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My attention focuses on his license. Now that I have his address, he realizes he’s royally fucked. “All right. Thon tattoo, ya stupid gobshite, is what every Doyle gets when they kill one of ye! A fuckin’ Protestant. Almost all Doyles ’ave one ’cause ye Kellys are weak as piss.”
Tsking him, I keep my cool—only just. “Who were the other two fuckers with ya that night?”
Aidan laughs angrily. “Dunno what yer talkin’ ’bout.”
“Ach, maybe ya need remindin’ then?”
Taking out my phone, I do a quick search, and it doesn’t take me long to find out that Four Leaf is a preschool. “Yer wain looks to be the star pupil,” I say, turning my screen around so he can see what I’ve found.
His daughter is on the website, her fingers dipped in paints.
“I’ll fucking kill ya!” he threatens, lunging for me.
“Go on then,” I challenge, folding my arms across my chest. “All ye gotta do is pull that knife out.”
He roars in frustration because with one hand broken, that only leaves the hand pinned to the wall as functional. “Everything we do, we’re taking the piss outta ya. Just like stealin’ one of yer men. Ye have no idea who yer up against.”
Clapping slowly, I catch Aidan unaware as his wee tale was supposed to upset me. All it did was piss me off even more. He clearly doesn’t think I’m serious, so I decide to call in reinforcements. Sending a text, I wait for the boys to arrive—who I know are outside, waiting for my instructions—and when they do, both Aidan and Ronan gasp.
“Whataboutye?” I cheerfully ask Cian and Rory as they enter the bedroom.
“Well then, I wouldn’t mind a wee cup a tae, but this’ll do,” Cian sarcastically says, whistling when he takes in the carnage.
Rory curses when he sees Ronan tied to the chair. “Ya wee fucker. Ya workin’ for the Doyles then?”
His bloody nose is enough of an answer.
“Lads, Aidan Doyle needs some encouragement. Here”—I offer them his license over my shoulder—“can ya pay his family a wee visit?”
Rory snatches the license from my fingers. “Beezer! Love to.”
I can see it. I can see Aidan grappling with his loyalties. Loyalty to his family. And loyalty to being a Doyle. And just like me, just for the reason of all this, his family wins out.
“All right, I was there! That geebag got what she deserved.”
Inhaling, I take a moment to process his confession because it almost doesn’t feel real. “Mind yer mouth,” I warn, awful serious. “Who were the other two fellas with ya?”
I realize that he could be lying because if what he says is true and every Doyle gets a tattoo for every Protestant they kill, then any Doyle with a tattoo could be responsible for my ma’s death. But the reason I believe it’s him is because of how personal this kill was.
My ma was sleeping with Brody, and if what Uncle Sean says is true, then they wanted her dead because she was a liability and a nuisance. If they had wanted to start a war with Connor, then they would have made that clear. Her death would have been their calling card.
But the reason she was murdered had nothing to do with being a Kelly, but everything to do with wanting to be a Doyle.
“I think the fucker who slit her throat, that was yer brother, Brody.”
Aidan pales but doesn’t confirm or deny it.
I want to ask him about my ma, and if he knew about her affair, but I can’t voice those words aloud.
“Think whatcha want,” Aidan snarls. “But yer ma was nothin’ but a whore. She spread her legs for whoever looked her way. She was weak, just like you. Yer not gonna hurt my—”
Aidan never gets to finish his sentence because without a second thought, I loop my fingers through my brass knuckles and silence him for good.
I connect with his jaw so hard, a tooth dislodges and somersault’s to the floor. But it’s not enough. I hit his cheeks, his temple, until his face is slathered in blood. Hitting under his jaw, his head cracks into the wall with a ferocious thud.
Panting, I flex my fingers, appreciating the flesh and blood coating my knuckles. Aidan’s chin flops to his chest with a wet squelch, a trickle of bloody spittle trickling from his mouth as he attempts to breathe. There is one last thing he needs to do before he stops—breathing, that is.
Unlocking his phone, I scroll through his contacts until I reach Liam’s number. Gripping Aidan’s hair, I yank his head back and sneer, “Yer gonna tell yer nephew that everythin’ is beezer. That I can be trusted.”
