But I’m not done. I’m only getting started as I swing the machete again.
The machete comes down on his skull, cracking it open and splitting bone. The force of it reverberates up my arm.
Amar’s howling stops instantly. Cut off mid-scream.
His body goes completely limp. My men release him, and he tips backward, crashing to the floor with a final heavy thud. His eyes are still open, staring at nothing. His mouth is agape, frozen in his final moment of agony.
Blood pools around his head, spreading across the cracked tile floor in a dark, viscous lake.
I step over his body, my boots squelching in the blood, and wrench the machete out of his skull. It takes some effort—the blade is lodged deep.
When it finally comes free, it’s dripping with the same gunk it usually is. It’ll be washed off and like new in no time.
I look to the others. Eddie is pale, his eyes wide. Sean is wiping blood from his mouth. Teagan and Cian are breathing hard. Killian looks like he could go for more bloodshed, that familiar hungry gleam in his dark gaze.
“C’mon,” I say simply. I gesture to the severed hand on the ground. “Somebody bag that up. Don’t want to forget our gift for Dren.”
My crew rushes to follow my orders. Teagan grabs Amar’s severed hand and wraps it up in a table cloth he steals from one of the tables. Cian and Eddie move to the doors, undoing the lock and propping it open.
I turn to leave then pause at the door for a look back at the wide-eyed, terrified staff huddled together. The young brunette is crying. The old folks are trembling.
“Sorry,” I say, my tone conversational, like I’m apologizing for being late to dinner. “Where’re my manners?”
Reaching into my coat, I pull out a thick roll of hundreds held together by a rubber band. I toss it onto the table where Amar’s half-eaten meal remains.
“For your troubles. And the cleanup.”
No less than an hour later, I’m back at our estate. The adrenaline’s still pumping through my veins. My heart’s still racing and showing no signs of slowing down.
I stride through the front door, past Oona who takes one look at me and crosses her arms, muttering something in Irish. I ignore her like I had earlier, rushing up the stairs at an even quicker pace.
I push open the bedroom door.
This time, Simone’s sitting up in bed, propped against pillows as she reads a book. It’s only late afternoon, but she’s obviously decided she’s done for the day, having changed into one of her silky nighties.
She’s pinned her hair up, though a hunk of it still frames the right side of her face. Bangs that haven’t finished growing out.
She looks so fucking soft. So damn beautiful and irresistible.
She glances up as I enter, visibly surprised to see me back so soon—and covered in blood.
But not just anybody’s blood. We both know who it belongs to, splattered on my shirt like some Picasso creation. Dried on my fingers, staining them red.
“Ronan—” she starts uncertainly, but I don’t give her a chance to continue.
I cross the room in a few long, quick strides. I should head to the bathroom to shower and change out of these clothes. But those aren’t options as I cut across the room and grab Simone’s face with both hands. She gasps before I silence her with a desperate kiss on the lips.
FOURTEEN
Simone
“Ronan—”His name falls past my lips as I look up from my book and my heart jumps inside my chest.
The door’s flown open, and he’s stormed through splattered in blood, heaving ragged breaths, pupils dilated and eyes dark.
I don’t know what to think as he starts across the room at a fast stride. He looks like a madman, like the brutal Irish gangster I’ve always thought of him as.
Yet as Ronan closes in on me and grabs my face in his blood-stained hands, a sense of thrill flutters through me.