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It was his legacy. His kingdom!
And when Krylov’s money landed in his hands, he would take it all back. He would carve up the traitors, like rot from a carcass, burn their weak new order to the ground, and remind every last man in the city who owned The Crooked Sons.
Not for the first time, Ronan wondered why Krylov was so fixated on Madelaine. Sure, the old bastard liked to prattle on about her dark hair and her blue eyes. The man had mentioned that he admired that particular combination more than once, almost salivating over it. But Ronan knew it went deeper. Krylov’s interest had the stink of obsession. It wasn’t love. The man was ancient, old enough to be her grandfather.
No, there was something twisted in it. Eugenics, legacy, bloodlines…whatever the reason, Ronan didn’t care. If a mere woman was the key to rebuilding his fortune, he’d shove the key straight into Krylov’s greedy hands. Deliver the girl, collect the payment, and reclaim The Crooked Sons. He wasn’t about to be put out to pasture by weak-kneed fools who thought his reign was over.
He tugged his collar high as he skirted the looming warehouses, losing himself in the stream of dockworkers spilling through the gates. Men laughed, clapped each other on the back, eager for the night ahead. No one noticed one more grim-faced laborer in their midst.
His phone had died nearly two days ago, leaving him blind. Inconvenient, yes, but instructive. Every struggle made him sharper. Every deprivation reminded him what his soldiers endured. And when he ruled again, he’d rule harder.
Speaking of needs, his lip curled at the thought of how long it had been since he’d taken the edge off. He brushed a hand against the pocket of his jacket, feeling the wad of bills he’d sewn into the lining. To the outside world he was just another tired dock worker, but in reality he carried several thousand dollars in cash, clean and untraceable.
Finally clear of the docks, Ronan stepped into the city proper. He let out a low whistle, raising a hand for a cab. Ride-share services left a digital trail. Cabs still smelled of sweat and cigarettes and, most importantly, took cash. He had cards in half a dozen names, but those were for emergencies. Cash was king.
A cab came to a stop, brakes squealing. The driver leaned across the seat, face bored, voice flat. “Where to?”
“Bus station,” Ronan said, climbing in. His tone was curt, commanding. The word wasn’t a destination. It was a first step.
The driver didn’t react. He simply put his cab in gear and pulled into the stream of traffic.
Ronan exhaled slowly, leaning back against the seat. For the first time in three days, his legs stretched out fully, his muscles loosening. The relief was fleeting. Rage quickly filled the space.
Madelaine.
Her name throbbed in his head like a curse, like a promise. As soon as I find you, he thought, I’m going to make you pay for the indignities you’ve put me through.
A slow, twisted smile tugged at his lips. She had no idea the storm coming for her. No idea that every betrayal, every humiliation, every sleepless night had shaped his fury into something sharp enough to cut.
And when he finally laid hands on her, she would understand exactly what it meant to cross Ronan Keane.
Chapter 12
Leonid shifted on the hospital bed, his paper-thin skin catching on the sheets. The bed sores burned and oozed beneath him, damp patches seeping through the bandages. He cursed the sores and the uncomfortable pillows he was forced to sit on to alleviate the worst of the pressure. He cursed the nurses who fluttered in and out of his private room, their pitying eyes and gloved hands treating him like a rotting carcass. He cursed the harsh daylight that streamed in, making every wrinkle and sagging fold of flesh more obvious. And most of all, he cursed Ronan Keane for not having delivered Leonid’s bride already.
The lovely Madelaine should be here. She should be by his side, her soft hands wrapped around his shriveled flesh, coaxing him toward the effort of creating his legacy. A son. His heir.
“Are you hungry?” the nurse asked flatly as she drew a food trolley inside.
She hadn’t bothered to knock. Insolent bitch.
“No!” he barked, though his stomach gnawed with hunger. Eating was torture. Food was forced down only to come back up in sour bursts, leaving his throat raw and his sheets stained.
“You don’t want lunch?”
Leonid eyed the tray. Gray broth, bland crackers, a jiggling square of “high-protein” Jell-O. The smell alone reminded him of funerals. He longed for seared steak dripping with butter, potatoes carved into delicate rosettes, ice cream with caramel and praline crunch. Instead, he was served slop that tasted like reheated death.
“Fine,” he growled, waving a skeletal hand, the veins dark and ropey under thin, spotted skin. “Bring it here.”
The nurse slid the tray over. “Do you need help eating?”
The indignities never stopped. Leonid glared at her, his rheumy eyes narrowing. Everyone was younger now. Everyone looked at him as if he already had one foot in the grave.
“I might be a walking skeleton,” he spat, jabbing the spoon into the broth with a trembling hand, ignoring the IV tube taped to his wrist. “But I can still feed myself.”
The nurse gave a tight smile and turned to leave. His eyes followed her hips. Nice ass. That at least still stirred him. Well, his interest, at least.
He slurped at the broth, the nearly flavorless liquid dribbling from the corner of his mouth until he dabbed it away with a napkin. At least he hadn’t spilled it on his pajamas this time.
