“McCarthy! McCarthy!”
“The McCarthy Monster! Roar!”
It doesn’t amuse me tonight the way it normally does.
The ring's set up in the center, the lights harsh and bright, the crowd pressing close. Money's changing hands, people are shouting, and at the smell of the ring and the vibe in the air, a part of me comes alive. I live for this. Love it. For fuck's sake, I've missed it.
Maybe tonight will be uneventful.
Seamus is waiting near the ring, his arms crossed. Cavin's beside him. My brother leans against the wall, watching the crowd with the same wary expression I'm wearing.
“Ash,” Seamus says, nodding toward the ring. “Clinton Sheehan. Clean fight. First blood or knockout.”
Good. I was afraid they'd try to pit me against Cavin, but Seamus still won’t let a McCarthy fight another McCarthy .
Clinton's young and hungry. He’s been trying to make a name for himself in the Irish circuit.
“Aye.” I nod. “It'll be a fair fight.”
“We'll win,” Seamus says simply.
Tiernan takes my hands, his movements practiced and efficient.
“Watch the right hook,” he mutters low. “Kid's got speed.” He pauses, meeting my eyes.
“And Ash—everything feels off tonight, lad.
Keep your head on straight. Do whatever the fuck I say.
You got it? I'm the eyes on the back of your head tonight. You focus on the ring. Understood?”
“Aye, of course. Always do.”
“Good lad.”
I strip off my shirt, handing it to him, and the crowd's noise swells.
They've been waiting for this, waiting to see if I still have it after time away from the ring.
The younger men are filled with adrenaline, cheering and raising their fists in the air.
And the women are here because they like a good fight too.
I climb through the ropes, bouncing on the balls of my feet and shaking out my arms. Clinton's already inside—younger, cockier than he should be.
He grins at me. “Heard you went soft, McCarthy. Heard you got yourself a pretty lass distracting you.”
I wink at him. “That right? ”
His grin widens. “Gonna be embarrassing when I put you down in front of all these people, innit?”
Seamus shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Cavin's chuckling, throwing back a drink.
When the ref approaches us, he runs through the rules. “Simple, lads. You know them, but I'll go over them just the same, won't I? No weapons. No killing. First blood or knockout wins. Understood?”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
We both nod, and the ref drops his hand.
Clinton comes at me too fast. He's overconfident, throwing wild hooks, trying to end it quick. I block, slip, and counter with a jab to his ribs. He grunts and staggers back.
The crowd roars.
We circle each other, and he begins to slow, learning, watching my footwork. Smart kid, but not smart enough.
I let him think he's got an opening, then catch him with an uppercut that snaps his head back. Blood sprays from his nose, and the crowd cheers.
But I don't hear them anymore.
Something's wrong. The energy in the room has shifted. Too many eyes on me. Too much tension in the corners. A hush falls over the crowd, and the lights dim .
I glance at Seamus. He's standing rigid, already looking at me, his jaw tight. His hand moves to his waist, where his gun is. He feels it too. We all do.
Fuck .
I turn back to Clinton, but he's backing off, his hands raised, blood streaming down his face.
“Tiernan—” I start.
“Stay in the ring,” he says behind me, his voice hard. “Stay in the ring, lad. I've got you. Wait.”
Tiernan's beside me in seconds, his knife in his hand.
“How many?” I growl.
“Six with him marching in. Definitely more hidden.”
The back door to the ring flings open.
“You think you can take what’s mine and live to tell about it, McCarthy?” Marcus fucking Crowning walks in, flanked by six men, all armed, all focused on me, marching in like men about to take the front line.
But what he doesn't know, what none of his men know, is that they're outmanned and outnumbered. This is McCarthy fucking territory, and every face in this warehouse is loyal to us.
“I'm done,” Clinton says quickly. “He wins.”
The ref doesn't call the fight but bolts .
Some of the crowd begins to clear out, people pushing each other aside to get to the exits. This is a mafia war, and we all know it.
I track those who matter most to me, ready to fight, to defend if necessary. Cavin moves like lightning—two of Crowning's men are down in seconds. Lorcan's blade flashes, efficient and brutal. Seamus stands at the center of it all, orchestrating, watching.
