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“Aye, Owen. Mattie McGuire may have delusions of grandeur, but the good news is, you won’t be around to be caught up in the bloodshed.”
The kid’s last flare of hope dies when I give Sean the nod and grip his arm hard to hold him steady. “Safe home, Owen. May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back.”
It takes no time at all before the toxic shit he brought to our side of Dublin claims its next victim. The McGuire mule convulses for a bit and then sinks toward the floor and falls still.
In my mind, it’s a poetic end.
You live by the poison, you die by the poison.
When it’s done, I pull my knife free and wipe it clean on Owen’s shirt. “Aiden, bring the van around and then dump the body somewhere McGuire’s mules will see it. I want his street weasels to know what happens if they break the territory lines and bring their shit into our streets.”
“You got it, bro.”
“And Sean, find out what the fuck Owen was talking about. If Old Man McGuire plans to break Da’s truce and come at us, I shouldn’t have to learn he’s gone north from a fucking grunt.”
Sean rubs a rough hand over his mouth and pulls at the scar through his lip. “Aye. The boys and I will start rattling cages. If the McGuires are talking to the Campbells, we’ll find out why.”
I collect my jacket from where I hung it when I arrived and slide it on. After tugging the cuffs of my shirt sleeves into place, I run a hand down the front of the fabric. “I’m going to grab a bite and spend an hour or two in my office before heading to my loft. Call me when you know something.”
CHAPTER THREE
Laine
Jet lag is kicking my ass.
Lying on the quaint little bed in my cozy little room at the Gilford Inn, I pull the knitted coverlet over my head and close my eyes.
The sun was barely poking above the horizon when I landed at Dublin airport by way of London, Heathrow, earlier this morning. Seven in the morning here was two in the morning Chicago time. I was good to myself and laid down for a nap so I could pop up and hit the ground running.
There will be no popping.
There will be no running.
There will be eating, though, because that plastic chicken and pasta medley they served on the plane isn’t cutting it.
All I need to do is get up…
My eyes drift closed again, and I give in to exhaustion. Maybe it’s not jet lag. Maybe it’s perfectly natural for a body to shut down after escaping months—and even years of hellish stress.
Maybe this is my system reboot for a new life.
If that’s the case, then I deserve it…
The next time my eyes open, it’s dark outside.
I have no idea how long I’ve slept, but my ‘catch up’ nap seems to have made matters worse. I’m no more rested than I was when I first curled into bed, so I give up trying.
Although, lying here for the foreseeable future is tempting. For the first time in years, I have no commitments and no one to hold me accountable for my time. But my stomach is now cannibalizing itself, and I seriously need to eat.
With a groan and a couple of unladylike curses from my youthful days, I salvage what energy I can, tame the insanity of my new mahogany brown waves and wipe off the raccoon smudges of yesterday’s eyeliner.
I briefly toy with the idea of starting fresh with new makeup, but why bother? I don’t need to impress anyone. I don’t even know anyone in this city, or in all of Ireland.
Not even my great-aunt.
But, although I’ve never met the old girl, I’m thoroughly looking forward to it. My mother loved her Auntie Maeve and wanted nothing more than for the two of us to connect.
Headstrong woman that she was, it looks like Mom will get her way in the end.
