Page 10 of Clipped Wings

“Fuck!” he howled, his voice cracking.

It was a long, terrible, heartbreaking wail that left my teeth chattering. It was a cry I recognized. A roar of deep agony, of soul-splitting loss. I cradled him, my fingers numb with shock. My breathing was hitched, the air leaving my lungs in short puffs.

Jack pressed the side of his head against my chest. I held it there, my palm on his cheek. His body went limp, and he shook against me. I rocked back and forth, clinging to him with every ounce of strength I had.

Silent tears dripped down my face as sirens approached.

Chapter Six

Emma

I slid the black blazer down my arms, setting it on the arm of Jack’s leather couch. I took my heels off and tucked them under the furniture, out of Fiagaí’s sight. The house panther had a thing for my shoes, in particular. He would tear them to shreds once he found them, but I’d let the cat do his worst.

The apartment was dark, the sole source of light coming from those of the city. The view through the glass wall was staggering, despite the immense sadness that hung in the air. Jack’s grief was palpable, even if he hid it well. And here, alone in his safe space for the first time in a week, it emanated from him like a tangible force. As if a demon inhabited the room with us, feeding on the stagnant energy.

Turning, I helped him out of his suit jacket, careful not to nudge his bandaged hand. He studied me as I removed the material from his arms, his face unreadable, but there was an emotion in his eyes I didn’t like. Immense sorrow, yes, but something else as well. Whatever it was, it made my heartbeat quicken.

It’d been a long seven days filled with funeral arrangements, hushed conversations, stifled sobs and the occasional questions from law enforcement. I had stood by Jack’s side through it all. Even if I had wanted to step away—which I never did—he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. If so much as a foot of space came between us, his arm reached out of its own accord and pulled me back. Like his subconscious couldn’t stand the distance.

The only time we had separated was when he had to speak with his men. We’d been confined in the penthouse of the Shannon, but it was large enough to house us all and then some. Their meetings had been held in the dining hall, and no one was permitted into that wing until they were over. I imagined it had been turned into some sort of war room, with members of the Irish mob dropping in unannounced. They carried flowers or home-cooked meals into the kitchen, then disappeared down the hall to join the others.

During the time I had been alone, I’d seen to my own biological needs—using the bathroom, showering, changing my clothes—but mostly I had sat on the bed in the guest room that Jack and I shared, my head in my hands. I’d focused on the simple act of breathing, trying to decompress as best I could.

“I need to show you something,” Jack muttered now, taking my hand in his uninjured one.

His footsteps echoed down the hallway as we neared his bedroom. The apartment seemed even bigger than usual, and empty. Fia was nowhere to be seen. He was probably prowling the many rooms, hunting for spiders. Jack’s housekeeper—a skinny, balding, middle-aged man with red hair—had been watching him while we’d been gone.

Jack led me into his closet and flipped on the lights. I’d been in here many times before, but it never ceased to impress. The room was huge, accented with dark wood and brass furnishings. Custom black dress suits lined half of one wall. The other half housed a series of drawers where Jack kept everything else—jeans, T-shirts, underwear, over a dozen designer watches in a glass case. There was a black granite island in the middle with more storage area, a vase of fresh red roses sitting atop.

The other side of the closet—the side Jack had designated mine—was remarkably bare. A few dresses and jackets hung on the racks, other basic essentials stuffed into a drawer or two. I hadn’t wanted to give him the impression that I was moving in, but that was before.

Given the circumstances, I would relocate to Jack’s luxury apartment overlooking Central Park without a second thought. Jack’s needs far outweighed my own insecure reasons for hesitating.

Jack crossed the closet and opened a large antique armoire. Instead of clothing or more storage space, there was a giant metal door with a digital pad on it. I’d seen the safe before but hadn’t paid it any mind. Jack wouldn’t make any Forbes lists because of how he obtained his money, but he was a billionaire. And apart from the pistol in the kitchen, he didn’t leave weapons lying around the house. It all had to go somewhere.

“Memorize this, Emma,” he ordered.

I stood behind him as he entered the code. It was long, but I committed it to memory.

“Got it?”

“Yes.” My voice came out as a whisper, startling me. We’d conversed so little with one another over the past week. Hardly anyone had spoken at the wake, apart from Frank O’Connell, but no one had paid him any attention. I hadn’t seen Jack’s father since Christmas, and I hadn’t missed him in the slightest. He had a few new scars, and his nose was bent from where his son had beaten him to within an inch of his life. Even so, I had hung around Jack. I wouldn’t have put it past Frank to try to start something, but he had altogether ignored us.

Jack swung the heavy door open and gestured for me to enter. Bewildered, I did as I was told. Lights sprang to life, buzzing along the ceiling. I blinked a few times, adjusting my eyes to my surroundings.

Well, I’ll be…

The safe was not, in fact, a safe. It was a hidden room. The shelves on either side were filled with dozens of weapons, each seated in its own charcoal foam case. I didn’t know anything about arms, but it was obvious few of them were legal. Sniper rifles, automatic machine guns, dozens of different pistols, shotguns. Not to mention grenades, flash bombs, throwing knives, brass knuckles, Kevlar vests. It was overwhelming, but it didn’t end there.

At the other end of the room, gold bars were stacked against the wall. Next to those sat a series of metal briefcases, one on top of the other, and a large filing cabinet with a heavy lock on it.

“It’s a panic room,” Jack said, shutting the door behind us.

As he did so, claustrophobia descended on me. I ran my thumbs over my palms, conscious of the clamminess on them. “Why are you showing me this?”

He ignored my question, his gaze locked on me, intent and severe. “You have the code memorized?”

“Yes, but—”

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