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My perusal of the many open sores on this bastard’s body that were riddled with insects was ruptured by his question.
“What did they say about me?”
“That no one walked away once you got involved in making someone talk.”
My mouth twisted. “It’s not exactly something I advertise, but yes. They used to say that. Aidan Sr. would send me in to handle the men he didn’t want dead.”
“So they literally couldn’t walk away?” Declan grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
“There’s nothing tolike.” I frowned at him. “Dec, are you okay?”
“No, Finn, I’m not.” He jabbed a finger at Donahue. “But this makes me happy.”
I moved over to him, grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the back room. “What’s going on with you?”
He dragged his arm from mine. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m well within my rights to do this without telling Da. Cillian turned evidence against us—not just to a cop, but to Caro fucking Dunbar.
“Not only is he a rat, he helped the Sparrows. That means I can do whatever the fuck I want to him and Da will sign off on it.”
Slowly, I shook my head. There was torture, and then there was letting a man feel himself being eaten alive by insects.
“How long’s he been like this?”
“I got him here a few days after Christmas. Talk about a gift that keeps on giving.”
My mind veered back to St. Stephen’s Day, when I’d seen him talking on the phone in the yard at his parents’ place. Had that phone call been about this fucker?
Two weeks of this kind of torture, however, went beyond business.
This was personal.
“Declan, what did he do toyou?”
My brother blinked at me. “He stole fourteen years of my son’s life from me.”
And that resonated.
It hit home like nothing else could.
From one father to another, I got it. I understood his rage, felt it myself on his behalf.
I didn’t ask for the details, didn’t need any. Declan wouldn’t go through with this level of sadism if he didn’t believe what he was saying was true.
Cillian Donahue might be a traitor to our family, but somehow, he’d been pivotal in keeping Aela and Declan apart, and that had robbed my brother of the early years of his son’s childhood.
There was only one appropriate response to that:
“Do you have a power washer?”
Declan tipped his head to the side. “I can get one.”
“I learned this trick from Junior,” I informed him as I shrugged out of my coat and jacket then rolled up my sleeves.
Declan hollered, “Hutchins, where the fuck are you?”
“Here, Dec.”
I cast a look at one of Dec’s crew and said, “I need a power washer.”
