Page 71 of Killaney Blood

"Let them try."

Those three words shouldn't comfort me. They shouldn't make my heart rate steady or my breathing slow. But they do.

Because for the first time since I was fourteen years old, someone else is fighting my battles with me. Someone who might actually be strong enough to win.

22

DECLAN

Cold wind cuts across the rooftop, slicing through my coat and whipping at the collar.

The moon hangs high over the city, casting a pale light across the buildings. From this height, everything below looks small. Fragile.

Like it could be erased in a blink.

8 or 9 stories below, light spills from windows onto the street. I adjust my position, the concrete cold beneath me as I stretch out, rifle steady in my hands.

"There he is," Shane says beside me, binoculars trained on the building across the street. A gutted hotel they've repurposed into a temporary base. A place to regroup. Reclaim territory. Reassert dominance. "Big bastard with the gold watch."

I find him through my scope. Amar. The Albanian Don who's somehow crawled back from whatever hole he was hiding in for the last year or so. The one who's been sending his men after Lyra.

He's laughing, glass raised, surrounded by his inner circle. Six men in total. Each one with reasons to die tonight.

Four nights ago, I promised Lyra they won't ever touch her again. Four nights of her sleeping in my house, under my protection, jumping at shadows. Four nights of watching her try to hide the tremors in her hands when a door slams too loud.

Four nights is all it takes to track the rats back to their new hole.

I watch as one of the Albanians pours another round. They're celebrating something. The return of their power, maybe. The rebirth of their operation after we decimated it last year.

"They think they can come and rule this street," I say, adjusting my scope slightly for wind, "not when my family owns the skyline."

With us are three of my most trusted men. Their rifles positioned like mine. All of them waiting for my signal.

"They're drinking like victors," Shane laughs. "Not realizing they already lost."

I shift my aim, letting the crosshairs fall on each target. Memorizing their positions. Mapping their deaths.

Once, I believed this kind of justice would fix something. That putting bullets in the men responsible for Joyce's death would even the scales. Make his ghost rest easier.

But this isn't about Joyce anymore.

It's about Lyra. About her scars. For every time they hurt her. Forced her to do things. Treated her like a fucking object instead of a person.

I look across to my men, each positioned with their rifles ready.

"No one leaves alive so take out anyone I miss," I tell them. "But I don't plan on missing."

And it's true, not with this much hate fueling my aim.

I take a breath. Slow and even. Let my body relax.

I told her they wouldn't touch her again. Now I'm making sure of it.

The crosshairs rest on a man mid-laugh, his head thrown back in amusement.

I squeeze the trigger.

The sound is dampened by the suppressor, but I feel the recoil against my shoulder. Through the scope, I watch his head snap back, a fine mist of red paints the wall behind him. The glass slips from his hand before his body follows, crumpling to the floor.