Page 73 of Killaney Blood

My men fire quick and fast. The little rats below fall to the ground hard.

Shane walks over to me. "No one's gonna forget this night, boss."

I hand him my rifle and nod.

"Don't clean up. Leave the bodies. I want every other family in Boston to hear about this. To understand what happens when they cross the Killaneys."

Those that shouldn't know we're responsible won't, and those that should will by morning, but the message is clear now: Touch what's mine, and die. Simple as that.

I turn away from the edge, the job finished. The Albanians are gone. Wiped from my city. She's safe now.

And if anyone else ever comes for her? They'll meet the same fate.

Just like Rome, I'll burn it all to the fucking ground before I let anyone touch her again.

23

LYRA

The water's gone lukewarm and the bubbles are starting to go flat, but I couldn't care less. I stretch out and sink so deep into this giant marble tub I could probably live here.

Candles flicker around the edges, casting dancing shadows across the bathroom walls.

My champagne flute is perched on the edge of the tub. The bottle sits in an ice bucket within arm's reach. Dom Pérignon Rosé, which apparently costs a lot of money. I take another sip, and I smile as the bubbles dance on my tongue.

How is this my life now?

A week ago, I was being shot at at the bus station, my life in a duffel bag, and now I'm lounging in a clawfoot tub big enough to swim laps in, while the scent of rose oil and eucalyptus comes up from the water.

Nina, Declan's housekeeper, drew this for me. She even added the oils herself. I told her she didn't have to, and she just smiled like I'd said something cute and brought me the Dom.

She's amazing.

Declan's house isn't just a house, it's a goddamn palace. There's twelve bedrooms, each one bigger than my entire apartment. Hallways lined with art that probably costs more than most people's homes. He's got a freaking Van Gogh. And here I thought all his stuff was in Amsterdam or maybe the Louvre.

Then there's his kitchen with three refrigerators because why not, oh, and a chef named Mario who asks me every morning what I feel like eating for the day.

And Declan has been amazing. Much different than the man I first met.

Yesterday over breakfast he asked if I'd ever had a massage. I laughed and told him I've never even had someone give me a pedicure, not a professional anyhow.

The next thing I know, two people show up, take a room and turn it into a five-star spa.

"What are they doing?" I asked Declan.

"Couples massage."

So yeah. I got a massage, here. I didn't even need to go anywhere. My favorite part, I'll admit, was when the masseuse left, he claimed he could give me a better one.

I accept his challenge. He lied. He wasn't focused on my back at all. His hands, slick with oil, spread my thighs while I lay face-down on the table. He touched me like he owned me, his fingers working my clit until I was moaning into the pillow.

It would have escalated to more, but the pedicurist walked in on us. Talk about an awkward pedicure.

After that, I got new slippers and a robe with my name embroidered in gold thread.

This, of course, is on top of his first grand gesture, the day after I first arrived.

Declan wouldn't let me go back to my apartment. Said it wasn't safe. Said I belonged here now.