I step out into the hallway where Cillian and Wolfe are still waiting. Before I can say anything, someone at the end of the corridor catches my eye.
My father is walking toward us. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Adrenaline courses through my veins, ire shooting to the tips of my fingers.
He's dressed to the nines, as usual, because nothing interferes with people’s perceptions of Eamon Molloy, not even the fact that one of his kids was brutally attacked by an enemy family. His expression is calm as he saunters down the hall in his typical pompous ass way. It’s as if he's showing up to a damn business meeting instead of a hospital where his son is lying in a bed with sixteen stitches in his head.
“How is he?” Eamon asks when he reaches us.
“Lucky,” Cillian says. “The scans came back clear. He just has a concussion and some bad bruising and swelling.”
“Good.” My father looks between us. “I've spoken with some associates. We'll find out who did this and take care of them.”
“You don’t need to look too hard. The Russians did this,” I say through gritted teeth. “They told Gavin it was a message. They’ve already hit the DiMicheli family, multiple times. Now they’re coming for us, just to prove they can.”
“Perhaps Gavin shouldn't have been out drinking alone at a bar when there are active threats against both families.” I shudder at the chill in his voice. Prick bastard. Always knew the asshole had ice for blood. “His reckless lifestyle has consequences.”
I stare at him. Blood pounds between my ears and I am damn close to pummeling his ass into the polished tile floor.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Watch the way you talk to me, Lochlan,” he growls.
“Fuck that,” I say. “Your son is in there with his head split open and you're blaming him?” I take a step toward my father, fists clenched hard at my sides. “Why the hell aren’t you out there tearing this city apart to find the cocksuckers who did this to him?”
“I said we'll find them. But Gavin needs to take responsibility for putting himself in a vulnerable position. I've warned him countless times about his behavior.”
Jesus Christ, you could freeze ice on my father’s ass.
“He's twenty-one years old. He went to pick up his jacket from the bar, not party. And three guys beat him half to death in a parking lot.” People passing us in the hallway, shoot curious stares in our direction, but I don’t give a shit. Fuck them. And fuck my father for sitting on his ass and doing nothing to protect us. “This isn't about his lifestyle. This is about the Russian threat escalating, about them coming after our family, and you standing there like it's just another Tuesday night.”
My father’s jaw tenses. “I suggest you calm down, Lochlan. If not, you won’t like what happens next.”
“You don’t hold any control over me,” I hiss, my pulsehammering in my throat. “I’m not fucking afraid of you. And by the way, thanks for proving yet fucking again that the only person you really give a shit about is you.”
I don’t miss the flicker of shock in his expression. It lasts for a fleeting second before it morphs into disgust. Cillian shifts beside me, tearing his gaze away to focus on anything but us. But Wolfe watches, positioning himself closer to me.
My father straightens his cuffs, his sharp voice cutting the tense air. “I'll be in touch when I have information about who's responsible. In the meantime, focus on keeping your wife's family in line. The Russians wouldn't be making these moves if they didn't sense weakness on their side.”
He turns and stalks away without another word.
“He doesn’t even give a shit enough to check on G.” I shake my head then look around. “Hey, where's Ronan?” I ask.
Cillian still won't look at me. “I called him. Left three messages.”
“And?”
“He's not coming.”
“Gavin is lying in a hospital bed, and Ronan can't be bothered to show up?” I say through clenched teeth. “Where the fuck is he?”
“Loch—” Cillian starts to say.
I level him with a glare. “Where. Is. He.”
Wolfe points to his phone. “His car's GPS puts him at his apartment. He's been there all night.”
“I think I’ll go and give him a live update.” I twist away from my brothers and shove my hands against the double doors, pushing them open. My heels dig into the floor as I head for the exit.
Ronan's apartment is in some overpriced high-rise in the Seaport District. I've been here twice, maybe three times. Never liked theplace. It’s too sterile and reminds me too much of our father's house.
