Page 25 of Cowboy (Fury Vipers MC: Dublin Chapter #4)

DYLAN

M y head throbs as consciousness returns, the copper taste of blood sharp on my tongue. The zip ties dig into my wrists, binding me to a metal chair. As I blink away the fog, a warehouse comes into focus, concrete floors, high ceilings, shadows stretching across rusted machinery.

Footsteps echo. Slow. Deliberate.

I look up to see Ciarán walking toward me, that familiar crooked smile spreading across his face.

And suddenly I'm back at the abandoned estate, all those years ago, making the one decision that led me here.

I know I shouldn’t come back here.

Even as I climb over the rusted fence and my boots hit cracked concrete, everything in me is screaming to turn around. It’s stupid. It’s reckless. It’s exactly the kind of thing Travis said not to do. But I can’t let it go.

The estate looks different in the daylight.

Not safer, just... clearer. The same abandoned shells of houses.

The same wind cutting through broken beams and open window frames.

It’s silent except for the whistle of breeze through empty rooms and the occasional creak of warped timber.

This place feels dead. Like something’s rotting underneath it all.

I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, moving carefully through the ruins. I tell myself I’m checking for clues, for traces of what happened here last night, for who those men were. But deep down, I know I came here for one reason.

Because I can’t stand not knowing.

Because being in control is the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

Because I feel like I’m slipping.

I make it to the house with the fireplace, where Ciarán and I found the package. I kneel and brush my fingers over the loose brick, now just a gap in the wall. The hiding place is empty. No surprise. Still, I stare at it like it might whisper something back to me.

And that’s when I hear it.

Click.

The unmistakable sound of a safety being switched off.

I freeze.

“Thought you might come back.”

The voice is calm. Cold. Too sure of itself. It comes from behind me, somewhere near the busted front door.

I turn slowly. Hands up. My heart is hammering.

There’s a man standing in the shadows of the entryway. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before. He’s older than me, maybe early forties, and dressed in black, nothing flashy. No gang colors, no mask. But there’s something about him that makes my stomach turn to ice.

He doesn’t look dangerous.

He looks... patient.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“I just wanted to look around.”

He tilts his head slightly. “That’s not why people come back to scenes like this. They come back because they feel drawn to it. Because they made a mistake and want to fix it.”

He steps forward and I catch the glint of the gun in his waistband.

“You looking to fix something, Dylan?”

My blood runs cold. “How do you know my name?”

“We know a lot,” he says simply.

I swallow hard. “Where’s Ciarán?”

He ignores the question. “You’re the one with the sister, yeah? Fourteen. Living with an aunt who doesn’t know what to do with you. Parents dead in a crash six months ago. Ring a bell?”

He says it like it’s a grocery list.

Like my entire life is a series of bullet points.

I say nothing.

“You’re not here for a second look. You’re here because you’re scared. You saw something you weren’t supposed to. And now you’re wondering if it’s going to come knocking.”

Still, I don’t speak. I don’t trust myself to.

He takes another step closer, then stops. “Let me tell you how this works, Dylan. You’ve got two options. And I suggest you think carefully before you answer.”

My throat feels dry. “Options?”

“One, you walk away. And you hope no one sees you again. You go back to your tiny flat and your broken aunt and your sister who depends on you more than you know. And you wait for the fear to catch up.”

I shift my weight, ready to bolt. He doesn’t flinch.

“Or two,” he continues, “you come with me. You work for us. We’ll give you a name, a purpose, money. All under the table. No one will know. For all they’re concerned, you’ll be dead.”

I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking.

He’s not.

He’s not offering a job. He’s offering an erasure. A clean slate.

“Why me?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“Because you’re clever,” he says. “You’re loyal. You follow your best friend into hell without blinking. That’s rare. And because you’ve got nothing left. That makes you useful.”

I hate how true that sounds.

I picture Caoimhe’s face. The worry in her eyes when I came home late.

The way she tries to act like she’s okay even when she’s falling apart.

I’ve been everything to her since Mam and Dad died.

Brother. Parent. Protector. But I’m sixteen.

I’m tired. I’m scared. I’m pretending to be someone I’m not every single day just to keep her afloat.

And the truth I don’t want to say out loud?

I feel like I’m failing.

“I can’t just disappear,” I murmur. “She needs me.”

He doesn’t blink. “You sure about that?”

I hesitate.

“If you stay,” he continues, “you’ll drag her down with you. You’re already in over your head. She’ll find out eventually. She’ll ask questions you can’t answer. And what then?”

I clench my jaw. “She’s all I have.”

“Then maybe it’s time to let her go.”

I want to punch him.

But I don’t.

Because some part of me, some awful, exhausted, selfish part, knows he’s right.

If I do this, I’m free. No more hiding. No more half-truths. No more lying to her face about where I’ve been or what I’ve done. No more being her everything.

She’ll think I’m dead. It will wreck her.

But maybe... maybe she’ll rebuild.

Maybe she’ll be better off.

And me? I don’t even know who I am anymore.

I look at him. “I want to see what it looks like.”

He nods once. Just once.

And I know what I’ve just agreed to.

A strange silence settles between us. Like something heavy has just… lifted. It’s not guilt. Not dread. Not fear.

It’s relief.

For the first time in months, maybe even since the crash, I’m not thinking about rent.

Or Caoimhe’s school books. Or what I’m going to cook with twenty euro left in my account.

I’m not thinking about lying to Aunt Trish, or pretending I’m okay, or shielding Caoimhe from the truth: that I’m barely holding together myself.

It’s gone.

The weight is gone.

And I hate that it feels good.

Like maybe I’ve just finally done the selfish thing I’ve always wanted to do but never had the guts for. Like maybe I was never cut out to be the one keeping everything standing.

I don’t say any of that out loud.

But the man seems to know anyway. He watches me, eyes unreadable, then gives the smallest smirk, like he’s seen this exact moment before in a hundred boys just like me.

“We’ll be in touch,” he says.

And then he turns and disappears into the estate, as if he was never here at all.

The memory fades as Ciarán circles my chair, his boots scuffing against the concrete.

His eyes are cold, calculating, nothing like the warmth I glimpsed when he spoke about Caoimhe last night.

That's what threw me off guard. The tenderness in his voice when he said her name.

The flash of genuine concern that crossed his face.

I never expected that from him, this fierce protectiveness. Not from a man who deals in violence as casually as breathing. But I've seen enough to know now: Ciarán would burn the world down for her. And that makes him more dangerous than I ever imagined.