Tough Love (The Shakedown Series Book 3)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  He rapped on the doorframe of the door with his knuckles.

  Phee shot to her feet upon seeing him. “No.” Her voice was emphatic, protective.

  “I simply came by to see how he is.” Man, his voice rasped.

  Declan’s head fell to the side on the pillow. Red-rimmed eyes stared at him out of a face that was red as if sunburned and glossy with some ointment smeared on it. Jesus, the man looked terrible.

  “What can I do?” It was such an impotent offer, but he to at least make it.

  “Do? You have done enough and…” Her words stopped when Declan’s hand dropped over hers. She immediately put her attention back on him. He recognized the love that crossed between them. Is that what people saw when they saw him and Luna?

  Declan, his hand as red as his face, gestured for him to come closer.

  He did. “I had nothing to do with your club burning down, Declan.” The words scratched like sandpaper, but they had to be said.

  “I know.” The man could barely get words out—they were mixed with gravel.

  “That’s a switch.”

  “But someone did.” Someone torched that club on purpose—and he knew who.

  Phee still glared at him, but a pissed-off woman he could handle. The fact his recent actions might have spurred on the fire? He’d spend his life making up for that fact.

  Carragh took another burning breath. “The firemen said you went back in. For Luna? Anyone else? No one got…” How do you ask if anyone died?

  “Everyone got out. Except…” Declan coughed. “Had to get something.” The man raised his other hand and pointed at a canvas bag on a chair in the corner.

  “Nothing is that valuable.”

  Declan lifted his eyes to him. “Those are.” He gestured, and Phee seemed to understand. She brought the bag to him. “I have copies, but these… Originals. My mother’s diaries.”

  Carragh shook his head in confusion. Given what he’d just gone through, the man shouldn’t be talking, let alone worrying about some stupid diaries. There was sentimentality, and then there was stupidity.

  Declan coughed. “The girls… need… go somewhere.”

  Phee hushed him. “Nathan already has Starr halfway… somewhere.” She eyed Carragh. Good woman not to reveal locations.

  He nodded once in the direction of her glare. It just seemed fitting to acknowledge her during this bizarre exchange.

  “Go,” Declan mouthed to Phee.

  “I’m staying. No more discussion about it, either.” Phee sat down next to Declan, and he gave her a weak smile.

  Declan peered back up at him. “Luna.”

  “I’ve got her.”

  “No, you don’t.” Phee rose but then stilled when Declan touched her arm. Another unspoken message crossed between them.

  Carragh stared deep into Phee’s eyes—the blue so familiar yet so different. Residual pain floated there. Luna had said she took the brunt of their father’s abuse.

  “I’ll cut out anyone’s heart who dares to harm your sister, Miss O’Malley.” He figured he couldn’t go wrong with the formality.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” she said tersely.

  With some effort, Declan picked up the bag holding the journals. The man was clearly exhausted. “Read them. The blue one with the daffodil on it. Ten pages in.” He began coughing so hard, Carragh wasn’t sure he wouldn’t hack up a lung.

  Declan’s hand fell to Carragh’s wrist. Okay, he seemed desperate enough to touch him, so Carragh nodded once and took the bag. He knew of these legendary diaries. Declan had once used them as blackmail to get his father to ease off. Carragh thought Declan was crazy to expect such an impact on Tomas. Still did.

  “It’s not all,” he managed to rasp out. So, there were more things—things Declan may never share. He gained a truckload of respect for the man in that second. Declan had kept something for himself—leverage. The man was smart and perhaps a MacKenna after all. They specialized in leverage.

  Carragh nodded an acknowledgment. It suddenly felt important that Declan didn’t hate him. Or maybe it was because the man had integrity—and belief that something like the scribblings of a woman dead long ago held such meaning. They were things Carragh wished he had.

  Since he wasn’t about to leave Luna—let a team of orderlies try to throw him out—he returned to her room with the canvas bag and sat himself down for a long night.

  He adjusted the sheet so it was higher up on her body. She squirmed a little, her cheek falling to the side. An angry red slash marred her skin, and her complexion was ruddy yet ashen at the same time.

  God, she was beautiful still.

  He brushed a fingertip over her forehead. She didn’t stir. The sedative they gave her must be strong as she didn’t rise to waking.

  His foot got tangled in the canvas bag he’d abandoned on the ground. So, his Aunt Kate had kept journals. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why it was so important to read the musings of a young pregnant woman hell-bent on leaving her family behind. He understood why she might, however.

  After shuffling through the ten or so books, some a faded Moleskine, some with fancy patterns on them, he found the one Declan had referenced—a bright yellow daffodil adorned the front of a faded blue diary. The cardboard cracked a little as he opened it. Ten pages in, huh? He found it and began to read.

  When the first page was read, he looked up at Luna, just needing to see something good for a minute. Because what was on the page? He thought he knew his father. He hadn’t. Declan had been right about the records.

  He returned to reading and didn’t stop until he’d read every word written in a young woman’s hand.

  As he closed the last book, he stared at the woman he knew he’d spend the rest of his life with. Sending her to the Eastern Shore house wouldn’t be enough. He couldn’t send her without him, and he wasn’t about to leave now. Not when he finally had what he needed.

