Page 4 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

PATRICK

It’s a good thing I’m fucking thorough.

After shooting every scumbag McCarthy, and their guards, I’d taken off up the hill that overlooks the house and waited for the Garda to arrive.

I considered we had a live one when three ambulances screamed through the gates, sirens blaring, and several paramedics rushed inside the house.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, they’d brought out McCarthy’s only daughter on a stretcher and loaded her into an ambulance.

A simple phone call told me which hospital they were taking her to, and a second phone call assured me she’d be under watch, and I’d be the first to know when, or if, she was released.

I’d stayed behind, watching with growing pleasure as paramedics brought out body bag after body bag. News regarding Brendan McCarthy’s brothers reached me. Gone. Good.

Once the emergency services had left, and the Garda secured the house, I’d headed home, satisfied that I only had one loose end to tie up. As soon as Sorcha McCarthy returned to her house, I’d end this feud once and for all. And emerge the fucking victor.

Despite a deal struck decades ago with the three most powerful families on the island to end a violent war, it appears the McCarthys just couldn’t stand the idea of losing equal power after my family merged with Niamh’s.

Brendan McCarthy always was a fucking idiot.

Now with Niamh’s family gone, and the McCarthys wiped out, the Mahoneys are the only ones left.

It’s not how I’d have chosen things to pan out, but since the opportunity has landed at my feet, I intend to take full advantage.

O’Sullivan’s organization will fall into line without any problem, and given we’re the last family standing in Ireland, the extra resources will come in handy.

The McCarthy’s organization on the other hand… I’ll need to come down hard.

At three in the morning, I’d staggered through the front door of my house and collapsed onto the couch, woken a few hours later by the smell of bacon.

By this time, word had spread that the McCarthys were no more, and I spent the entire day fielding calls and messages.

It was Sunday evening before I caught up with my brothers and delivered the news I’d discovered by staying behind

“We left a live one.”

Liam’s brows fly up his forehead. “What? Who?

“The kid. Sorcha. Paramedics took her to hospital. I’m waiting on news that she’s out, or she’s dead.”

“Hardly a kid. Not with those tits.”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed.” A lie. Hard to miss tits that perfect.

“Then you’re blind.” Passing me a sandwich, he bites off a chunk out of his own. “If she makes it, what are you gonna do with her?”

I shrug. “Kill her. What else would I do?”

“Shame to let a hot piece like that go to waste.”

“She’s a McCarthy. Stick your dick in that, and it’ll probably fall off.”

He grins. “I’d be willing to give it a try.”

My phone buzzes. The message I’ve been waiting for all day lights up the screen.

She’s out.

Stuffing my phone in my pocket, I grab the sandwich and my car keys. “You won’t get the chance.”

I stride to the front door, ignoring Liam’s sarcastic, “Bye then.” I jump in the car, taking the back roads to the McCarthy place once again. Not that I expect to bump into the Garda, but there’s no point in taking unnecessary risks.

Resuming the same position as last night, I wait for Little Miss McCarthy to arrive home from the hospital.

I’m having her followed, so if she goes anywhere other than here, I’ll know that too, although that’s unlikely.

It pays to have bankers on the payroll—those corrupt little fuckers are easily tempted by the mighty euro—and every McCarthy line of credit, including cards and bank accounts, have already been flagged for immediate shutdown, with the wealth transferring to my organization.

My phone stays silent, and ten minutes later, a taxi pulls up outside the house. She gingerly gets out, and I smile as she fights to tear the yellow police tape off the gates, wincing in pain.

She might not be dead—yet—but she didn’t get off scot-free. Good. I hope she’s in fucking agony.

Plodding to the front door, she strips off more police tape and goes inside. I pull out the night vision binoculars I brought with me and peer through the lenses, tracking her through the ground floor of the house. She vanishes for a few minutes, then reappears holding a backpack.

Time to move.

I tear down the hillside, check the road for oncoming vehicles, then jog to the other side. As I step foot on McCarthy property, I pull out my gun, pointing it right in front of me, and make my way to the front door. Before I can enter, it opens.

Sorcha drops a bag of groceries at her feet. Every drop of blood drains from her face, leaving her pale as alabaster.

“P-please,” she stammers, her hands coming up to either side of her head. “Please don’t kill me.”

My intention was to put a bullet in her brain before she uttered a word, but whether it’s tiredness, or nothing more than a desire to fuck with her head a little, I smile instead. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I’m only twenty,” she exclaims. “I have my whole life ahead of me. Please. I beg you. Please don’t do this.” She’s saying all the right words, but there’s a glint of something else I can’t place in those fear-filled ice-blue eyes.

“My fiancée was only twenty, too. She had her whole life ahead of her, yet your father had her killed.”

Her skin pales further, the mass of red curls a stark contrast to her white complexion.

“Wh-what?” She’s a good actress. I’ll give her that. Even I could believe she’s clueless at this moment. Brendan McCarthy might’ve kept his only daughter away from the business side of things, but this naive act won’t wash with me.

“Oh, come on, mo mhuirnín .” While she’s no sweetheart of mine, she’ll no doubt pick up on the menace in a phrase meant for lovers. “Don’t play the innocent. It doesn’t suit that poisonous McCarthy blood running through your veins.”

“I’m not lying. I swear. I don’t know anything about your fiancée. My da tells me nothing. He and my brothers deal with the business side of things.” She winces. “Dealt.”

I don’t believe a word coming out of her filthy little mouth. I rack the slide and jam the muzzle against her forehead. Fat tears flow in rivers down her cheeks, and her bottom lip quivers. “I’m begging you, please. Let me live. If you let me live, you can have all Da’s money.”

Little does she know that her family’s money is already mine. I tighten my finger on the trigger.

“Wait!” she shrieks. “P-please wait. I’ll do anything you ask. Anything.”

I’m a planner. Every move I make is carefully calculated.

I don’t do things off the cuff. It’s all part of my need to stay in control because the one time I let that control slip, my parents died.

So, there’s no one more surprised than me when I slide the gun into my holster and grab the only living McCarthy by the scruff of her neck.

“Anything it is, mo mhuirnín . Your family owes me a fucking bride, and you’re it.”