by Fox, Nicole
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”
“She’s my business, O’Malley,” the Kinahan thug bellows. He’s closer to me than I realized.
I’m hoping that the bartender will come to my aid. But his face shuts down instantly.
He holds up his hands and nods in terror. “I’ll stay out of it then.”
“That’s fookin’ right.”
That’s when it hits me.
No one but Cillian has the balls to mess with the Murtaghs or the Kinahans. And right now, Cillian is dealing with a much greater problem.
Which means I’m on my own.
I fly through the pub until I reach the door that Cillian and I entered through.
I fling it open and race down the next flight of steps. This time, I’m thankful for the lack of light. Maybe I can find a way to shake off the asshole chasing me.
I bolt through the narrow passageway, hoping to run into Gabe.
But after what just happened with the bartender, I doubt he’ll be much help, either.
No one’s going to stand between me and the Kinahans.
No one but Cillian.
When I see the black door at the end of the passageway, I speed up a little. The man sitting in the corner isn’t Gabe. He’s taller, skinnier, blonder.
He stands when he sees me, his eyes zeroing in with suspicion.
“What the fuck?”
“Open the door!” I yell at him, aware that my pursuer is right behind me.
He does and I run out of it and onto the brightening streets. The sun is almost completely up now and there are a few early birds jogging or heading off to work early.
I ignore their pointed looks as I race down the streets, refusing to slow my pace.
He’s still following me.
My lungs are about to burst out of my chest. The pain is searing into my limbs and slowing me down.
Then I feel him grab my arm and twist me around hard.
“No!”
I try and fight him, but he pushes me into a narrow alleyway and pins me up against the wall.
I can smell garbage and urine and the strong body odor rising off the Kinahan thug who’s got me captive.
“Stop…! Please…”
“‘Please’ don’t work on me, baby,” he snarls with a sickly smile. “You’re in a fuck-load of trouble. Your boy just killed ours.”
“He tried to attack us.”
“Attacks happen all the time in this city,” he tells me. “Murders are a whole other ballgame.”
Fear skitters across my body.
But this time, it’s not for me.
It’s for Cillian.
“Let me go!”
“I will. Just as soon as you spread those sweet—”
My reaction is immediate and completely unplanned. The moment it becomes clear exactly what his intentions are, I knee him in the groin as hard as I can.
Instant, sickening crunch.
His ugly face scrunches up with pain.
“Fuuuuck!” he stammers, the pain preventing him from screaming.
I push him off me and he crumples to the ground in a fetal position.
Serves the motherfucker right.
I don’t bother to stay and gloat. I leap over his folded body and run out of the alleyway, then zig-zag through the streets until I find a quiet corner in the middle of one of the little public gardens that pepper Dublin.
I sit down and try to calm myself.
My hands are red and clammy and I’m sweating profusely.
I run my hands down my face, trying desperately to get my bearings.
It takes a good fifteen minutes for my breathing to come back to normal. Even then, I can’t shake off the panic that’s coursing through me like poison.
I wrap my arms around my body trying to curb the shaking.
It doesn’t stop.
“Cillian…”
Even whispering his name is painful.
The cloak of safety and comfort that engulfed me an hour ago is gone.
Last night, things were blurred and soft and beautiful under the fairy lights.
But there’s no romance in the daylight.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I nearly jump a foot.
The man looking down at me is dark-skinned, tall, and broad-shouldered. He’s wearing a suit and carrying a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“I, uh… It’s…”
I know I’m not making any sense. I’m barely coherent.
“Are you okay?” he asks with concern.
I shake my head, tears floating up to my eyes despite myself.
“No, I’m not okay. Nothing’s going to be okay anymore.”
“There now, it can’t be all that bad,” he consoles. “Did you have a fight with your parents? Or your boyfriend maybe?”
I want to laugh in his face.
How little he knows. How little he understands.
I wipe away my tears and stand up. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” I say.
Cillian would have accused me of lying. He’d be right, too.
But he’s not here.
He’s only been in my life for such a short period of time, and yet his absence feels colossal. There’s a void in my world that I can’t quite wrap my head around.
And why would that be the case—unless I didn’t believe I’d see him again?
“Are you sure?” the man asks, forcing me back to the present. “Do you need to use a phone?”
“No,” I say curtly. “But thank you.”
I start walking away before I dissolve into tears and make myself his problem. I turn the corner and blend into all the people heading off to their respective workplaces.
I want to go straight to the hospital, but I decide to stop by at my house first and clean myself up a bit.
A part of me is hoping that Cillian will be there waiting for me.
* * *
But when I arrive, the house is as silent as ever.
I head straight to the bathroom across the hall from my bedroom. I’m almost afraid to look at my reflection in the mirror.
But when I do, I’m surprised.
I expect to see myself scarred and broken.
I expect to be shocked, repulsed by my own appearance.
But I don’t look any different than I normally do.
I look tired, sad. Worn to the bone.
