Page 9 of Dublin Charmer

We move back toward the main hall, stepping over bodies—some in suits, others in tactical gear. The Christmas tree in the foyer lies toppled, ornaments shattered across the floor like fallen stars, making silent steps impossible.

Beneath it, one of the security guards from the compound stares upward with vacant eyes. Martin. Fucking hell. He was a good man. He has a wife and two kids…I think.

Ginny pats my shoulder when I hesitate, and I get my head back in the game.

We reach the ballroom doors, or what’s left of them. They hang splintered on their hinges, the decorative glass shattered and spilled everywhere across the threshold of the entranceway. Inside, overturned tables create a battlefield of makeshift barricades. The chandelier swings precariously, casting wild shadows across the carnage.

And then, just as we prepare to enter, the gunfire stops.

Complete silence falls, more terrifying than the chaos that preceded it.

I strain to hear voices, to identify who’s still standing. Is it my brothers? Gravely’s men? My lungs burn as I hold my breath, waiting for some sign.

Ginny’s wide eyes ask the same question.Who won?

I grip the semi-automatic tighter and prepare to step through.

The ballroom’s festive energy rings with the aftermath of violence and chaos. Antique chandeliers lay shattered like broken teardrops against the polished marble. Pools of blood mingle with spilled champagne, creating sickening pink puddles. And the air hangs thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder.

“Sean is clear! Let’s hear it, people.” My brother’s voice rings out from behind an overturned table.

“The stairs and entranceway are clear,” I shout.

“One to the shoulder, but Laine and the baby are fine.” Tag’s words carry a grunt of pain and a growl of fury.

“Brendan’s shot.” Nora’s scream pierces through the room. “He’s unconscious and bleeding!”

“The last of them bugged out.” Bryan runs in from outside one of the French doors accessing the grounds. “We’re clear.”

The tactical caution we maintained when approaching evaporates. I sprint across the ballroom, my dress shoes slipping in pools of blood and spilled champagne. Bodies litter the floor—most moving, some still.

Ginny rushes to Jimmy, who’s sporting a nasty gash across his forehead but looks otherwise intact.

I find Nora kneeling beside Brendan behind the toppled Christmas tree at the back of the orchestra stage. Her blue dress is soaked crimson at the knees, and I take in Brenny’s wound. “Brenny is shot in the leg and has a gash on the side of his head.”

“Femoral?” Bryan asks, joining us.

“No. Just thigh, I’m pretty sure.”

If the bullet tore through his femoral artery, there would be a shit-ton more blood and little any of us could do to save him. “How did he hurt his head, Nora? Did you see?”

My brother lies motionless, blood pumping steadily from a wound in his thigh.

“Nora!” I say a little more forcefully. “I need you to tell me what happened.” I yank at my belt, the leather sliding free from my waist with a whisper. I loop it around his leg, above the wound, and pull it tight. The buckle clicks into place, and I say a silent prayer that it’s enough to slow the bleeding.

Next, I move up to look at his head. Thankfully, Nora seems to snap out of her panic and joins me in the here and now. “We were rushing for cover. He got shot, and his leg buckled. He crashed against the edge of the stage and went down.”

“Okay, so being knocked out is likely only a bump to the head. How long ago was that?”

She blinks up at me. “Um…like right when the shooting first started.”

I check my watch and try to gauge how long that’s been—maybe ten minutes?

“All right. I’m sure he’s just having a well-deserved nap. Once we get him to the hospital, they’ll do a couple of tests and realize he’s got a head as hard as rocks.”

Nora lets out a teary chuckle. “You think?”

“Aye, you’ll see I’m right.” I wink and give her a smile. “Stay close. I’m going to get him some help.”