Page 46

The stench of sweat, blood, and spilled beer hangs thick in the air, coating my throat like tar. The underground fight club beneath a rundown Dublin pub is packed, bodies pressing in, the heat of them turning the basement into a furnace. Dim bulbs flicker overhead, casting erratic shadows over the rusted cage at the center of the room—the ring where I find my solace, or maybe my damnation.

A chorus of roars erupts as the announcer bellows my name. I roll my shoulders, shaking out my arms, the ache of old bruises and fresh wounds a constant hum beneath my skin. My hands, wrapped in stained white tape, flex as I exhale slow and measured. Across from me, my opponent- a hulking bastard with a mountain of muscle and a nose crooked from too many breaks- cracks his knuckles and grins, a predator scenting blood.

Good. Let him think this is easy.

The bell clangs.

I move before the other man can, feinting left, then driving my fist into his ribs with a sickening crunch. The impact shudders up my arm, but I don’t stop- can’t stop. I live for this moment, when thought and pain blur, when my body takes over and I can forget everything outside this cage.

A fist slams into my jaw, snapping my head back. My vision blackens at the edges, the crowd’s screams distorting into a dull roar. The taste of copper floods my mouth. I spit blood onto the cracked floor and smile, the rush surging through me like fire in my veins.

I don’t fight to win. I fight to feel.

The crowd’s roars are deafening, but I don’t hear any of it as I catch my breath, standing tall over the fallen opponent at my feet. My mind is already moving past the fight, calculating the next steps, the next game, the next high that comes with this life I’ve built for myself in the shadows.

Another win under my belt. Another night in the depths of Dublin’s underground where men like me are either made or broken. I’ve been spending more and more time here lately, drowning my thoughts in the chaos of it all. It’s easy- easy to lose myself in the brutality, the pain. Easier than dealing with the weight of everything that’s changed.

I let my feet carry me out of the ring and into the locker room, my breath still ragged from the fight. I strip off my gear, my muscles sore from the wear and tear, but I ignore the discomfort. The pain reminds me I’m still alive, still in control. The life I’ve chosen is one of constant motion, constant action. There’s no room for stagnation.

The rain here always smells like steel and fire- blood in the gutters, adrenaline thick in the air, even hours after the last fight ends. My knuckles are still raw, one split wide along the ridge of the bone. I twist my wrist in the silence of the backseat, feeling that familiar pulse of pain. It’s not punishment. Not this time. Tonight, I won.

Again.

The driver doesn’t speak. He knows better. I stare out the window as the Crowe estate looms into view, its stone walls slick with rain, the gates yawning open like some ancient mouth ready to swallow me whole. The car rolls to a slow stop, and I step out without a word, slipping on my coat, ignoring the sting when the fabric brushes my knuckles.

There’s a message waiting for me at the door- a summons, written in Fintan’s script, sharp and sure even after all this time.

My father’s handwriting is like everything else about him: uncompromising.

He wants to see me. Now.

The rain pools around my boots as I move through the halls I’ve walked since I was a boy. Generations of Crowes watch me from the portraits along the walls, eyes that never blink, never forgive. I used to stand in front of them as a teenager, fist clenched, wondering what they'd think of me. If they ever had doubts too. If they ever wanted to run.

But I don’t run. Never needed to.

I find him in the old meeting room, where business deals were inked in blood and whisky, and secrets passed between war-hardened men like heirlooms. He’s seated at the head of the long table, the fire casting uneven light over his features. He’s weaker now, but he still sits like a general- spine straight, chin high, hands folded as if they never belonged to a man who killed with them.

“You’re limping,” he says without looking up, gaze fixed on the flames. “Did he hit you?”

I chuckle. “Clipped me once. Nothing worth mentioning.”

A small nod. Then silence stretches between us, thick and still.

“I’ve seen the numbers,” Fintan says finally. “You’ve doubled Crowe territory in six months. Our warehouses are secure. Our shipments move clean. And the O’Connors are a bad memory now, nothing more.”