I will not lose another fucking brother.
Two minutes and bodies are on the ground. Blood pools on the concrete. Crowning's men are groaning, hands zip-tied behind their backs, their guns kicked away.
Marcus Crowning stands alone in the center of it all. But he doesn't even look at me. He's looking at Seamus.
“McCarthy,” Crowning calls out, his voice echoing through the suddenly silent warehouse. “We need to talk about your cousin's fucking acquisition.”
Seamus steps forward, his expression as cold as ice. “Nothing to talk about, Marcus. She's McCarthy now. You lost your claim.”
“See, that's where you're wrong.” Crowning's smile doesn't reach his eyes, but there's a fury burning beneath the smooth facade. He's not afraid—he's infuriated. Humiliated. “That girl was promised to me. We had a contract. Money was exchanged. You just don't take what's bought and paid for. ”
“Contract's void,” Seamus says flatly. “Her mother has no authority to fucking sell her. It's a modern age, lad. You ought to know that. You can't fuckin' buy someone.”
“Her mother's her legal guardian. Contract stands.”
“Not when she's twenty-four years old, it doesn't.”
I move forward, every muscle coiled and ready. “She's not going back to you, Crowning.”
Crowning's eyes finally land on me, full of disdain—not fear, but pure rage at being bested. “Ashland McCarthy. The enforcer. The monster.” He tilts his head, studying me with a smug satisfaction that makes my blood boil. “You think you can keep her? You think stealing her makes her yours?”
“I don't think, arsehole,” I say, low. “I know .”
His smile turns cruel. “You've already killed her, you know. She just doesn't realize it yet. The moment you touched her, you signed her death warrant. My death warrant was always going to be hers.”
Seamus's voice cuts through the warehouse. “You fire that gun, Crowning, this becomes a fuckin' war. That what you want? You ready to lose your whole family over a girl you don't even love?”
Crowning's jaw works. His eyes dart around the warehouse—at his men on the ground, at the McCarthy men surrounding him, at the cameras I now notice mounted in the corners .
“You're recording this,” he says flatly.
“Every fucking second,” Seamus says. “So everyone can see exactly what happens next. It's your choice, Crowning. Put the gun down and settle it the old way, or keep holding it and we settle it the permanent way.”
“Trial by combat?” he says, his grin sickening, smug, as if he knows something we don't.
“Aye,” I say.
Either way, he's a dead man, but I'm trying to use my powers of negotiation.
For a long moment, Crowning doesn't move. The sound of several guns being cocked at once echoes in the hushed silence. Seconds pass like hours before he lowers the gun.
“Smart lad,” I say.
The gun hits concrete and skitters away, spinning to the corner of the ring. I move toward him, ready to haul him into the ring, but he's already stepping forward, composed and confident.
He strips off his jacket, revealing a white undershirt, lean muscle, and old scars. Like he came here expecting this, wanting this.
“You wanted old rules, McCarthy?” He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. “Trial by combat? Witnessed and binding?” He pulls off the undershirt, revealing a torso built for violence. “Let's see if you're worth the myth. ”
I can see it now in the way he moves, the coldness in his eyes.
He's a killer… like me.
The only difference is, I've got something to fight for.
I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and bounce on the balls of my feet.
Crowning spits on the canvas. “You think you're some kind of fucking hero? You kidnapped her, kept her locked up like a fucking prisoner?—”
“Right, and you were gonna marry her, rape her, then kill her like you did the others. Let's see who's the bigger monster now.”
His face doesn't change, but his eyes flash with pure rage. It’s not shame—it’s fury at being exposed. “I'm going to fucking destroy you.”
“I'd like to see you try.”
No ref. This is old rules. First blood means nothing now. This ends when one of us can't get up.
Crowning charges, and his first punch catches me in the jaw—a solid, trained hit that snaps my head back. I taste copper and spit blood on the canvas.
He's faster than I expected, trained. His combinations are clean and professional. He drives his fist into my ribs—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Something cracks.
I swing back and catch him in the temple. He staggers but recovers quick, then dances back, light on his feet.
