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Willa being a Brennan meant they’d never be two sides of the same coin.
I’d get back to leeching the truth about how this fucking conundrum came to be, but for now, I had my brother’s ego to contend with. As head of the family, Raphael held the ultimate power, yet when it came to me, his jealousy was a hair trigger away from ruthless retaliation. Finding Willa in my arms was a punishable offense.
“Your fiancée wandered into the garden, probably high on whatever drugs the nurse gave her.” It was partially the truth. Mostly a lie.
Willa had had all her wits—as deranged as they were—when she confronted me in the garden. I’d been curious how long it would take her to return to her feisty self after St. Patrick’s.
Not long enough.
She couldn’t hide the trauma lurking behind her eyes, and not for one second was I buying the reserved widow act. There was a partly decapitated Russian being incinerated at a Flynn-funded crematorium right now who I think would agree.
When Willa had all but begged Raphael this morning to visit St. Patrick’s, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to study her behavior in another setting.
And how fucking enlightening that’d been.
I had yet to admit to Willa that I’d witnessed her act of savagery—or how proud Jack would have been if he were still alive. Until I had more information, the fact that Willa had Russian blood on her hands needed to stay between me, God, and, well, the homicidal widow. Keegan hadn’t been there for the show, and I’d omitted it from my earlier debriefing with Raphael.
At least she no longer had access to sixteen fucking knives.
If Raphael had found her weapons, there’s no telling what his reaction would have been.
The fastest way to get anything accomplished when you’re a member of a crime syndicate is under the direct order of the boss, so I cut right to the chase. “Do you want me to interrogate Cillian to find out how the fuck Jack’s daughter ended up married to Tiernan and what the fuck she’s doing here?”
I’d wanted to have this conversation about Willa much earlier in the day, but Cillian had tagged along like a stray puppy when Raphael dropped in at the club.
He popped the top off a decanter and poured himself two fingers of whiskey, his mannerisms showing no sign of surprise that I knew who Willa was.
“There’s no need. You can spend your time doing the things you’re best at.” Sliding into the armchair nearest me, he tipped his glass. “Like making mincemeat out of Dimitri Molotov, for one. Attacking us in St. Patrick’s—fucking Kostya. The fucking sack on that prick.”
It wasn’t the response I’d expected—or preferred.
The bourbon I’d been sipping helped eased the pain from the flesh wound that Keegan had stitched up for me, so I took another hearty gulp while I came up with a revised pitch. “You’re not concerned the Brennans may have an ulterior motive in sending Willa here?”
Raphael shook his head. “No. I have no concerns in that regard.”
“And why is that?” I asked with forced calmness.
I was taking liberties that were only allowed behind closed doors. Raphael’s arrogant look told me that he was fine with my line of questioning. Based on the hint of amusement in his eyes, one might think he was actually enjoying himself.
“Cillian already told me everything I need to know.”
“Did he now?”
Raphael shrugged. “If you haven’t already noticed, the fucking twat’s got a serious coke habit. So we struck a deal—I gave him coke, and in return, he gave me answers.”
Cillian’s drug of choice was displayed like a neon sign. He couldn’t walk ten paces without wiping his snout.
Irritation filled every cell in my body. Raphael choosing a Brennan’s intel over mine was an insult we may never come back from. “And you trust the biased word of our sworn enemy over an investigation by your own blood?”
Raphael rolled his eyes. I prayed for the sake of our family’s legacy that he never dared to do that shit in front of our peers.
“Former enemy, Lucifer,” he chided. “Soon enough, we’ll be family—whether we like it or not. You know it’s the way of our world. Accept it—as I have.”
I rubbed at the dull throb in my forehead. “How’d Cillian explain Jack’s daughter marrying Tiernan Brennan?”
His expression flatlined. It was almost as though my own reflection were staring back at me. An uncustomary reaction in my brother.
“Retribution.”