I lean a shoulder against the doorframe and cross my arms, letting his words settle. “I did what needed doing.”

He pivots on his heel, finally facing me full-on. That calculating stillness settles over him again, the kind that once made lieutenants break into cold sweats. But this silence isn't oppressive anymore; it's our old dance, measured in shared blinks and controlled breaths.

“You’ve proven yourself,” his voice is low, final. “In every damn way.”

I don’t say anything. Praise from Fintan Crowe is rare, and usually followed by an order.

Sure enough, he gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

I move without hesitation, folding into the leather chair and resting my bruised knuckles on the polished wood of the table. He watches the dried blood there for a beat before speaking again.

“I’ve spoken to the council,” he says. “The men are ready. I’m retiring.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You’re stepping down?”

“I’m dying,” he corrects, no flair, no emotion- just the cold facts. “The doctor says I’ve got six months. Maybe less.”

The blow doesn’t land the way I thought it would. There’s no sharp gasp or ache in my gut. Maybe because I’ve seen the signs. Maybe because some part of me knew this day would come sooner than later.

He takes a slow breath, like he’s waited years for this moment.

“I’m not offering you the keys, Desmond,” he says. “I’m giving you the house.”

I blink. “So it’s finally official.”

“You’ve earned it,” he says. “The men believe in you. I believe in you.” He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “So I made it official. You’re the heir.”

A beat passes. Then another. The fire crackles.

“But there’s a condition,” he adds.

And there it is.

I lean back in the chair, running my tongue along the inside of my cheek. “There’s always a condition.”

He nods, unsurprised. “You lead the family, you carry on the name. That means marriage. An heir. A Crowe child to bring into the world and raise in these halls.”

My hands clench around the arms of the chair before I even process it.

“I’m not Piers,” I say flatly.

“No,” he agrees. “Piers was born to endure. You were born to rule. That’s why this legacy falls to you now. But even kings must build thrones that outlast them.”

I rise from the chair slowly, blood still singing from the fight, sweat still clinging beneath the collar of my shirt. His words circle me like dogs raised on old loyalties and broken bones. “So all of this- my childhood, the training, the war with the O’Connors- was just prep for marriage and a baby?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “It was preparation for becoming something more than just a weapon, Desmond. You’re not some pit-dog chained to the Crowe name. You are the name now. And you better damn well give it a future.”

A beat of silence stretches long.

Then I speak, quiet but pointed. “You turned away from our mother the moment she grew weak. You buried my brother like a secret because he threatened balance. You don’t get to demand legacy after letting half of it slip through your fingers.”

Air hisses through his teeth- not a flinch, but an admission. The absence of fury terrifies me more than any outburst.

Fintan’s voice lowers, raw around the edges. “I made my peace with the mistakes. You don’t have to make the same ones.”

The fire pops, and outside the storm begins again in earnest.

“You think I don’t want to build something?” I mutter. “You think I don’t want all of it- a future, a name worth more than the weight of ash and bodies?”

He looks at me then- not as the boy who grew up under his cold shadow, but as the man who carved a crown from blood and dropped bodies at the city’s feet. His expression holds something dangerously close to pride.

“Then do it right,” he says. “Go find her.”

I freeze mid-step. “What?”

Fintan just leans back in his chair. “You asked for her name in your sleep once. Back when you were injured and half-mad in the south wing. You remember?”

I stare.

“Riley,” he says quietly. “You’ve been running from her for years.”

The image pierces me instantly- her warm laughter, the flash of her wrist as she slid a blade into my hand during a job gone wrong, the way she once whispered, “You think being wanted is the same as being loved? Try again, Crowe,” before vanishing into the underworld she knew too well.

Riley Prescott. Not a saint, not a savior, but the one I never let myself mourn.

Because Desmond Crowe doesn’t mourn.

I wage wars.

I win them.

But now, standing in the flame-lit shadow of the room that made me, facing down the man who defined everything I ever tried to become or destroy, there’s a soft place in me I didn’t think I had anymore.

And it’s got her name written all over it.