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With one hand, I pressed a new dressing to my lower back where a blade just missed my kidney and accepted the bottle of bourbon from Liam’s outstretched grip with the other. The healthy swig offered a burn of relief.
For the third night in a row, I’d been dealing with Russian pricks. I hoped to fuck that when Kostya Molotov found his nearly dead heir strung up on a cross inside Holy Epiphany Russian Orthodox Church, he’d raise the white flag and we could all go back to coexisting in the same goddamn city without nightly bloodshed. Though I’d have been remiss not to admit that taking out my frustrations on the Russians had been therapeutic.
I’d spent another day scouring Willa’s history, even reaching out to Niall Gleason, Finn’s father and my mother’s twin brother. Niall was a senior member of a division within the syndicate that we referred to as the old guard. The group was comprised of retired captains, and, in my uncle’s case, an underboss. These men had been active at the time of Jack’s murder, and though I was too young at the time to attend my father’s closed-door meetings, it was no secret that many, including my uncle, had opposed the decision to turn Jack over to the Brennans. Still, after consulting with the old guard—an act that most would find risky and Raphael would define as treasonous—I came up empty.
I wasn’t any closer to uncovering Willa’s past than I was to uncovering my own blacked-out memories.
I’d considered going directly to the source, but then I remembered how she’d evaded my questions about her black eye and knives. But there was a difference between skirting around an answer because you’re trying to hide something and skirting around it because it was too painful to face or too dangerous to expose.
“She’s got a fucking sack on her, that lass.” Liam shook his head, but his tone gave away his true feelings. Since Keegan and I’d returned to the estate, Liam had been rambling incessantly about Willa trying to stab Molotov’s head guard.
I wondered how Liam would have reacted if he’d been there to see her slit the throat of the Bratva’s enforcer right under God’s roof.
“She’s Jack’s daughter, all right,” Liam carried on.
His remark carried a weight of truth that tipped the scales in Willa’s favor, regardless of her current last name.
Her moderate ease and skill with a knife and her heightened level of awareness suggested she’d had at least some professional training. Tiernan may have insisted on it so she could protect herself from syndicate enemies. But I didn’t need to believe Raphael’s intel by way of Cillian to know that Willa’s depraved husband had been her greatest threat. Everyone knew that no woman was safe when she was alone with Tiernan Brennan.
I took another gulp of bourbon to drown the images taking shape in my mind and tried to focus on what I’d gathered thus far.
Her body composition—from what I’d seen—was that of a dancer or yogi. The way she’d disarmed the fucking umbrella from me proved her somewhat proficient in hand-to-hand combat. Killing the Russian at St. Patrick’s had been systematic, requiring an organized mind and careful intent. Attacking Molotov’s guard who’d called her a whore was impulsive. She’d been triggered.
Keegan’s laugh cut through my thoughts as he finished tying off another stitch in Liam’s skin. “In front of the fucking Pakhan ...”
The toe of Liam’s boot smashed into Keegan’s shin. “Fuck up my stitches and I fuck up your face, pretty boy.”
Keegan winced. “Fuck, man—I’ve got injuries too. We weren’t fighting a woman; we were fighting assholes with real balls.”
“You were fightin’ the fucking Russians—they’re basically a bunch of eunuchs.”
Keegan gave a half-hearted nod of agreement as he hooked the curved needle into Liam’s flesh again. “I’ll give you that, but it was four against nine—well, four against eight, considering Dimitri wasn’t in the fighting spirit. They’ll be pissing blood for weeks.” He smirked. “Maybe we should’ve taken our very own little Brennan Butcher with us tonight, Lucifer.”
This time, it was my boot that collided with his leg.
Keegan’s grin widened. “Dude, it’s fucking hilarious. You said she’s what—five foot nothing? Weighs a buck and some change?”
“Five-four, actually.”
Three heads swiveled in the direction of the throaty voice moving toward us.
Willa’s dress clung like a second skin as she padded into the room on bare feet. Her long golden locks fell over one shoulder in smooth waves. She stopped when she reached my chair, standing so close that the heat from her body licked my skin.
In the next beat, she swiped the unlit cigarette that dangled from Liam’s mouth, then proceeded to snap said vice in half before discarding it on top of my used bandage.
“And it’s never polite to discuss a woman’s weight,” she said. “Do better.”
Two of Boston’s most elite mobsters were awestruck.
Fucking pathetic.
Willa’s gaze drifted to Liam’s wound, and she frowned. “Are you going to make it, mate?”
I didn’t miss how she teased his accent with a level of warmth you’d find in a friendship.
My eyes locked on Liam, suddenly fixated on his reaction to her question.
He gave her a slanted grin. “Aye, lass—it was nothin’. And you gotta forgive my mate here. Keegs may be pretty, but he ain’t too smart.”
