Page 9 of Clipped Wings

Over the past couple of months, I’d grown accustomed to Jack’s favorite mode of transportation. The Icon Sheene and I had become fast friends, pun intended. Once the temperature got above sixty degrees, Jack had me on the back of his motorcycle, squealing as we tore through the streets of New York. He was crazy about the damn bike. No one apart from me was allowed to touch it, let alone ride it. Jack said he’d never been possessive in his previous relationships, but I didn’t think he’d factored in his Sheene.

I joined him so often on the powerful piece of metal that he’d given me a custom helmet for my twenty-second birthday this past spring. Like his, mine was matte black and connected to his phone’s Bluetooth, but the smoky halo adorning the back was a personal touch. Jack was a fearless conductor, but he exercised restraint with me as a passenger.

That was not the case today.

My body fused with his as we barreled south through Manhattan, weaving in and out of traffic. Like every other aspect of my life with him, it was easier to let him guide. I leaned into him as we tilted, pulled my knees tight when he took a sharp turn. Even my lungs synced themselves with his.

When we reached the Brooklyn Bridge, our helmets rang with an incoming call, startling me. Jack’s phone had been silent for the past twenty minutes, which was uncommon for one of the wealthiest arms dealers in the world.

Jack answered in a monotone, his mind clearly elsewhere. “I’ve got Wings.”

“I’ve got Wings.” That was his way of letting his men know I was listening in on the call. The phrase had become a running joke. Whenever Eoghan was tasked with driving me around town, he called it Wing Duty. At the gym, members of the mob I hadn’t even met referred to me as Wings. Jack had no idea what he’d started by referring to me as his angel.

“We’ve narrowed the location down to one building,” Kieran stated, his voice laced with anticipation. “Where the hell are you?”

“Five minutes out,” Jack clipped.

“Fuck it. I’m going in.”

“No, you are not!” he roared, rattling the bones in my skull. “Wait for me, Kieran. I’m five min—”

“I’m going in, Jack.” Kieran ended the call.

“God fucking dammit!”

Jack revved the engine. It vibrated beneath me, the humid wind whistling through my helmet louder than it ever had. I cinched my grip around his waist, no doubt crushing a few of his ribs, but Jack didn’t seem to notice. I was afraid to open my eyes and look around. We had to be going dozens of miles over the speed limit. Every muscle in Jack’s body was hardened, the tension thick as ropes under my arms.

When we began to slow, I allowed myself to peek at my surroundings.

The sun had just set as Jack pulled us to the curb outside an old three-story Brooklyn warehouse. A few people stood outside, their shadows long against the brick wall. They were O’Connell men I recognized from the St. Patrick’s Day celebration at the Emerald. At that time, they’d been plastered, goofing off and laughing. Now, their faces were somber as they guarded the vaulted entrance.

Jack killed the engine. I jumped off the bike, setting my haloed helmet on one of the side mirrors. He grabbed my hand as we jogged along the sidewalk, but our path was stopped by one of Jack’s men.

“Get the fuck out of my way, Cathal,” Jack snarled. The lines of his face were etched in misery, like he knew what was on the other side of the door. The ache in my belly worsened, adrenaline blurring my vision.

Cathal bristled, but his tone was gentle, soothing. “We’ve cleared the area, Jack, but you don’t want to go in there.”

Jack’s nostrils flared, his throat working on a swallow. “That’s an order.”

Cathal glanced in my direction, seeking my help. When he got none, he stepped aside to let us through. He kept his gaze locked on mine as we passed by, a beacon of warning in his eyes. The hair on the nape of my neck stiffened. I thought I might vomit, but I hadn’t eaten anything for more than a day.

Jack’s head hung lower and lower the farther we traveled down the ill-lit hallway, like an anvil was crushing him under its weight. My legs trembled, but I followed his retreating form. I couldn’t stop. I had promised I would stay with him.

A dark-haired man was seated on the floor to the right of an open doorway at the end of the hall, his back pressed against the brick, his head dangling between his bent legs. If defeat had a posture, this man embodied it. I’d never met him, but I’d seen him guarding Shannon on a few occasions. And if he had been tasked with ensuring Shannon’s safety, that meant he was close with Connor—probably high in the chain of command.

The man’s fingers twitched upon our arrival, but he didn’t look up as Jack brushed past him and into the large room. I continued after him, despite the cold draft escaping from the doorway.

When we entered, Jack halted with a quick intake of breath, his gaze shooting up toward the vaulted ceiling. I almost ran into him but caught myself. Jack stood just ahead of me, his arm outstretched behind in a protective gesture. I followed his line of sight, my knees wobbling when I saw what he was staring at.

It was Connor, but I wouldn’t have recognized him apart from his signature Brioni suit. He was dangling upside down from the rafters high over our head, a thick rope tied around both feet. His eyes were closed, his face covered in his own slick blood. His throat had been slit, the sea of dark red on the concrete floor beginning to dry. He’d been hanging there, dead, for hours.

Kieran was kneeling underneath his eldest brother, his jeans soaked in blood. He held his head in his hands, shoulders shaking violently. He was sobbing, but I couldn’t hear anything apart from the loud ringing in my ears. My brain had gone fuzzy, like I’d been transported into one of my nightmares. Except I hadn’t had a nightmare since last fall, and this was too horrific to be fake. A few seconds passed in utter silence, but they felt like an eternity.

I looked at Jack, my mind refusing to process anything.

He turned away from his dead brother, leaning his forehead against the brick behind us. His eyes were screwed shut, his teeth gritted in pain. Reality came spinning back to me when Jack punched the wall repeatedly, the bones in his hand cracking.

I ran to him and grabbed his wrist, holding him back. I wasn’t strong enough, but he stopped anyway. I wrapped my arms around him as best I could, holding him upright until his legs gave out. We fell to the ground together.

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