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“Aye, but she was fucking a Doyle,” I quickly counter. “Yer dad, to be clear.”
“Yer nothin’ but a liar!” Hugh roars, cheeks blistering red.
“Afraid not. We may be brothers. Imagine that,” I mock, laughing.
“I don’t believe ya.”
“I care not what ye believe. But maybe y’ll see the resemblance. Hang on.”
Hunting through my bag, I retrieve my face paints, and before he can object, I slather his cheeks with white. He struggles frantically, but he’s not going anywhere. Once his face is painted a stark white, I dip my fingers into the black paint and roughly circle around his eyes.
When I get to his mouth, I draw a messy line from cheek to cheek, but I’m not satisfied. Yanking the knife out of his leg, I press the bloody tip into the apple of his cheek. He doesn’t squirm. He doesn’t scream. He dares me to do it.
And I do.
My blade slices through his flesh with ease.
“Aye, now I can see it,” I say with a smile, admiring my handiwork.
His right cheek is sliced to the corner of his mouth, emphasizing his sinister grin as bloody spittle seeps from the wound. Digging into his pocket, I take his phone and snap a picture, so he can see the work of art his face now is.
“Yer my double,” I sarcastically say, showing him the picture.
His chin sags to his chest. It’s only minutes before he will bleed out.
“Don’tcha worry, the rest of yer family will be joinin’ ya soon.”
I search through his contacts and send the photo to Brody and Liam, and then to every other Doyle listed in Hugh’s phone.
The man next to Hugh comes to with a groggy groan. When he opens his eyes and realizes he’s the one now tied to a chair, he shrieks, trying to break free.
He sees me standing before him, a painted nightmare from hell.
“Tell me who organized this, and I’ll let ye go,” I say to him.
“Shut yer bake,” Hugh warns, his caution a whistle as he tries to speak with a hole hacked into his cheek.
When the man sees his state, he shakes his head, not wishing to end up like his mucker. “Doyle’s dau—”
“Shut the fuck up, will ya?” Hugh shouts, blood jetting from his wounds.
“I’ll not end up like you,” the man says, scared. “Doyle’s daughter did.”
“Erin?” I ask, confused. Why would she say Cian was me? She knows us as Mike and Kanga. I don’t understand any of this.
“Y’ve no idea what’s comin’ for ye. None of ye Kellys do.” Hugh’s grin is menacing, and even though he’s moments away from dying, he has the upper hand because he’ll take his secret to the grave.
Rory comes charging through the door, peering at the carnage before him. “We need to go. Now. There’s a van coming up the road. Where’s Cian?”
“Fuck!” I curse. It’s not enough time, but if we don’t go now, all of this would have been for nothing. “He’s in the wardrobe.”
Rory runs over to the door, yanking it open while I exit the room, fire burning through my veins, which gives me an idea.
Fuck the Doyles.
And fuck this house.
Raiding the cupboards, I snare a bottle of scotch and a box of matches off the kitchen bench. I bump into Rory as he holds an unconscious Cian.
