Page 21 of Brutal Heir

“Turn around, Brigid.”

His voice is calm. Too calm.

I do as I’m told, even though my gut twists. The bag is yanked off, and a man crumples to the floor at Da’s feet. His face is bruised and bloodied. He’s crying. Pleading.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste the coppery scent of blood.

“This man,” Da says, setting his glass down with a gentle clink, “is what we call a traitor. You know what that means, don’t you, lass?”

I nod, lips pressed tight.

“It means he spoke when he should’ve kept his mouth shut,” he hisses. “It means he forgot who feeds his family. Who keeps his heart pumping in his chest.”

The man moans something, a string of apologies or prayers. I can’t tell which. Da doesn’t even look at him.

Instead, he walks around his desk, crouches in front of me, and gently tucks a strand of unruly red hair behind my ear. His hand is too warm and smells like pipe smoke and aftershave.

“You’re a smart one, Brigid. Sharp tongue, like your Mam. But this world we live in? It doesn't reward sharp tongues. It rewards sharp memory. Loyalty. Control.”

I nod again, heart hammering.

“You disrespected our guest today.”

“I didn’t mean to.” My voice comes out in a whisper. How was I supposed to know he’d be so sensitive about his toupee?

“I know.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But meaning has feck all to do with consequences.”

He stands, then signals Donal with a nod.

The snap of bone is deafening in the silence.

The man screams just once before his mouth is gagged. His hand dangles at a sickening angle, broken fingers twitching like dying spiders.

I flinch, but I don’t look away. I know he’s watching me.

Da turns back to me, takes a long sip from his glass. “You’ll remember this. Not because it’s cruel. But because it’s necessary. In our world, words can get you killed.”

He leans down again, voice low and cold.

“If you want to survive, Brigid O’Shea… you’ll learn when to bite down. And when to bleed.”

He presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

And walks away.

I don’t cry. Not in front of him.

But later, alone in my room, I scrub my hands raw trying to wash away the stickiness from the shortbread. And I know no matter what Mam says, no matter how many Hail Marys I whisper that I’ll never forget the sound of that man’s fingers breaking.

Not ever.

And that was why a decade later as I stood in front of that altar beside Conall Quinlan, I held my tongue and buried my blade in his leg. So thathewould be the one to bleed.

CHAPTER 10

RED SHE-DEVIL

Alessandro