Page 37

Joshua Stone

I stood before the door with my arms folded tightly across my chest. Silently observing Fury as he paced back and forth, his agitated movements a stark contrast to my own stillness, I remained quiet, offering no comment. Just minutes before the plane touched down in Worcester, Mercy received an urgent text message from O’Malley, informing us of a serious situation requiring our immediate presence at St. Vincent’s Hospital. Given that the threat came from the notoriously violent head of the Irish Mob, I interpreted it as an extremely serious warning, so I quietly informed Lynk to alert the others, excluding Fury.

When I first met Christian, he was no more than an angry sixteen-year-old punk, who back then, worked for Renaldo’s father, Rafaello Romano. Filled with furious anger and incredibly disrespectful, he showed utter disregard for everyone and everything around him. Continuously in trouble with the law, Christian was headed down a dark and dangerous path, a path that would inevitably consume him if he didn’t quickly gain control of his anger. Exacerbating the situation, Rafaello’s nonchalant attitude and deliberate provocation of Christian’s anger fueled the flames of Christian’s rage until it completely overwhelmed him. Without intervention, Christian faced a lengthy and difficult incarceration.

There was a certain quality about Christian that inexplicably intrigued me. Something in his demeanor or presence commanded my attention, and so, in a sudden, spontaneous act of generosity—without pausing to rationally assess the implications—I offered to sponsor him. If I had understood the full ramifications of my actions, I would have walked away and let him fend for himself, thus avoiding the considerable difficulties that subsequently followed.

Though hesitant, I embraced the challenge. However, Christian proved to be a formidable opponent, testing me relentlessly.

To the outside world, Christian Michael Moreno projected an image of a loving father, evidenced by the photos of his smiling children, a devoted son, seen regularly visiting his family home, and a highly successful businessman, whose expensive car and tailored suits spoke volumes. However, on the inside, Christian was a man capable of extreme violence, a volatile and bloodthirsty individual who could explode with rage at any instant, similar to a ticking time bomb. For many years, Christian struggled with anger management problems, which he failed to address, and those problems ultimately culminated into the man who stood before me today.

My efforts to help Christian control the deep-seated anger that raged inside him spanned years and countless hours spent in diverse settings, ranging from the structured environments of gyms and boxing clubs to the more informal and sometimes dangerous atmosphere of fighting rings and back alleys. I’d tried everything within my power to control the beast within him, but the moment George Stone commanded Christian to get close to Davina Duchene and get her pregnant, a wave of icy dread washed over me. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I’d made a grave mistake. But the choice wasn’t mine, and in the end, Christian agreed. George may have believed that Christian would dehumanize the woman, but I had a strong feeling that wouldn’t be the case.

Unlike his brothers, whose allegiances shifted like desert sands, Christian’s unwavering belief in family loyalty—a conviction etched into the very core of his being—would ultimately trump all other considerations. The revelation that Davina had been murdered, coupled with the knowledge that Blackwell and her ambitious son were hunting his daughters in order to seize control of Duchene International, shattered Christian’s composure, unleashing a torrent of rage. It was a twist of fate that led me to the city that night. The sounds of heavy breathing and grunts pulled me toward a clandestine underground fight club, where I witnessed Christian’s fierce struggle against multiple opponents. I’d been sent to the bustling city, a concrete jungle teeming with noise and activity, to hunt down Jasper Michaels, also known as Hawk, but instead found Christian.

I spent almost two weeks helping him regain his mental equilibrium following the shocking revelation that Linsey, Davina’s sister, had taken his children. Linsey’s arrival in the city with Vicious and the girls in tow resulted in an unforeseen development. They became the only thing that could control his ferocious, beastly side.

Until Charlotte.

Even I had to admit, I never saw that one coming. Their personalities clashed. One was outgoing and boisterous, the other quiet and reserved. The quiet gentleness of her voice contrasted sharply with his booming laughter and thirst for excitement, yet beneath it all lay a perfect understanding that made their partnership thrive. From my understanding, it was an instant connection. I always fucking knew when Christian gave his whole heart to someone, it would be game over. He was a one-woman man, and I thought that woman was Davina, but I was wrong. Oh, he may have cared deeply for Davina, but I think he knew deep down that what they had would always be fleeting.

But Charlotte was different. She had no prior commitments, no destiny to fulfill. She was just a single mother who found herself caught in a war not of her making. Her innocence, a fragile quality, was something I knew Christian found appealing. I also knew the longer he had to wait for the doctor, the more his growing agitation, a volatile energy, would fill the room.

With quiet steps, O’Malley joined me, his eyes locked on Christian as the sounds of nervous coughs and shuffling feet filled the room while Christian paced. Each passing minute brought a fresh wave of tension, knotting his shoulders tighter and tighter, a physical manifestation of his anxiety. I saw the way his jaw tightened, a grim set to his face, and I could almost feel the pressure of his back molars grinding together.

