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“Can’t?” I snarl. “Or won’t?”
“W-w-wo—”
But he doesn’t have the breath to finish. I stand back. My face is impassive as I watch the kid struggle and choke. I keep the EpiPen in my hand but make no move to use it.
I’m a killer.
The door bursts open. Brioni storms in, wild-eyed. Horror, dismay, and fury contort her face in a way I’ve never seen. She rips the EpiPen from my hand. Then she tears off the cap and stabs Rabbit in the thigh.
The kid gasps a lungful of air. With her own chest heaving, Brioni whirls on me. She whips the empty cartridge at my face, then storms back out of the concrete room.
God fucking damn it. The side of my nose stings from her accurate throw. An unwanted sensation grips me by the throat. But a leader like me can’t afford to feel guilt.
I channel everything into rage instead.
Chapter 33
Brioni
Tears blur my vision as I sprint up the basement steps. When I emerge into the back room, I yelp in surprise.
Declan sits at the head of the long table. He’s calm and stern as ever, his fingers laced together on top of the scarred wooden surface. He furrows his bushy eyebrows at me, as if concerned by my distress. He’s always been kind to me, but right now, I don’t want his concern. He’s the reason my sweet Liam had to grow into a monster.
I let out a sob before clamping my hand to my mouth, then I rush out of the room, the reinforced door swinging on its hinges behind me.
In the dimly lit hallway, I realize I don’t know where to go. My instinct is to turn toward the main pub, that high-ceilinged oak room that’s been my safe space for years.
But it’s not safe to me anymore. It can’t be, now that I know what evil lurks beneath it.
I turn toward the back door and flee into the night. The instant cold of the dark alleyway reminds me that I foolishly left behind my coat and all my belongings. Including my gun.
But I’m not going back into that basement to get them.
I sprint in the only direction I can. Home. My real home, not Liam’s penthouse with all of its lies about our engagement.
As the night air burns my throat, all I can think about is that poor boy choking. The way Liam used his allergy against him like that, he’s no better than the bully who taunted Little Seamus with the peanuts. But Liam went beyond scare tactics. What my fake fiancé did was much, much worse. I have no doubt he would’ve let that poor boy die.
He’s a killer. And when I couldn’t wrap my head around it, he tried to show me.
He could be killing that boy right now. If Liam wants someone dead, there’s nothing I could do to stop him, nothing but make him swear to me he won’t.
Instinctively, I swivel my head as I run down the empty streets. I see no sign of Harrison, but every follicle on my scalp is tingling.
As I round the corner onto our block, I increase my pace to a finish-line dash. It’s late, and most of the houses to either side of me are tucked in for the night, with only the occasional TV glow as I run past. Up ahead, light spills from the O’Sullivans’ front window, warm and inviting. I clench my fists tighter as I approach, because I need my spare house key from them.
When I’m halfway up their walkway, Orla opens the door, almost like she’s been waiting for me. That warm yellow light outlines her slim silhouette, and my feet automatically slow to a walk.
The sight in front of me is the purest form of safety I have left.
I used to think Liam was safety, but tonight he proved he’s anything but. That dichotomy of danger rippling beneath his safe surface wasn’t real. The man is pure danger, nothing else, and the safety I felt with him was a facade.
I smear the salty tears from my face, recovering my breath as I step inside. Orla doesn’t say anything, she just leads me to the kitchen, where the cast-iron teapot begins to whistle.
I plop myself into the nearest chair at the round table, skipping my cool-down routine. A few moments later, Orla sets a steaming mug in front of me, then takes the chair beside mine. She blows delicately over her tea, as if this is simply another one of our after-work chats.
It’s not lost on me that the mugs she selected were Mother’s Day gifts from her sons, each with a child’s colorful handprint on it. She wraps her fingers loosely over Kieran’s sunshine-yellow palm.
In front of me, the Kelly green of four-year-old Liam’s handprint is the very image of innocence. Like the rest of this outdated kitchen, the mugs are wholesome and homey, so un-mafia that once again, my brain struggles to reconcile the opposing sides of the O’Sullivans.
