Sarkis’ lungs rattle as he gives a pained laugh. “Lies. You’ve hidden the three of them away.”
As he spouts off the beginning of an address, my boot slams against his mouth. The stomping gives a muddy sound as his face caves in. My men stand around. One’s making a call. I shove dark shoulder-length hair away from my face and regard the henchman on the phone.
He gulps. “No answer.”
2
Kieran
A year later
Ikilled my da. A man I never had an ounce of respect for. I might as well have had the knife inmyhand. A vow of revenge resulted in my da’s stabbing. Sarkis’ man knifed him forty-seven times. Killed my mam too—not on the same day, though. When the man murdered Da, she and Kiera were at my little sister’s piano lesson. Sarkis paid the lad who did him in to follow through if Sarkis failed to reach out by the conclusion of the wedding. Subsequently, Mam drank herself to death. It took her a good while to finally pass away, but she was a stubborn one.
Now I’m sitting in darkness, boots hanging over a ledge, consumed by the truth. All the power in the world amounts to a big, heaping serving of dogshite. Music, along with soft and faint laughter from a wedding venue down below, floats to my ears. Same sounds I heard the afternoon I punished the Armenians for their bad bedside manners. They arrived in Boston and set up shop with the intention of selling tomyclients.
Tonight, I’m in Los Angeles, having just finished visiting with Clan MacKenzie. I expected a wedding. I’d a plan for that. I’d drink myself under thefeckingtable, get sopishedthe irony of attending a wedding would be lost on me.
Luckily, my mate and my cousin, Erika McFarland, came to their senses.
I stand on the ledge of the hotel. To the left of me is the main boulevard, and to the right, twinkling lights illuminate the night. I pull my zipper down, ready to give these festive suckers a golden shower. Aye, that’s how far I’ve fallen—from overseeing drug and weapon deals in Boston to letting mybawsdangle in the wind and pissing on the heads of unawarebawbags.
I pull at the half-gallon of whiskey and drone an old Irish tune. All the while, down below,arseholessing of prosperity and happiness. The DJ had called for the money dance now. Elated music haunts my soul. Tucking my cock back into my pants, I second-guess my endeavor.
“Die, ya weebawbags,” I mutter under my breath. I clobber backward, off the ledge and onto solid ground. Tiny pebbles from the roofing embed into my palms as I attempt to stand up. I let out a tipsy chuckle. The world is off-kilter. Then I hear distant crying.
Nae, Mam. I had nothing to do with Da’s death. My actions . . . didn’t kill em, either,I had told her. He knew the clan you were born in! He was obligated to protect ya!
I can smell the stench of her, the alcohol on her breath, the bloodshot eyes, the regret. The crying is closer, and this time, accusations and hate do not accompany it. On my hands and knees, I leap to a standing position, shoving my shoulder-length hair away from my face. A few yards away, there’s a dark figure of soft, slender curves.
A lass.
The chilly air flings silk strands in her face. Wrapping her arms around herself, the woman steps up, her feet grabbing purchase on the ledge.
Oh shite, we’ve got ourselves a jumper, here.
I mutter, “Aye, uh. . . Miss . . .”
The half moon paints a shadow on her face. She looks how I feel inside.Dead.
Eyes glossed in tears turn in my direction.
“You don’t wanna do this.” My words echo in my ears. I’m not the kind who cares about another’s life. I hadn’t ever known weakness until Sarkis sanctioned the death of my da.
I take her waist in my hands, helping her down. When she turns to look at me, I draw my gaze to her face. I drink in the curve of her cheek, the soft bow of her lips. The venomous anger that’s churned through me over the past three hundred sixty-five days fades.
My knuckles skim along the slope of her cheekbone, and she flinches at my touch. The alluring stranger’s hesitation strikes a defiant chord in my soul. I’ve never wanted for my entire life, not until a year ago. And no amount of rampaging will bring back the dead.
Fire scorches through my blood at the dark, dangerous thoughts I haven’t harbored in so long. I’ve let go of Boston, sent a broken-hearted Kiera farther away from our reality, and wallowed in my own pity.
But I was taught totake.
Claim.
Own.
Break.
The young lady’s penchant for fear has skyrocketed as her pretty face twists and the rise of her chest triples. She takes a step back toward the ledge—preferring suicide to the likes of me.