“He’s too quiet,” O’Malley whispered.

“I know.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Yes,” I growled. “Because if that damn doctor doesn’t tell him exactly what he needs to hear, he will snap, and everyone in this room will become his next victim.”

“My boys have Steele.”

“Where?”

“Outside of town. Twenty minutes from here. They want to kill him for what he did to her.”

Slowly shaking my head, I said, “He belongs to Fury, because if she doesn’t make it, that bastard will be the only thing that will keep Christian from going on a killing rampage.”

Mercy approached cautiously, his gaze locked on Fury’s fist as it tightened, the silence punctuated only by the man’s harsh breathing. “Uh, Montana just called. They are out of jail.”

The air crackled with tension when a low guttural growl vibrated through the room, making everyone freeze.

“I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Mercy, go find the damn doctor. I don’t care if you have to pull his ass from the damn operating room. Someone needs to come in here and update him.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Mercy murmured as he backed out of the room, refusing to look away.

Looking at Malice, I nodded. The man slowly pushed off the wall, as did Payne. Both men were bigger than Christian, but it wouldn’t matter.

I knew that.

So did they.

“Cousin.” O’Malley cautiously walked over to the volatile man.

“O’Malley, I wouldn’t,” I warned as Fury rounded on the Irish man and sneered.

“She is alive,” O’Malley said. “She is alive, Christian. I held her hand the whole time, even when they wheeled her into surgery. Your woman is strong. A fitting wife for an Irishman. She will survive this. I know it.”

With a burning intensity, Fury stared at the man, saying nothing, the air thick with tension as Torment joined O’Malley. “He’s right, Fury. Just hold it together a bit longer, brother. Mercy went to find her doctor. She’s gonna make it. I know it.”

The door behind me opened, forcing me to move to the side as the doctor walked in, minus Mercy. Moving to stand next to Fury, the man said, “Mr. Moreno?”

“Just say what you need to, Doc. Christian isn’t talking to anyone at the moment.”

The older man blinked, then nodded. “Very well. Mr. Moreno, as you know, your wife was brought here in really bad shape. How she survived the trip is a testament to her willpower. I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. Your wife was violently sexually assaulted and beaten so badly, she’s slipped into a coma. The internal damage she suffered was extensive, and I was forced to remove her spleen. Your wife will need a cosmetic surgeon to repair the cuts she sustained from the attack. Whoever did this to your wife meant to inflict as much damage as possible before he killed her. But I can’t stress this enough. Your wife will need extensive therapy if she wakes up.”

“What do you mean if, Doc?” Rage asked.

“Mrs. Moreno sustained multiple blows to the head. The force used actually cracked her skull, causing her brain to swell. In all my years as a doctor, I’ve never seen this level of violence inflicted on a person, and I’ve treated prison patients and gang members. Whoever did this meant to kill her, and he almost succeeded. I’m keeping Mrs. Moreno in isolated intensive care for the next forty-eight hours. I will know more then.”

“Can he see her, Doc?” Torment asked.

“I’m sorry. No.” The doctor shook his head. “Right now, she is receiving a high dose of antibiotics and round-the-clock care. Your wife is strong, Mr. Moreno, but she isn’t out of the woods yet.”

The doctor said nothing more as he turned around and left the room while everyone took a few steps away from Fury. Moving to stand in front of him, I asked, “What do you need?”

“I can’t stop it, Josh.”

“Malice and Payne are going to help you out of this place. You will not attack your brothers, understood? Torment, find Mercy and keep watch on Charlotte.”

“Get me the fuck out of here,” he grated as his nose flared and his eyes turned dark.

Shit.

He was going to kill us before we could even get him out of the hospital.

“Where the fuck are we?” I asked, looking around the area as I stepped out of the SUV. The area looked nothing like the city we came from. The area, in fact, possessed the distinct characteristics of a rural township, with its dense forest and the old-style farmhouse that looked like it belonged in a storybook.

“This land once belonged to the Campbell Family back in the early 1800s. The Campbells were simple farmers when the Civil War broke out. All four of their sons died in the war, leaving only a daughter. With no male heirs to pass the land to, the family gifted the land as a dowery to their daughter’s future husband, a man named Adam Doherty.”

“Wait a damn minute,” Rage spoke up. “Are you telling me this land belongs to Reaper?”

“No.” O’Malley slowly shook his head. “I said the Campbells gifted the land as a dowery as long as it was passed down to the oldest daughter. Which it was, when Diana Doherty was born.”

“So how the fuck did this land end up in the Craven Family?”

