Page 30

Chapter 7

Fionn

My grandfather kept stallions in this barn.

My father killed men who’d wronged him.

Whereas I turned the old barn into a gym because men are easier to understand when they’re being hit.

Strip away suits, surnames, money, Catholic manners and whatever lie he uses to sleep, and all that’s left is whether he steps in or gives ground when pain comes for him.

Graves is already waiting on the mats when I walk in.

He’s sixty-one, broad through the shoulders, broken twice through the nose. His hair has gone white at the temples, but his hands are steady as he tapes his knuckles.

My father’s head enforcer taught me how to take a punch before I was old enough to understand I could fight back and win.

“You’re late,” he says.

I shrug out of my jacket and hang it on the hook beside the door. The white shirt underneath pulls across my shoulders as I unfasten my cufflinks and set them on the windowsill, then slide the gold watch from my wrist and place it beside them.

“By three minutes,” I say, unbuttoning the shirt and dragging it off.

“Three minutes gets a man buried.”

My trousers hit the floor, and I pull on my training shorts. “Only if he spends them talking.”

Graves tosses a roll of tape at me. I catch it one-handed and start wrapping my left wrist.

Outside, rain works against the roof in a steady rhythm. Beyond the barn, the estate staff are preparing for this evening's event. By tonight, the house will be full of guests because the Harringtons like to put on a show.

Eilish will wear an official engagement ring, and I’ll play my part.

I finish taping my wrists and walk to Graves. “Let’s go.”

“You haven’t warmed up.”

“You’re my warm-up.”

The first jab comes fast for a man with arthritis in two fingers. I turn my shoulder, catch it on my glove, and answer with a body shot that makes his breath leave through his nose.

He grunts approval and holds his defense.

For the first three minutes, there’s only the mat under my feet, the bite in my lungs, the dull crack of glove on skin. There’s comfort in training that punishes carelessness with pain.

I know where Graves’s weight sits before he throws. I know which shoulder dips when his knee starts hurting. I know the sound his breath makes right before he decides to test whether I’ve become arrogant.

He drives a hook toward my ribs. I take it on my elbow and send him back two steps.

“Crowe boys had men outside Portlaoise last night,” he says, circling to my left.

“Near the depot?”

“Near enough. Two cars at the tire yard, one lad asking about drivers who run night loads to Dublin.”

I duck, missing his next jab. “That yard pays for half the horses my father pretends are family tradition. If Crowe men are asking questions there, they’re counting more than tires. Have you got names?”

“None worth remembering.” He braces as the next punch lands. “And all of them warned.”