Victims of trauma don’t walk around with the sum of their pain etched across their faces like a scarlet letter.
Or do they?
Cillian’s voice rings out in my head. It’s in the eyes.
I stare at my eyes in the mirror and that’s where I see it.
The fear.
The panic.
The inexplicable sense of loss.
“No,” I say out loud to the empty bathroom. “I haven’t lost Cillian. He’s out there. And he’ll find a way back to me. I know he will.”
I undress and step into the shower. But my fingers hesitate over the knob.
It takes me a second to realize why I’m stalling: I don’t want to wash him off me.
I want the memory of his touch, of his scent, of his kisses, to linger for as long as I can possibly keep them.
How long can I wait, though? Nothing that comes next is guaranteed. I have empty hopes—nothing more.
So I bite down and turn the nozzle on. The cold sucks the oxygen out of my lungs.
But I welcome it.
I need to feel something other than the sinking feeling in my gut.
Once I’ve washed away the last twelve hours, I dry off and slip on my only other pair of jeans and a white sweater. I comb my unruly hair out and tie it tight at the back of my head.
As I do, I notice the redness along my nape.
I touch the skin there, imagining the way Cillian’s lips felt when he kissed me.
I close my eyes for a moment, wishing there was some way I could check on him to ma
ke sure he’s okay.
I don’t even have a phone number for him.
Feeling helpless, I leave the house and head for the hospital.
I’m paranoid and watchful the entire way there. Twice, I think I spot Cillian walking through the crowds of people on the busy streets of Dublin.
Both times, it’s just a trick of my imagination.
I make my way to my father’s room. The corridor that leads to it is quiet.
But when I push the door open and walk inside, I freeze.
Someone’s in here with him.
“Tristan,” I whisper. My voice falters perceptibly as the door closes behind me.
Sure enough, it’s him.
He stares at me with harsh eyes. He might actually be considered good-looking if it weren’t for the ruthlessness that clings to his features.
“Saoirse,” he says, turning towards me. “Where have you been?”
“I… At home,” I reply, trying to get ahold of myself before he can see through the lie.
He looks like he’s about to poke holes in that, but I deflect by walking towards Pa. Lying in bed, he looks like he’s in pain.
“Pa,” I say gently. “Are you okay? How are you feeling today?”
He looks at me with an odd expression. Like he can’t choose between being angry or disappointed in me.
“What have you done, Saoirse?” he demands in a hoarse rasp.
His breath catches and he starts coughing a little. He struggles to sit up, so I move in to try and help him, only for him to shake me off callously.
“Pa, what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” he bites back at me. “What’s wrong is I thought my girl was smarter.”
I can feel Tristan standing just behind me.
I don’t even want to glance in his direction, but I know I won’t be able to avoid him for long.
“I’ll ask you again, Saoirse,” Tristan says. “Where were you last night?”
I turn to him slowly. “What does it matter?”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re in a lot of trouble right now,” he says. “You might want to watch your tone. Especially with the people who are trying to help you.”
My throat constricts.
How is it possible that he knows about what happened with Murtagh?
Then I remember Murtagh’s brag earlier this morning.
My father has the Kinahans at his disposal, not to mention half the cops in the city.
Of course Tristan knows. Of course he does.
“It was an accident,” I stammer. “Murtagh attacked us on the rooftop of the pub. Cillian was just trying to—”
“Are you fucking daft, girl?!” Pa roars at me with more strength than I thought he possessed.
Clearly, it takes a lot out of him because his face goes red and he winces with pain. But he doesn’t stop, either.
I don’t know if it’s because he’s actually that mad or if he’s just pandering to Tristan.
“Cillian fucking O’Sullivan!” Pa continues. “What are you thinking getting involved with the likes of him? How long has it been going on?”
I back away from his bed.
“He’s not like the rest of them, the thugs you deal with,” I say defensively. “And I have the right to spend time with anyone I want.”
“The hell you do.”
This time, it’s Tristan who speaks.
He doesn’t raise his voice, not even a little.
And the effect is somehow far worse.
Even Pa goes silent and slumps back against his raised pillow.
“Come with me,” Tristan orders in that same frigid snarl, sweeping past me and heading for the door.
I glance towards my father, waiting for him to tell me to stay with him. But he barely meets my eye when he speaks.
“Go, Saoirse,” he says quietly. “Don’t make things worse than they already are.”
I push back the betrayed tears stinging my eyes and follow Tristan outside into the broad hospital corridor. There are a few nurses at the main station up ahead, but otherwise, the place is quiet.
Almost peaceful.
Tristan doesn’t even deign to look at me when he speaks. “You were a fool to think there wouldn’t be any consequences for shacking up with an O’Sullivan.”
“Why?” I demand. “I’m supposed to be loyal to the Kinahans just because you’re in their pocket?”
I know I shouldn’t say it.
I know it even as the words leave my mouth.
But I can feel the walls closing in on me. And like a trapped animal, I feel the need to lash out.