“Getting slow in your old age?” He circles me, his hands up, stance perfect. “Or did you spend so much time fucking my fiancée, you forgot how to actually fight?”
Rage whites out my vision for a second. I charge, but he sidesteps and drives his knee into my thigh. My leg nearly buckles.
Tiernan's voice cuts through the roar in my ears. “Stay smart, lad. Don't fight angry. He's trying to bait you.”
Crowning lands another combination on my ribs. The same spot. I feel something give, and blood fills my mouth.
“She screamed for me, you know,” Crowning says, low enough only I can hear. “When I'd visit. Begged me not to hurt her. But she was so fucking innocent?—”
I roar and swing wild. He ducks under it easy, then drives his fist into my kidney. Pain explodes through my side.
“That's it,” he taunts. “Get angry. Get sloppy.”
Then I hear commotion at the door. Shouting.
“Let me through! I said, let me fucking through!”
Bianca.
My head snaps toward the sound, and Crowning takes advantage, driving his fist into my jaw. My vision blurs.
“Eyes on me, McCarthy,” he hisses.
But I can see her now. They're dragging her toward the ring. Not McCarthy men—two of Crowning's that we fucking missed. They must have been outside, waiting. They've got her arms, and she's fighting them, kicking and screaming. My blood boils.
“Ashland!”
Everything in me goes cold. Then white-hot.
Tiernan's shouting something behind me. Seamus is moving. But they're too far away.
Crowning sees my distraction and drives his fist into my solar plexus. The air leaves my lungs. I double over, gasping.
“Told you,” Crowning says. “I'd destroy you.”
He grabs me by the chin, forces my head up, and makes me watch as his men drag Bianca closer to the ring. She's sobbing now, her eyes locked on mine.
“Please,” she screams. “Marcus, don't hurt him!”
Crowning laughs. “Hear that? She's begging for you. Pathetic.”
He drives his knee into my face, and blood explodes from my nose. I hit the canvas hard.
“Ashland!” Bianca screams again.
Through the blood and the pain, I see Crowning move toward her. His men shove her forward, and she stumbles, barely catching herself on the ring post .
Crowning reaches through the ropes and grabs a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back.
“Marcus, don't—” She gasps.
“You lying, cheating little whore .” He slaps her.
The sound echoes through the warehouse. Her head snaps to the side, and a red mark blooms on her pale cheek.
Everything… stops.
The roar in my ears goes silent. The pain disappears. The world narrows to a single point: his hand on her.
He hit her.
He hit . My. Woman.
Something shatters inside me.
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving. The pain in my ribs, my face, my leg—gone. There's nothing but rage. Pure, primal, unstoppable rage.
Crowning turns back to me, still smiling. “Oh, there you?—”
I hit him so hard my knuckles crack.
His head snaps back, and blood sprays from his mouth. He staggers, but I'm already moving. I grab him by the throat, lift him off his feet, and slam him into the canvas.
“You fucking hit her!”
The ring shakes.
I straddle his chest, and I hit him. Again. And again. And again.
His nose breaks. His cheekbone splits. His jaw cracks.
“Ashland!” Tiernan shouts. “Lad?—”
I don't stop.
Blood covers my fists, the canvas, everything. Crowning tries to protect his face, but it doesn't matter. I grab his wrists, pin them down, and keep hitting.
Somewhere, distantly, I hear my family shouting—McCarthy voices, violent words of encouragement.
“Finish him!”
“That's it, Ash!”
“Make him pay!”
And Crowning's remaining men, the ones still conscious, shouting back:
“Get up, boss!”
“Kill the McCarthy bastard!”
But I don't hear them. I don't hear anything except the sound of my fists breaking him apart.
“You. Don't. Touch. Her.”
Each word is punctuated by another hit.
Everything in the background blurs. Nothing exists beyond the need to cause pain and the need to destroy, in equal measure.
His face is almost unrecognizable now. Just blood and broken bone.
I raise my fist one more time, ready to end it?—
Something cracks against my temple.
Pain explodes through my skull. My vision goes white, then black at the edges. I'm knocked sideways, hitting the canvas hard.