  He drew out his cell phone. He had some calls to make—including one that would likely end his father’s reign for good.

  33

  Carragh stared down at his father, asleep. “My, how the mighty fall,” he muttered. And so easily, too.

  His father was a large man but was nearly incapacitated by something as microscopic as a razor-thin blood vessel bursting in his brain. Before he could philosophize too hard on that thought, Sean rapped on the door frame.

  “Thought I heard you come in.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Someone had to be.” He gripped a coffee cup.

  He didn’t have time to play this game with Sean. “Was he awake when you got here?”

  “He was.”

  “And?”

  He shrugged. “And nothing.”

  A rasp came from his father’s throat. Carragh tipped his head to view his father’s lips moving as if trying to speak. His eyes blinked with more clarity after a moment.

  “Carragh.” The voice was weak, but it was there.

  “Hello, Father. Having a nice day?” Carragh tapped the little blue diary against his leg.

  Sean grumbled something behind him and stepped deeper into the room. As if he could stop his next actions? The man had no idea what was coming.

  Carragh dropped into the chair behind him, slipped his finger in between the pages, and opened to the page he wanted. “Thought I’d come by and read to you.” His eyes dropped down to the page. “1970. May. The house is so quiet. Mother is crying in her room. Connor’s funeral was so hard. I counted the petals on the flowers of every bouquet I could see, all placed around his casket. I couldn’t go up to it, though. Why do people do open caskets? I was too scared that if I went up there he’d open his eyes. He’d then see I know how we got there.”

  Tomas’ brow wrinkled. Sean stood like stone.

  Carragh continued. “I saw Tomas. There, I wrote his name and still my hand shakes. Tomas hit him with the boat paddle. He held his foot down on the man’s face, and all that horrible gurgl
ing? I can’t stop hearing it. Things are getting worse. How do I get out of this wretched family? My brother drowned a man tonight. He drowned his best friend. Why won’t Father believe me? Tomas scares me because I think this might just be the beginning.” Carragh lifted his eyes from the page. “There’s more, but I think you got the gist.”

  “What the hell is this, man?” Sean just shook his head.

  “Kate MacKenna’s diary.” He held it up and inspected the spine in the harsh bedroom table lamp. “There are so many more, too. Father, you have quite the serial killer past.”

  “Carragh.” Sean’s warning tone really annoyed. “A girl’s diaries? How do you know they are even true?”

  Tomas laughed a little and then choked. He stared at Carragh. “Stupid little Kate. So what if she wrote some dreck? Like that means anything?”

  “Oh, I’d say it’ll mean a great deal to a great number of people in this town. Like Patrick—”

  “You don’t have the balls. Years ago bullshit. No one cares.” His words weren’t articulated, but the man was putting up a bit of a fight. Let him.

  Carragh wasn’t in the mood for small talk. “Your rule over this family is over.”

  “Hardly.”

  He stood. “It’s over. I came to give you fair warning.” He lifted the diary. “I keep these to myself and everything that’s in it. But you will turn over this family to me. That’s the price.”

  “No.” He glanced down at the diary Carragh still clutched. He laughed a little. “I never thought you’d be the soft one in the end. Daniel, I could see, but you?”

  “I know letting go is hard, but you will one way or the other.” Enough of his mad power declarations. He wasn’t reacting anymore. “Like you said, family is everything. Protecting it. Too bad they were empty words to you. They aren’t to me. So here is how it’s going to go. We are divesting all holdings in Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York.”

  Tomas coughed soundly. Carragh wasn’t a monster, so he let the man finish his fit.

  “Carragh, what the fuck are you doing?” Sean growled low. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m directing everything from now on. After all, Father, you’re incapacitated.”

  His father’s face reddened and his mouth didn’t seem to want to work very well.

  “Don’t strain yourself. Take your time recovering. I’ve got things covered here.”

  Tomas stilled, his lips thinned. “So, my own son is my greatest threat now,” he managed to grit out.

  “Oh, but I am an enemy to anyone who opposes me. You taught me that much.”

  His father couldn’t have expected to raise a viper and not expect it to strike. Guess the man never counted on his fangs to sink into his own jugular vein.

  Carragh turned away, unable to look at the man he shared his genes with.

  Sean grasped his arm and hissed, “I repeat: what are you doing?”

  “Freeing us.”

  “Us?”

  He nodded once.

  His father struggled to get up. “I knew you didn’t love her.”

  That got him to turn around.

  A sinister chuckle came out of his father. “You are so pussy whipped. You think making me your enemy is going to protect that little slut?” His eyes glanced Sean’s way. “Afraid to do the wet work yourself? I’ll take care of it then. You’ll fold the second she’s lying in the morgue.”

  “You won’t touch her. You’d never survive in jail.”

  A roll of laughter as unsettling as unexpected thunder came out of Tomas. “You used to be a thinker, Carragh. If you know everything I’ve done, why do you think I’d stop now? One way ticket to hell… who cares? I’ll kill her with my bare hands—just like I should have done to Kate the second she spread her legs for that boy. He was easy to sink in the ground, just like your little Luna—”

  “You won’t touch her or anyone else ever again.” Carragh had ahold of his father’s throat in a second and the man seized instantly, gasping and his eyes bulging.

