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My hands feel every weapon concealed beneath the heavy leather of my trench coat. Each pistol, knife, and unspoken promise of violence clings to my skin like a second layer—I’m armed to the teeth, a walking arsenal channeling Neo'sbadassery from 'The Matrix'. Funny how life imitates movies in the most twisted ways.
The warehouse looms ahead. I know this place; it’s an old haunt of the Irish, a place where contraband and secrets mingle in the shadows. The Westies always used it when things got too hot with the cops. It was a place to store shipments if they needed to keep a low profile for a while. Declan's choice for home base is interesting—if not entirely original.
I pull up, the car's tires crunching over gravel. This is the part where bullets should start singing their deadly lullaby, right? But nothing. Just the pregnant pause of danger, coiled tight, waiting to spring.
Stepping out of the car, I let the door close with a thud that echoes off the walls of the deserted lot. My boots scuff the ground, concrete dust swirling around me. I expect another welcoming committee of lead, but silence greets me.
It's a game, and we both know it. A game played on a board of blood and betrayal, with pieces that once meant something more. But now? Now it's just about survival, reclaiming the beating hearts that keep mine from turning to stone.
My trench coat flutters behind me like the wings of a fallen angel diving headfirst into hell.
The musty scent of warehouse hits me in the face as I push through the entrance. A long, dark corridor stretches out before me, flanked by doors.
My hand instinctively brushes against the cold steel strapped to my ribs. Not today. Not without a fight.
I enter and each of my steps are slow and measured. I test one door on the right; it's locked tight.
A smirk twitches across my lips.
Of course.
I press on, trying a door on the left.
Locked again.
My fingers itch towards the gun at my side. One well-placed bullet would blast that handle into oblivion. But no, I shake off the impulse. That'd be too simple. Declan's playing games, and I'm not about to lose my head—or theirs—over impatience.
I force each foot in front of the other, the arsenal beneath my coat shifting with every step. The hallway seems to stretch on forever, a tunnel lined with false promises. And I've got this nagging hunch, sinking its claws in deep. The right door isn't here among these early contenders—it's waiting further in, where the shadows grow thicker, more secretive.
"Bet you're back there, aren't you, Declan? Waiting with that smug look plastered on your face." I can almost picture him, the bastard, lounging in his chair like some self-appointed king.
With each turn of a doorknob, the darkness swallows a bit more light, until I'm squinting into the void, feeling more than seeing the last door straight ahead. This is it. My pulse kicks up, a drumbeat of war in my veins.
By this time there's no hesitation in my movements. My desire to see Evelyn and Evan again are the only things on my mind. I grab the knob and twist. It turns with an ease that screams trap.
"Welcome," greets Declan, his voice rolling like thunder from behind a desk that looks too clean for a place like this. There's a grin splitting his bearded face.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I shoot back, muscles tensed for whatever comes next.
The room's stale air clings to my skin. I can feel the weight of Declan's gaze, heavy and unwavering as I step closer, the floorboards groaning under my boots. The silence wraps around us, a tangible thing, something that wants to choke me before this even begins.
"Tell me, Declan," I begin, my words sharp as the blades hidden on me, "what's stopping me from blowing your brains out right now?"
His laughter is a low rumble. "Because, Constantino," he says, leaning back in his chair with an air of nonchalance that steels my resolve, "if you did that, your lovely doctor and your boy would be dead before you could even regret it."
My hands curl into fists. I want to wipe that smirk off his face, but I know it's what he expects, what he wants. "Why haven't you killed me then? If you're so high and mighty?"
"Ah," Declan says, stroking his beard, "there's no honor in that. I need to lead New England with respect. Cowards don't get that luxury."
"Kidnapping a man's family—that's not cowardly?" My voice is a growl, fighting to keep the tremor of rage at bay.
"Details," he shrugs, dismissing my accusation. "No one will ever know about that part."
"Then how do we settle this?" I ask, my tone ice-cold, already knowing there's only one way out for either of us.
"Settle?" He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "I've been keeping tabs on you, Constantino. South America taught you to enjoy a good fight, didn't it?"
"What's your point?" I seethe.
