Page 16 of Then We Shatter

Killian

Irub grit out of my eyes as I stalk across the courtyard to the main house. Our family home is a modern structure of limestone and smoked glass, the combination blinding me with the reflected light of the midday sun.

“Couldn’t this wait?” I ask Tiernan who’d been sent to the guest villa to drag me out of bed.

We only landed back in Vegas a few hours ago and I’d opted to sleep in the villa for some peace and quiet, something rarely found in the main house. After what happened in the Blue Ridge Mountains, I’d wanted to still my thoughts. It took a while and I’ve had no more than an hour’s sleep.

“You know Da,” Tiernan says. “If he’s having a bad day, we all are.”

I tug at my shirt collar. I was bollock-naked ten minutes ago, dreaming of a certain Bratva princess when I was rudely awakened. It’s the middle of July, too hot for a suit, but Dad would have a fit if I showed up in sweats when he’s already in a foul mood.

“Is this about the Valeras?” I ask.

The cartel family are in direct competition with us here in Nevada, and Alejandro Valera and my father have been at each other’s throats for years. We fight for control of clubs, casinos, prime real estate and drug routes, and not a week goes by without some clash or other. We narrowly avoided an outright war with them four years ago, but tensions are still high.

“Not the Valeras,” Tiernan replies without looking at me.

My brother practically runs up the steps to the path that circles a full-size pool. I’m tempted to jump straight in so I can cool down and relax my still-tense muscles – and one muscle in particular that didn’t get the workout I’d hoped for with Katarina. Instead, I follow my brother into the house like the faithful and dutiful son I am.

John McConkey’s office is ultra-modern with smoked glass tables, black leather upholstery and a large ebony desk. The photos lining the stark white walls are all in black and white. Photos of mam in a ballgown, mam being carried by dad on their wedding day. Another of her holding me as a newborn, then me as a one-year-old with Malachy cradled in her arms. Lorcan is added a year later and finally, a photo of Mam with two crying babies in her arms and a four-year-old me with my fingers in my ears. The largest photograph is of Mam and Dad celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, the last they would share. Dad’s grinning like an idiot, unlike the man himself, who shoots a glare at me as I enter the room.

Malachy gives me a similar look. He’s sitting in an armchair facing Dad’s desk on the left. Ronan is seated on the black leather couch facing front, where Tiernan joins him. I could take my usual seat in the armchair on the right, but I’m tempted to join Lorcan, who’s leaning against the wall at the back of the room. He rations his expressions so I take notice when he lifts his forehead just a touch. It’s an apology.

Fucking Malachy.

I drop into my seat and sit back, ankle resting casually on one knee. Do I go for a brazen denial or tell Dad it’s none of his business what I got up to with Katarina last night? I wish I’d had more sleep. My brain must be misfiring because I’m tempted to come right out and admit that she had me crawling across the floor just for a taste of her pussy.

Despite the modern office stuffed with twenty-first century tech, John McConkey is a traditionalist when it comes to family hierarchy. We argue plenty, and occasionally we’ve come to blows, but that’s almost expected. We McConkeys thrive on confrontation, and there isn’t a better feeling than winning an argument with Dad. More often than not, however, we all do as he says. His final word is law.

It's his first words that are making me anxious because I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going to come out of his mouth. No one’s spoken yet. I wait it out while my father scribbles something on his notepad. It’ll be a doodle. We’re about to go toe to toe and he’s reminding me who’s in charge.

When Dad tires of building up the tension, he throws his pen onto his desk and leans back in his chair. His head tilts to one side as he sizes me up.

“How did she taste?”

I school my expression, aiming for bored. “As good as Malachy can only imagine,” I reply, letting my brother know where I’m placing the blame for this unnecessary drama. It’s in his nature to stir up trouble. He’d done it last night by firing his gun over Lorcan’s head to take control of a situation, and he’s trying a similar strategy with me. I can guarantee he’s going to get the same result. Escalation.

“She shouldn’t have been there,” Dad says. “I don’t know what Ash was thinking. I certainly don’t know what the Moncriefs are thinking. Have you heard the news?”

No, but I have a sinking feeling I know what’s coming.

“Marmaduke Moncrief is engaged to be married to the niece of a Russian oligarch,” he replies. “It looks like the Griffins are trying to suppress the information, but for every news item Mace makes disappear, there’s another to take its place. Un-fucking-believable.”

John McConkey is still in the prime of his life at fifty-five. He’d come close to drinking himself into an early grave after Mam died, but he’s been taking better care of himself lately. His biceps are well-defined through his black button-down and the material stretches as he tenses his tattooed hands into fists.

I don’t respond. If he wants information, he’s going to have to ask a question. Besides, I’m too busy keeping my hands from fisting too. Katarina got engaged while I was sleeping? I shouldn’t have let her get away without us exchanging numbers.

I’m tempted to reach out to Ash to get a message to her, but that would mean involving the Griffins and probably the Moncriefs too, and more than enough people know about us already. Trust Lorcan to come out of his fugue with all five senses firing, but I don’t blame him for dropping me in it.

My gaze flicks to Malachy, who’s looking straight ahead. The prick should have talked to me first, not gone snitching.

“What’s Ash playing at?” Dad demands. “Because I swear, if that bitch marries a Moncrief, I expect the Griffins to cut all ties with them or we’ll sever all ties with him. The McConkeys do not associate with the Barkovs on any level. If I’d known she was going to be there last night, I would have pulled our men out.”

“Severing ties with Ash isn’t a threat,” I say calmly, like my heart isn’t beating out of my chest. I’m making a choice here. I could tell him about Ash’s plan to help Katarina escape, but I’m choosing to keep a confidence. With a Barkov. I won’t put Katarina’s safety at risk. “Ash never wanted to get tangled up with us in the first place.”

Veins throb at Dad’s temples and he leans forward. “He was happy to call on us to save his fucking family.” His fist slams down on his desk. “He owes us!”

Fuck this. My leg drops to the floor and I lean forward to meet him. “We owed him!”