Page 1 of The Irish Arrangement

1

DECLAN

Blood flew out of the man’s mouth as his head whipped back from my hit. The jab was hard and fast, sending him staggering to one knee. He wasn’t done, though, struggling to stay on his two feet before the arc of my other hand could connect with his side.

A crack was my reward. His whoosh of a rough exhale was better yet. Best of all was his drop to the sweat-slicked floor of the fighting ring.

Take that, you fucker.

Heaving in air to catch my breath, I stood braced and alert in case this fight the Boyles sponsored would stand again. If he wanted more, if he was eager to literally fight to the death, then by all means, I was here for it.

In the distance, outside this ring where I’d defeated countless fighters and trained even more, I noticed the spectators grimacing and scowling. This wasn’t a match for the crowds. We were settling a personal matter here, and I’d be damned if anyone from the Boyles would think to suggest any of my men cheated.

“What’s that now?” I taunted, wiping my hand over my mouth. My lips weren’t split like the exhausted and beaten man at my feet. He had yet to get up. Braced on his side, curling into his tenderest injuries I’d given him, he surrendered.

“You want to go around telling everyone the Sullivans are liars?” I growled, climbing through the ring’s ropes.

The Boyle shook his head, nudging his companion that they should go. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

I grunted a mirthless laugh as I accepted a towel from my brother, Ian, who also stood by watching. As I walked further from the ring to approach the two men affiliated with the Boyle Family, I cocked my head to the side.

“Nothing to say?”

Peter Boyle smirked at me, his dark glare full of loathing and disdain. We’d never gotten along with our rivals, but over time, the Sullivans had learned to keep their distance, and the Boyles knew not to mess with us either. Except last week, when Peter claimed that one of my fighters cheated in the ring and his man—lying on the ring’s floor and panting to survive—should’ve won that fight.

“Fuck you, Dec.” Peter shook his head, walking out with his lackey.

“Hey!” Ian called out, grinning as he watched them go. “You forgot your trash.”

Peter didn’t stop, leaving and grumbling.

“Stupid motherfucker,” I muttered, wiping my face and making sure those two left without bothering anyone else here. The sounds of men training resumed, and the usual bustle of the large gym returned to normal. The Sullivan Clan dabbled in all sorts of avenues of income. My family had risen to wealth and prominence hundreds of years ago with the success of many illegal and dangerous businesses, but I preferred this one. Fighting. If I wasn’t training them, I participated in matches myself, and I took it personally when the Boyles disparaged my reputation. All of the men who fought under the Sullivan name did so honestly. We stood by our strength and honor, and I’d punish anyone who tried to cut corners and cheat.

“Let’s see them try to accuse one of us again,” Ian said.

I nodded, glancing at him again. He wasn’t a blood relation, only an adopted sibling, but he’d always been my right-hand man. In a finely tailored suit, he looked out of place here. This gritty, loud, and violence-prone warehouse was a far cry from his office in the city. I cut a sharp contrast, sweaty and down to my pants from that fight.

“What brings you by?” Ian and I were close, but he handled a lot of administrative things for my father, the leader of our Clan. It wasn’t often that he stopped over here, unless it was the night of a big fight. I squinted at him through the sting of sweat dripping into my eyes as I unwrapped my hands.

“Dad.” He lost all residue of his smirk at the Boyles. Lines etched on his face, tugging his expression down with a sober frown. “He’s not doing well.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” I huffed. “He hasn’t been doing well for years.” Donal Sullivan was a larger-than-life sort of Irishman no one would dare to disrespect, but for the last ten years, his pulmonary conditions had worsened gravely. His body failed him faster with every passing day, and I dreaded the idea of his being gone soon.

Ian shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “No. He’s even worse. Riley called and told me that the doctors have been to the estate three times this week.”

Fuck. I wiped the towel over my face once more. My duties kept me in the city. It wasn’t often that I could hang out at the massive family home where Dad stayed, usually bedridden and trying to tolerate a moderate level of activity. I hadn’t been home since last weekend, and I could take Ian and Riley’s word as the truth.

“It’s got to be bad if she’s calling,” Ian said, raising his brows.

“I know.” Donal Sullivan was a proud man, and he’d ordered his primary doctor to downplay the severity of his status. Ian and I often felt like we didn’t have the whole picture of how near our father was to his deathbed. They glossed over facts and no longer contacted us with worries about Dad’s decline. If Riley, one of the cooks, also Ian’s longtime lover, took it upon herself to break that rule and update Ian about Dad’s health, it had to be bad.

“I’ll head out there.” I sighed, tossing the towel to the bin where they were collected. After I grabbed a quick shower, I’d drive straight there.

Ian walked alongside me, also scoping out the activity of the other men training and exercising here. “I’ll wait for you. We may as well ride together.”

“Yeah.” Because if both of us were there to check on him, he’d have a harder time dismissing us.

An hour later, we entered the estate house and hurried up to Dad’s wing. I doubted he’d left his bed for at least a couple of weeks. He’d be in the same position, with the same sour and gruff temperament, as he had the last time I saw him.

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