Kane leaned against the counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “You know once this is done... there’s no coming back from it?”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I muttered, sipping my coffee.
But the image of Darragh’s lifeless eyes as I finally took back the soul he thought he owned? That was a high I was willing to die for.
James glanced at Ingrid over my shoulder, engrossed in the movement of the charcoals on the sketchpad—completely unaware of the shitstorm I was about to walk into.
“Are you gonna tell her?” he asked.
“No.”
You don’t tell the woman who just let you fall apart in her arms, who trusts you with her entire being, who let you fuck her slow like she was the only goddamn thing tethering you to this earth... that you’re about to kill someone.
Kane shook his head. “Never thought I’d see the day we go as far as killing a man.”
I set the mug down. “I’m not asking for help.”
James shrugged. “Too bad.”
I was both annoyed they were planning on tagging along, and relieved. Truth was, I’d need all the help I could get against Darragh and his street dogs.
But I didn’t want a clean execution. I wanted to look the bastard in the eye, show him the monster he created and realize, too late, that he’d taught me far too well.
Chapter forty-five
Tristian
The Obsidian was a different kind of hellhole without the music. No strobes, no bass, no bodies to hide its sins. All that was left was stale gin, expensive cigarettes, and the scent of a thousand bad decisions. It was a tomb. And tonight, I was here to bury the man who built it.
Kane and James followed me inside, their footsteps heavy on the hardwood. I’d texted Darragh an hour ago:
Want to talk about our deal. Just us. Leave the door unlocked.
The bastard wouldn’t be able to resist thinking he still held the leash.
“Stay on the stairs,” I muttered as we reached the foot of the VIP lounge. “Nobody comes up… and no one leaves.”
They didn’t argue. We’d done enough of that when they tried to convince me to back down.
I walked alone toward the VIP doors. They were unlocked, just like I’d told him.
The room was cast in a sickly amber glow from the accent lights. Darragh sat in his leather armchair like a king, glass in hand, that dark smile already cutting across his face—a look I’d seen a thousand times.
“Tristian,” he purred in that Irish twang I’d spent years learning to hate. “Sit. I understand you’d like to discuss our…arrangement.”
I didn’t sit. I stood in the center of the room, my shadow stretching long and dark across the floor.
“There’s no arrangement. No more fixed fights. No more running anything for you. I’m out. This is the last time you see me.”
Darragh’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes turned cold. “Out.” He said it like it amused him. “You don’t get ‘out,’ lad. You’re the best investment I ever made. I poured years into molding you. You think I’m gonna to let my prize fighter walk away because he found himself a little pussy that made his heart go soft?” He leaned forward. “I made you.”
“You tried to fucking break me.”
“I had to. If not… you’d be shacked up in prison for the hundredth time, no? Crying over your mam? If I didn’t take you under my wing… where would you be? I saved you from yourself,” he snapped. “You were a disaster. Wild. Stupid. One fight away from ending up behind some fuckin’ alley.”
“Darragh…” I breathed out, holding back the anger that simmered beneath my skin. “I’m done.”
A flick of irritation curled through his expression. He wanted me loud, out of control, raging like the boy he used to control.