His eyes widen and his nostrils flare dangerously.
“Careful now,” he says. “Careful. I’m trying to help you.”
“Why would I need your help?” I scoff.
He cocks head to the side and gives me an amused smile that reeks of ill intention.
“Your little boyfriend’s rooftop stunt has already reached all the relevant ears,” Tristan informs me. “We know what he did to Brody Murtagh.”
“Murtagh was the one that attacked us!”
“Irrelevant,” Tristan says with a wave of his hand. “Fights between the mafia families are common. Murders are not. That is shit you don’t fucking mess with.”
“Where is he?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Brody Murtagh is in Saint Luke’s Hospital now. A team of doctors are working to see if they can save him. It doesn’t look good.”
“I’m not talking about Murtagh,” I snarl.
Tristan’s eyes narrow. “What does he mean to you, exactly?” he asks. “From what I hear, the boy’s own father thinks he’s little more than a shit-stain.”
I catch a glimpse of the jealousy in his eyes.
Jealousy alone doesn’t have the power to scare me.
But I can see possessiveness, too.
And that’s terrifying.
“He… he’s a friend,” I stammer.
He grabs my arm and twists it towards him. I flinch with pain but he refuses to relax his grip. “A friend you fuck?” he hisses.
“Why do you even care?”
“I care about everything to do with you,” he says, with a bite in his tone that removes any iota of real affection it might have held. “I told you, Saoirse: your future is my concern. Especially now.”
My eyes go wide with horror. “What do you mean?”
“The Kinahans didn’t just report on the O’Sullivan runt,” Tristan tells me. “They named you, too. You’re in as much trouble as he is.”
“No…!”
“Heads will roll for this, Saoirse. And at the moment, yours is on the chopping block along with the others. But it doesn’t have to be.”
“What are you saying?” I ask desperately.
“Charges are going to be brought up against the O’Sullivans for this,” he replies. “Not the kind of charges you try in court, though. These are the kind of trials that take place late at night with no one watching.”
I shudder. My mouth is clammy and dry suddenly. “That’s… illegal.”
Tristan shrugs. “That’s the way the game is played for the powerful.”
“The O’Sullivan’s are powerful, too,” I point out.
“Not like they once were,” Tristan demurs with a smirk. “And they know it. Ronan O’Sullivan is not going to enter into a full-scale mafia war if all it takes is sacrificing one son.”
I gasp. “He wouldn’t…!”
Tristan shrugs again. “He’s got spares.”
I take note of the plural. Apparently, the Kinahans don’t yet know about Sean’s departure.
I’m certainly not going to be the one to fill them in.
“Even if Ronan decides to use his connections to save his son, he’s sure as hell not going to do the same for you,” Tristan tells me. “But I can.”
I stop short.
“And what do you want in return?” I whisper, my stomach plummeting.
He leers at me for
a long moment. Biding his time like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.
And shit, maybe he has.
A scarier thought: maybe he’s been waiting my whole life for this moment.
Then he says it, and when he does, it’s worse than I ever could have imagined.
“All you have to do is marry me.”
I stare at him in shock for a few moments. “You… you want me to marry you?”
He doesn’t so much as blink. Just nods slowly.
A bubble of laughter bursts from me. But it dies away just as quickly when I look at his dark, unsmiling face.
“You’re serious?” I say, sobering up fast.
“I’m the only one with the means and the inclination to protect you, Saoirse,” Tristan says, taking a step towards me. “I’ll even agree to take care of your fool of a father. But without me, you’re facing a Kinahan gun by nightfall. And your dear old pa will have no one to keep him out of trouble. No one to protect him from all those dangerous men he still owes.”
It feels like the world is slowing down suddenly.
Like I’m about to lose balance.
To fall headfirst into an endless abyss.
“Won’t it be sad?” Tristan continues as I try to process the offer he’s just made.
Except it’s not really an offer at all.
It’s a threat.
“If the men who want their money back come to get your father, they’ll take their pound of flesh when they find he can’t pay, darling. By the time they’re done, you won’t even be able to bury the man,” Tristan whispers into my ear. “Ask yourself, my dear: is Cillian O’Sullivan worth that?”
My fingers have started trembling again.
I raise my tear-stained eyes to him. “Please,” I beg, all my fight gone. “Don’t do this.”
“I’m trying to save you, Saoirse. You and your miserable father,” he croons. “Let me.”
I shake my head, but he grabs my hand and pulls me close.
“Make the decision now,” he says. “Make it fast. It won’t stay on the table long.”
“Tristan…”
“I so love the way you say my name,” he interrupts abruptly.
He puts his hand under my jaw and pulls my face up to meet his.
“I… I…”
I can’t find my voice. It’s gone. I left it on the rooftop of the Free Canary.
All I have left is screams.
“Well, Saoirse?” he asks, his eyes boring into mine challengingly. “Are you gonna save yourself? Are you gonna save your father? All you have to do is say yes.”
