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“Like a fucking pussy. Well, now he has two of us looking for him. He’d better keep running.”
“No doubt,” Ciarán agrees, and we share a sinister smile before we hear the sirens in the background and make a motion back to the apartment to lie low. This month has been as bad as it gets in this city, and it’s going to come back to bite us on the ass. The question is when.
20
CIARÁN
The sound of Cathal’s voice fills the penthouse as I lounge on the sofa, smirking at his growing frustration. He paces back and forth in front of the window, the phone pressed tightly against his ear.
“Listen, you bloody idiot,” he growls, “I don’t fucking care about your stupid policies. My fucking Ferrari was blown up, and I expect you to cover it!”
Stifling a chuckle, I watch him go red in the face with anger. The veins in his neck are visible, a testament to his mounting rage. It’s amusing to see my brother so worked up over something as trivial as a car, especially knowing that he could buy another one with no problem.
“Of course it was intentional, you little prick! Do you think cars just explode for no reason?” His voice rises, and I laugh at the absurdity of this situation.
Cathal shoots me a glare, but I only grin wider, leaning back and resting my arms behind my head. “Hang up,” I say. “Just buy another fucking one and be done with it.”
“Fuck off, Ciarán. That’s not the fucking point,” he snaps before turning his back on me. “Look, just sort this out. I’m done talking to you.” With that, he ends the call and tosses the phone onto the nearest table, letting out an irritated grunt.
“Insurance companies,” he mutters, running a hand through his dark hair. “Nothing but a bunch of useless wankers.”
“Ah, cheer up, Cathal,” I say, pushing myself up from the sofa and walking over to him. “It’s not the end of the world. Besides, think of how much fun you’ll have picking out a new one.”
He scowls, folding his arms across his chest. “Easy for you to say. It’s not your car that was blown to bits.”
“True,” I admit, “but if it were, I wouldn’t be wasting my time arguing with some pencil pusher at an insurance company. Besides, rather the car than you, yes?”
“Suppose.”
His petulance amuses me more. But before I can continue this conversation, a sharp knock on the penthouse door interrupts us. We exchange wary glances—we aren’t expecting any visitors.
“Police! Open up!” a voice calls from outside.
“Shit,” Cathal mutters, his eyes wide with alarm. “Knew they’d fucking catch up to us.”
“Don’t panic,” I say, grabbing his arm and leading him to the secret room I built for situations like this. It’s tucked away behind a bookcase in the guest room. “Get in,” I mutter when I open it up.
“You’re fucking joking, right?”
“Nope.”
As soon as he slips inside the small space, muttering curses, I close it up and stride over to the front door, unconcerned and annoyed. Swinging it open, I find two CID Detectives standing in the hallway, their expressions stern.
“Good morning, detectives,” I greet them with a smile. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you Ciarán Gannon?” one of them asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Yep,” I reply, keeping my tone light and friendly. “And what brings you to my humble abode?”
“Detectives Johnson and Franks. We’re here to ask you some questions about the recent car bombing and slew of murders across the city,” Johnson says, his voice gruff. “We have reason to believe your brother, Cathal Gannon, may be involved.”
“Ah,” I say, feigning surprise. “Well, as far as I know, Cathal left for Ireland a few days ago. I haven’t heard anything about a car bombing, though. Sounds dreadful.”
Franks narrows his eyes at me, clearly not convinced. “You expect us to believe that you don’t know anything about it? Your brother’s car was the one that was bombed just down the road from here. It’s been all over the news.”
The sarcasm is dripping in his tone. He doesn’t give a flying shit who I am. He knows; he knows exactly whose door he is darkening, and he doesn’t give a crap. That tells me two things: one, he is pretty fucking dumb, and two, he is in someone else’s pocket that isn’t mine.
“Like I said, detective,” I reply, maintaining my composure, “Cathal’s in Ireland. I haven’t spoken to him since he left.”