Braesal O’Malley grinned. “In 1903, Diana Doherty married John Craven. And for an entire generation, the land stayed in the Craven Family because no daughters were born until Henry Craven married Sarah Williams in 1955. They had four daughters; the oldest was Elizabeth.”

“So, who does the land belong to now?” Rage asked, looking around the desolate place.

“Charlotte,” O’Malley informed. “At least that’s what I could find out on such short notice. As the last remaining descendant, the house and all the land belong to Charlotte.”

“I’m going to burn this fucking place to the damn ground, right after I kill that motherfucker. Where is he?” Fury growled.

“In the barn,” O’Malley said, leading the way.

As soon as I stepped inside and laid eyes on Steele dangling from a rafter, his arms encircled by chains, his body a canvas of blood and bruises, I let out a weary sigh, before turning my attention to O’Malley, whose arrogant smirk was the final insult.

“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him myself.”

“Let him go,” Fury ordered, and O’Malley’s men looked at their boss, who simply nodded. The two men, obeying orders, eased Steele to the ground, the sound of the handcuffs being unlocked a small disruption in the tense silence, before they stepped back.

“Your wife has a right tight pussy.” Steele grinned, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “She sucks cock like a fucking pro, too.”

The air crackled with tension as several men let out growls, their hands reaching for their weapons until O’Malley’s outstretched hand commanded a halt, silencing the impending chaos.

I just stood there and slowly shook my head, the weight of the situation settling on my shoulders. Steele was gravely mistaken if he believed he could extricate himself from the predicament he had found himself in. He was trapped within the confines of that barn; escape was impossible, and I think even he realized he would not be leaving alive.

“You just gonna stand there with your thumb up your ass or you gonna do something?” the fucker shouted.

Despite the evident provocation, Fury still hadn’t moved. Instead, he stood in the barn’s center, the silence broken only by the occasional drip of water, his gaze fixed on Steele. I’d been fortunate enough to witness many of Fury’s fights since our first meeting, and although each bout unfolded differently, with various opponents and strategies employed, there was one consistent factor. Fury never struck first. Therefore, it did not surprise me when Steele let out a roar, immediately charging toward Christian, wrapping his arms around Christian’s waist in a tackle and hoisting him into the air before forcefully slamming him back to the ground.

When Malice moved to interfere, I clipped, “Everyone, stay the fuck back. This is Fury’s fight.”

I observed Steele for the next few minutes, during which time he seemed completely convinced that he was in a position of dominance and advantage. Although Steele’s size clearly surpassed Fury’s, the glint in Fury’s eyes and a subtle shift in his weight betrayed his amusement. It was obvious Fury was merely playing with his larger opponent.

Punch after punch, Fury absorbed the blows, the impact jarring his body, but his eyes remained unwavering, letting the man believe he had a chance. Even when Steele managed to get Fury in a headlock, the fighter I knew, with a surprising burst of strength and agility, wiggled his way out, forcing Steele to quickly adapt a new strategy. With each passing moment of Fury’s gamesmanship, Steele’s rage intensified, his breathing becoming heavy and his voice a low growl.

However, when Steele grabbed a farm rake—the sickening snap when it broke in half echoing in the silence—and brandished the jagged piece as a weapon, I knew he had just made a fatal error in judgment. Because when he charged Fury, the fighter I knew emerged with a swift, brutal dance of motion. The impact of Fury’s kick sent the wood flying, followed by a sharp crack as Steele’s wrist bent at an unnatural angle.

A roar tore from the man’s throat as he clutched his broken wrist, his breath hitching in his chest. With Steele hampered by his injured hand, I shoved away from the weathered barn wall, immediately sensing the loss of its cool, damp surface against my back, and gave the order.

“Finish him.”

I’d seen Fury fight many times, and this time was no different. He launched himself into the fray, a storm of irrepressible violence, each punch delivered with immense rage and precision. The smell of sweat and blood filled the air as Fury unleashed a ferocious barrage of punches, kicks, and jabs, each blow a thunderous testament to his power, leaving Steele broken and defeated.

Still, Fury wasn’t satisfied. The relentless pounding of fists and feet echoed through the room, a brutal symphony of violence that left the man broken and kneeling, his pleas for mercy lost in the cacophony of bone against flesh and the sickening thud of repeated impacts. Even then, Fury refused to relent, unleashing a torrent of rage on the man who had brutally assaulted his wife, leaving her battered and bleeding.

“Fury!” I raised my voice in a shout as the man let out a growl, before seizing his opponent’s head and twisting it forcefully. A sharp crack echoed through the room, and in that instant, Steele’s eyes glazed over, his body collapsing as Fury unceremoniously dumped him on the floor.

“Burn everything,” Fury said, holding his side as he walked out of the barn.