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My stomach curdles. My pulse ratchets up.
Someone got to her. In those miniscule moments between me leaving her desk and her trying to call me back, someone talked to her. Bribed her. Threatened her. Someone who already knew I was there.
Someone who’d bend every truth, break every rule, to trap me.
Someone who wants me in Dublin.
The ring on my left hand glitters before I yank it off and slam my passport shut.
Chapter 8
Darragh
“Messy,” Amos says, his eyes flicking over Jim Shaw’s fingerless, eyeless, tongueless body.
“Rowan will sort it,” I growl.
“No need,” he replies, his voice all smooth smoke. “I’ll have my people deal with it. A show of respect for you. For this city. And for the working relationship I hope we can have going forward.”
I don’t know what relationship he’s expecting to have with me considering all the businesses I was meant to inherit are now suddenly being held just out of reach. I won’t even be in Dublin tomorrow. I’ll be in Montréal, putting Vincenzo Titone’s head on a fucking spike. Followed by Salvatore Di Mauro.
I guess her name is Valentina Di Mauro now.
I throw my knife, a violent snap of my wrist. The blade thunks into Shaw’s lifeless chest, just below his sternum.
He never told us why he did it. Never told us who hired him.
When I find out, I’ll come back and cut their fucking guts out.
But first, I have to go to Canada.
“What’s Tommy said? Any updates?”
“Nothing new,” Rowan says, checking his phone. “The last update was still the one from a few hours ago, saying that she was at that restaurant with Salvatore and her parents and the other guests for what looked like the reception.”
I grind my molars. Tommy is supposed to be keeping me updated. What she eats for her entrée? I want to know. She stops to blow her cute little fucking nose? I want to know that, too.
She goes home with her new husband?
I need that fucking address.
“What time is it?” I ask. I’ve been slicing my way through a blood-red haze. I could have been here for hours or days. I’m covered in blood, absolutely stinking with it.
“It’s a little after two in the morning,” Rowan replies. “Nine in the evening in Montréal.”
“Call him,” I growl. Rowan nods. But before he has the chance to do it, the phone lights up.
“It’s Tommy.”
“Give it to me.”
Rowan eyes my bloody hands, but knows better than to argue. I snatch it from him, leaving a crimson smear on the screen when I accept the call.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Sorry, boss,” Tommy says. “I only narrowly avoided getting nabbed by the cops. I’ve had to keep clear of the area for a bit. There was an incident. Bikers showed up. Crashed the reception.”
Bikers. I know they’ve been giving Vinny trouble lately. They’ve been making moves on the streets and at the port. It’s why he wanted Halifax.