He closes the gap between us, entering my personal space as if he belongs here. His proximity is immediately jarring. Immediately enough to make me lose the breath in my lungs.
“Hey,” he says, clipping my chin and forcing my eyes back up. “You’re safe, alright? They’re not coming for you. I won’t let them. If that’s what you’re really worried about… don’t be.”
I turn my head to break his hold on my chin. “Killian… that’s not…”
“Get some sleep. Keep the doors locked. Stay put ’til I return. Alright?”
“Okay…” I mutter under my breath.
He steps back and finishes changing into his gym clothes.
I pretend I’m peeling back the covers on the bed, secretly still distracted by the night’s events. It still feels as if this could go wrong in more ways than one and I won’t be able to stop it. Even as I remind myself my focus is Eva, it occurs to me that this could backfire.
Fedorov could respond to the Callahans’ retaliation by hurtingmy sister…
Over the next week, we’re dealing with the aftermath of the fire.
Tom spends days in the hospital while his burns heal and the doctors monitor his lungs for any lasting smoke inhalation damage.
I visit him when I can, bringing cheap bodega flowers and sitting by his bedside while he grumbles about the terrible food and the nurses who won’t let him have a proper drink.
He’s going to be okay. That’s what the doctors say anyway. Second-degree burns are painful but survivable, and his lungs are clearing up better than expected for a man his age. He’ll have scars, both physical and otherwise, but he’ll live.
The Banshee isn’t so lucky.
I stand outside the ruined pub on the third day after the fire, staring at what’s left of the place that gave me my first real job.
The skeleton of the building remains—the brick structure and charred doorframes, even the twisted, now-slightly-melted sign that spells “The B_nsh_e.”
But the inside is a total mess.
Ash and rubble and blackened wood are everywhere you look. The smell of smoke lingers, thick and pungent in the air. The furnishings have been reduced to splintered hunks of wood and melted leather.
Bridget and the other servers show up to help clear debris, though there’s not much we can actually do.
Mostly we stand around looking lost, picking through the wreckage for anything salvageable and trying not to think about the fact that we’re out of work for the foreseeable future.
Killian contacts Ronan on his honeymoon to deliver the news. I don’t hear the conversation, but I witness it from aclose distance—the tight set of Killian’s jaw and how his knuckles go white around his phone.
Whatever Ronan says, it isn’t gentle.
Still, apparently the family approves funds for repairs. The pub will be rebuilt… eventually.
Tom’s too stubborn to let it stay dead, and the Callahans have too much pride to let the Russians claim a permanent victory on their turf.
In the meantime, the police investigate.
I watch them pick through the rubble, snapping photographs and collecting samples, pretending to care about finding whoever did this.
But I know better. I’ve seen how this works from the other side. The cops in this part of Brooklyn are on Fedorov’s payroll. They have been for years. Even if they find evidence pointing directly at the Bratva, nothing will come of it.
No arrests or charges. Damn sure no justice.
Just paperwork and shrugged shoulders and a case that quietly goes cold.
The thought should make me angry. Instead it serves as a reminder how far Fedorov’s reach is.
A man so powerful he is almost god-like.
