Page 20 of Broken Blood Ties

My head rears back slightly, and I’m confused. Then my stomach takes a nosedive before my blood boils. Why’s he asking about her? Is he interested?

I examine the smattering of scars over my knuckles on my right hand before opening and closing my fist. I let the question hang in the air between us before answering. “She’s a teacher over at Ardenbrook Academy.”

“I see,” he says, then shrugs. Combing a hand through his nonexistent hair, he turns to move toward the door. “We’ll be seeing you next week.”

Cormac opens the door for him, and he leisurely strides out while I stare at the brown spots on the tree in the corner.

“It’s almost time, Kieran.” Cormac pauses in the open doorframe to glance at his gold Rolex. “Better make your call.”

* * *

“—if we read two, no three books a week from the liberry Miss Smith said we earn a pizza party.”

I blink and look down at the piece of paper with seventeen tally marks on it. In the short two-minute conversation, my daughter has mentioned Summer Smith seventeen?—

“She was wearing a pretty red shirt that ties in the front. Tommy said she looked beautiful. I hope I can look beautiful someday, too.”

Make that eighteen times. The ballpoint pen I’m using runs out of ink, and I toss it on the desk while picturing Summer in a red blouse. Why have I never noticed Aoife talking about Summer Smith before? And why do I suddenly catalog each mention of her?

“Ye’re beautifulnow, Aoife. Just the way ye are. Do ye think ye should get back to bed?”

“But Miss Smith isreallypretty,” she says instead of answering my question.

Pretty doesn’t do Summer Smith justice. I’m sure I could look up twenty other words for pretty, and none would suffice.

“It’s time for bed, Aoife. I love ya.”

I had Allie wake her so I could talk to her, as per my ritual before every fight. Even though it’s almost 11:00 p.m., missing a goodnight has never been an option.

“I love you, too, Daddy.”

She tosses the phone down without hanging up because I hear Allie scramble for it and end the call.

I thumb over to my voicemail, listening to a few messages, one in particular. Then opening the locked drawer in my desk, I secure my phone along with my wallet in there.

I don’t take my phone down below with me. Quick and easy access to my things at 3:00 a.m. when the fights are over is paramount. Cormac has a conniption when I hang around too long with adrenaline-filled men itching to prove themselves if they lose. He’s afraid they may challenge me privately.

I leave my office and walk down the hall to another door secured with biometric access. My men and I use the restaurant’s access, but it’s not the only door. There’s another entrance around the building in the alleyway. The steps begin at ground level and descend toward a door with a keypad. It takes a particular rotating code to get in.

When the door opens, lights blink on to illuminate the concrete steps down into the arena’s level. And by arena, I mean an underground cement level similar to a parking garage. It’s enormous but lacks the finesse of a legit ring.

Anticipation and apprehension fill me as I make my way down and through another set of locked double doors. The smell of smoke and week-old rank sweat wafts to my nose, and suddenly the fine clothing I’m wearing, the expensive watches and shoes, is worthless down here. Down here I’m just another fighter, ready to get into the ring.

Through the doors there’s a hallway to the right, leading to the locker rooms for those who compete. Typically, it’s for the fighters, but occasionally you’ll find their backers playing helicopter mom—unable to leave their side and giving themmotivatingspeeches.

Across from the locker room is a medical bay with the Mob’s full-time doctor. He’s my personal physician and attends to all my men, as well as my daughter. I avoid hospitals as much as possible, and don’t make it a habit to see outside doctors.

His job during the fight is to make sure the fighter doesn’t die. That’s it. Broken arms, busted noses, dislocated shoulders—it’s all part of the deal and we don’t help with those things.

Death inevitably happens, though.

Again, it’s all part of taking the chance.

The floor is rough, stained with dried blood and dirt as I make my way through to the locker rooms. Cormac wanted me to have a private space to change and prep for my fights, but I don’t do this to be elevated above the rest. No. I want to be down in the muck with the rest of them.

Boxing. Fighting. Both saved me after I became leader of the Mob. I’m not your average boss barking orders and living the high life with private jets and multiple fancy cars. While money flows from an endless fountain, it’s never meant much to me. The bonds, the family, loyalty, and power. That’s what it’s about.

I push open the locker room door, and I’m greeted by Katsuro’s naked ass. He’s a member of the Japanese Yakuza and a quality fighter, but there’s only so many times I can see the man’s balls without losing my lunch.