  Sean was on his back, yanking at his arms. “Let him go. Fuck, man…”

  Carragh released his choke hold and shrugged off Sean. Tomas fell to his side, clutching at his throat, but then his lips curved into a satisfied smile. “There he is. My boy.”

  “You should rest. You’re not well.” Not any part of the man was.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” Tomas’ choked tittering got louder as Carragh stomped out of the room.

  His father had threatened to burn down Shakedown, so surely the torch job was under his orders. He sought to kill the woman he loved yesterday, and since it failed, his father would see it through.

  Over Carragh’s dead body.

  Sean was on him in the hallway in a second. “What in the ever-lovin’ shit is this?”

  “You said you’d follow, right? Well, no more talk, Sean. Not now.”

  Sean’s lips clamped shut and his stance widened. He wasn’t happy at all—but his happiness wasn’t high on Carragh’s to-do list.

  34

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The man’s voice was pure gravel from a lifetime of smoking and age.

  “I see you got my text.” Carragh didn’t bother to say hello either when he answered the call. In fact, he’d stopped with small talk altogether as the calls and texts streamed in as a response to his dozen or so messages to the other families in town.

  All it took to dethrone his father was a few well-placed calls followed up by texted pictures of certain diary entries to some of the other Baltimore families. Wheels were in motion now that he couldn’t stop if he wanted to.

  Cracks in the tenuous loyalty people had to his father had formed—and they were growing with each passing hour as calls started coming in asking for more information, details, questions about rumors that reached their ears.

  Carragh answered everyone succinctly and with no ambivalence. Yes, his father was guilty of the crimes outlined by his sister so long ago.

  “I’m setting a rumor straight. It’s all true, George. My father drowned your brother.” Fifty years ago, Carragh’s father and the man’s son were best friends—at least until Tomas’ legendary temper got the better of him. “What you do with this information is up to you. But know I’m taking over the family businesses and divesting it all. The MacKenna family will no longer want anything to do with whatever my father set up with you. It’s all yours. Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Payoff?”

  “Not in the slightest. The West is yours. As for the information I shared, like I said, you do what you need to. Just leave me out of it.”

  “I have no beef with you, Carragh. But Tomas?”

  “Has lived a long life.”

  A chuff on the other end of the phone. Carragh supposed he’d never heard a son offer up their father before. Cold-hearted? Yes. But the man had successfully destroyed enough lives too many times in the past.

  The mysterious drowning of a son.

  The disappearance of a distant cousin.

  The sudden departure of women to the West Coast.

  They all could be explained by the confessions of Tomas bragging to rivals or anyone he was trying to cow—boastful speeches caught by his sister who hovered nearby.

  It was time for the hold Tomas MacKenna once had over anyone to end—and to make his threats wholly impotent.

  He placed his phone face down on the small cricket table next to his chair. His door slammed open.

  Sean burst in and didn’t knock. “What are you doing now?”

  “Sean. Nice of you to drop by.” He linked his fingers over his stomach.

  “Are you crazy?” he scrubbed his hair. “Your father is flat on his back in his bed and you draw a target on him?”

  “I see the rumors have gone around already.” He hadn’t expected them to fly so fast.

  “Old Markson called me. Wanted to know if it was true.”

  “Ah, his daughter. God rest her soul.”

  S
ean’s nostrils flared. “It was thirty years ago. Different times.”

  “Didn’t know rape and murder was okay back then, either.” His phone buzzed as if on cue. He lifted it to see the name displayed on the screen. It was another distant family member calling about his text regarding their relative. That one was a car accident if memory served. Tomas always did for the dramatic.

  The man raised his hand. “Not this way, Carragh. This is not the way to—”

  “To what?” He leaned back in his chair. “What is it you think I’m doing?”

  “You want to head this family—”

  “I already do.”

  “And I suppose the stripper lying in your bed upstairs—” The man wisely stopped when Carragh shot to his feet. He always would have a bodily reaction to anyone disparaging her, wouldn’t he? He didn’t mind.

  And hell yes, he had her upstairs. Drove her straight here this morning after her overnight hospital stay. He may never be separated from her again.

  “Go ahead. Finish the sentence and see if I really am different from my father.”

  The guy’s jaw muscles glided under his five o’clock shadow. His eyes drifted down to his phone, which dinged with yet another return text message.

  “You’re making a mistake.” He shook his head. “For a burlesque club.”

  “Which someone burned down last night. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?” He focused on his cousin’s right hand—his greatest tell. It was the one where he jangled keys, twitched his fingers whenever he was trying to hide something. Tonight, they hung still by his side.

  “It wasn’t me if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Good.”

  “I suppose now you’re going to tell me you’re marrying Luna.”

  My, his cousin really had let his imagination run away with him. “I’m sending Luna to—

  “The Eastern shore?”

  The man was fishing. Whatever. “Maybe.”

  Sean scrubbed his chin. “You think it’s a good idea to leave now that you’ve ripped open every secret this family has?”