But old habits die hard, and Iamfilling in as Clan Chief. It could be important clan business.
It’s a text from Sean.
Emergency at the Banshee.
There’s been a fire.
Tom was inside.
TEN
Jhene
Nothing says“your life has gone off the rails” like showing up at an emergency room at two a.m. with a furious Irish mob enforcer at your side.
I was mid-shower when Killian got the message.
One second I was standing under the lukewarm spray trying to wash away the tension of the day, and the next he was pounding on the bathroom door, barking at me to stay put because he had to go.
I almost tripped over myself rushing out of the shower and throwing on some clothes to catch him in time.
By the urgency—and angry growly quality of his voice—I knew it had to be something serious.
He insisted I stay behind, keep the doors locked, and wait it out while he was gone. But when I refused and he realized he had no time to spare arguing me down, he begrudgingly let me come.
…so long as I kept quiet and kept up.
His single stride equates to about three of mine.
I jog after him as we rush into Brooklyn General and he barks at the nurses on shift. Several of them exchange nervousglances until one brave lady in seafoam-green scrubs steps forward as the sacrificial lamb.
“He’s awake,” she stammers. “He’ll survive. But the burns—he’ll have permanent scarring?—”
“Take me to him,” he grunts.
The nurse gives a small nod then pivots on her heel to lead us down the corridor.
Tom looks worse than I imagined.
He’s propped up in the hospital bed, his stout frame covered in bandages from his arms to his chest and neck. An oxygen mask hangs loosely down his front, evidence of the smoke inhalation that nearly killed him. The natural ruddiness in his face has faded, replaced by a sickly pallid tone that the fluorescent lights only make worse.
But his eyes are open. He’s alert.Alive.
He’s not alone in the room—Sean and Cian both arrived before we did, two sentinels on either side of his bed. Sean’s usual smirk is nowhere to be found. His expression is almost as severe as Killian’s himself. Cian’s more visibly weary, his eyes red and bleary.
“Who did this?” Killian demands. “Who the fuck’s behind this, Tom?”
The pub owner shifts against his pillows, teeth clenched in discomfort. His voice is raspier than I’ve ever heard it, scraped raw by smoke.
“I was finishing up. Locking the doors. Setting the alarm. You and the girl had just left maybe twenty minutes before. Heard something on my final sweep. It was coming from out back. Sounded like glass breaking. Bottles of some sort.”
He pauses long enough to cough, a shaky half-closed fist coming up to his mouth. Cian grabs the paper cup of water on the rolling table beside the bed and offers it to him.
“I went to check,” he continues in a wheeze. “Stupid, I know. But I thought maybe it was kids or a drunk who’dwandered into the alley—you know, it’s happened plenty. Instead I see these... figures. Three, maybe four of them. Couldn’t make out their faces, but they were large. Men.”
“Russians,” Sean spits. “Has to be.”
Tom nods weakly. “One of them threw something. A bottle with a rag stuffed in the top. I knew what it was before it even hit the wall.”
