He holds out his palm, in which his son places a machete. The same type I’d used only a few weeks ago when I stopped by their territory and found his cousin at a local restaurant.
“Do you remember what you did to Amar?” he asks. “You cut off his hand. Then you mailed it to me as a gift.”
“The same fucking hand he touched my wife with!” I growl. “He got what he deserved.”
“That is how I feel about you. You see, Ronan, I believe in balance. In justice. An eye for an eye, as they say.” He crouches down in front of me, the machete blade hovering inches from my face. “So I’m going to take your hand. Then I’m going to make you watch while I kill your wife. And then, if you’re very lucky, I might let you bleed out before I remove anything else.”
His men grab my arm and force my hand flat against the concrete floor. The blade presses against my skin, cold and sharp, and I brace myself for the indescribable pain that’s about to come.
Simone’s screaming my name. Eddie’s beside her laughing. Dren’s gleaming with triumph as he pauses and savors the moment, drawing it out like the sadistic fuck he is.
I close my eyes and prepare for the worst. For the most intense pain I’ve probably felt in my life. I try to distract myself with thoughts of how I’m still going to somehow find a way out of this.
At least for Simone. I won’t let them hurt her. I don’t care how stacked the odds are, I refuse to allow it.
The blade bites into my flesh as Dren presses down, the first hot sting of blood welling up around the edge. He’s obviously going to do it as slowly and agonizingly as possible. In a way that truly makes it torture.
But as he’s applying more force, drawing more thick beads of blood, the warehouse doors explode inward.
Gunfire promptly follows, along with shouting from a number of men. There’s the thunder of boots on concrete and the loud thud of crates tumbling over.
Dren’s head snaps up, the blade faltering in his grip, and I wrench my hand free before he can finish the cut.
Through the smoke now hazing the air, I spot some familiar faces. The Callahan Clan has crashed the scene in chaotic fashion, bulldozing their way in.
Not only have my men come, but it’s who’s leading the charge that’s most sobering of all.
Myfather, showing up in the nick of time.
TWENTY-SIX
Simone
Everything becomes so chaotic,I don’t know what’s going on.
I’ve been forced to stand by and watch as Dren had his men beat Ronan up. Then, as he was about to chop Ronan’s hand off, the rest of the warehouse erupted.
I’m frozen for a second longer as deafening bangs go off and a horde of men flood the place.
Dren’s men go from watching what they consider entertainment—tormenting Ronan—to scrambling to draw their weapons.
The massive metal doors on the other side of the warehouse have been blown inward and are now hanging off their hinges. Thick clouds of smoke roll through, disguising the men that have crashed Dren’s sick party.
If I didn’t know any better, that explosive was courtesy of Langston Defense Solutions. I know our weaponry when I see it.
My momentary shock wears off as a loud bang goes off a few feet away from me. I snap out of it and throw myself to the ground as bullets whiz through the air.
My wrists are still tightly bound by the rope, but that doesn’t mean I don’t try to free myself. I wiggle on the ground, tugging and twisting at the coiled rope in hopes I can force one of my hands free.
It seems the others have forgotten about me.
Eddie, who was at my side, has taken cover, pulling out his own gun to defend himself.
But the men who have turned up aren’t fazed—they rush in with guns drawn, long dark coats rippling, faces set in cold fury, and open fire on the Albanians.
I recognize some of them, like Killian and Sean. Then there’s the men who don’t look like Callahans at all; they’re broad and muscled, with dark hair and more pronounced bone structure. If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess they wereRussian.
Though they’re not even the most surprising people who show up. It’s Ronan’s father Seamus who most makes me do a double take.