Page 78 of Deadly Oath

I back up towards the door. I can’t question myself here, in front of her. If I do, I’ll lose the power over her that I’ve worked so hard for, that I’ve done all of this to get.

“You’ll stay here,” I bark out again, and as she lets out another shaky sob, I yank open the door, striding out into the hall and closing it firmly behind me. My guards have instructions not to let her out of the house, and I have plenty of security, cameras, and otherwise. If Sabrina tries to roam the house, someone will see her soon enough, and send her back up to her room.

I consider going down to the second floor to see Ailin, to let her know that I’m finally home. But I don’t know that I want to see her in this state. I need to calm myself down before I see my sister.

She has no idea that Sabrina is here, of course. She hasn’t left her room since she was brought home, so I’m not concerned about them running into each other. And Sabrina won’t happen upon her room, either—I feel confident that if she tries to leave her room, she’ll be intercepted quickly.

I never told Ailin what I was going to do, about my plans forrevenge. It’s not the kind of thing I would talk to my sister about, and besides—I think I knew, deep down, that she’d think worse of me for it. That she wouldn’t want me to hurt someone else because they should have been the one in her place. Ailin was always sweet and gentle, which is part of why I think what happened to her broke her so thoroughly.

She wouldn’t be happy about what I did to Sabrina. I know that. And that guilt worms through me again, making me wonder if I was wrong. If I made a terrible, unforgivable mistake.

No,I tell myself firmly, striding through the house to the front door, clenching and unclenching my fists. I need space, that’s all. Time away from Sabrina and her insistence that none of this is her fault. I need blood. I need the release of violence, the feeling of my fists sinking into another man’s flesh and bones, and I know exactly where I can get that.

I tell Evan, the man in charge of the household, to call around for my car.Mine, a ‘72 Charger that I like to drive when I want to be out on my own, without a driver or bodyguards. It pisses my security off, sometimes, that I give them the slip, but right now, I don’t want company.

I want to be alone with my own seething thoughts.

I know at this hour, my closest friend, Sean, will be at the club where we host fights. It’s a brick building nestled back off of a few turning roads, about forty minutes away, well past the manicured estates that my family mansion sits among. There will be someone there who will be eager to trade blows with me, and right now, like a man who needs a cigarette or a drink, that’s what I’m desperately craving.

I drive well over the speed limit getting there, but it doesn’t matter. If I’m pulled over, no cop who sees my identification will give me a ticket. I was shielded from the law when I played at being a sheriff for a little while, and I’m shielded from it now, by virtue of being the most powerful member of the Irish mafia from here to Boston.

Ironic, if I think about it long enough.

I wonder, as I drive, what Sabrina is doing. If she’s still crying. If she’s tried to test the bounds of her imprisonment. If she’s given up and gone to sleep, despite it being the late afternoon. As much as I wanted to get away from her, she fills my thoughts anyway. The guilt comes with her, nagging at me until I start to feel frayed and raw at the edges.

Sean can see how temperamental I am, I think, as soon as I walk in the front door of the old brick building. We bought the place and fixed it up together, turning it into a spot for the fights that we and others we knew enjoyed. Good, rough fun, the kind that had nothing to do with power or enemies or business and everything to do with gambling, making a bit of money, having a drink, and taking the edge off. The interior is clean and cool, one side roped off for fights, with thick mats covering the fighting area. Around it is a second roped-off area, for the crowds watching, and a door on the far wall leads to an actual locker room, nothing like the makeshift shed that was used at the warehouse outside Rivershade. To the left is a bar, industrial style, with a long metal counter, Edison bulbs above it, and stools surrounding it with red leather tops studded with nails. A pretty red-haired woman with freckles spattered over her face is tending it today—Casey, I think her name is.

“Brother! I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.” Sean is off his stool in an instant, heading for me to clasp me in a rough hug, clapping me hard on the shoulder. He has no idea what, exactly, I went off to do either—only that I was gone for a while on business. “Got everything squared away then?”

“Aye.” I run a hand through my hair, heading straight for the bar. “Casey. A beer, if you don’t mind. Guinness.”

“Coming right up.” She flashes me a wink, and goes about pouring my beer from the tap. Sean sits down on a stool opposite me, grinning as he always does, smiling brightly against his ruddy skin, ginger hair, and green eyes.

“You here for the fights tonight, then? You’re a good bit early, but there’s plenty on the card tonight. I’m expecting quite the turnout.”

“I’m here to be in one, if you’ve got the room.” I accept the beerfrom Casey, taking a long draught of it. “I need to burn off some steam. Get my knuckles a bit bloody.”

“There’s always room for you on the card.” He claps my shoulder again. “I’ll go and adjust things around a bit. The boys will be excited to see you’re back, even if it means one of them goes home with a broken nose tonight.”

He jumps up from the stool, a man with the giddy energy of a cocker spaniel, and heads for the door that leads to the back office—such as it is. It’s one of the smallest rooms off of this main one, with a metal desk, an uncomfortable chair, and a safe wedged into it. It’s not as if this is my most lucrative business—just the one I enjoy the most.

As much as I’d like to dive headlong into several Guinnesses, since I’m fighting tonight, I take it slow. I sip at the one in my hand, enjoying being back on familiar, comfortable turf, and I try not to think about Sabrina. I focus on the fight that I’m itching to get to, on the night ahead, on the fact that I won’t get to see her again until tomorrow at the earliest.

I won’thaveto see her again. I repeat the sentence in my head. That was what I’d meant for it to come out as.

As the hours wear on, the building starts to fill up. Sean lets me know that I’m the fourth fight on the card, and I eat early, polishing off a burger with bourbon glaze, mushrooms and onions, and fries, giving myself plenty of time for it to settle. I watch the first two fights before I head back to the locker room to change, watching as the crowd warms up, betting intensifying as the fights go on. That itch for blood, the need for the release of violence, had faded a little once I arrived here and settled in, but it comes back as I head to the locker room, the anticipation heating my blood. The other nagging thoughts fade away, and my focus is on what comes next, on my opponent, on the expulsion of all the chewing rot inside of me right now that makes me feel as if I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

“Let me hear you all make some noise for Kian McNeill!” Sean shouts as I come out into the ring, his voice echoing over the speakers, and the crowd starts to shout, screaming and cheering andstamping their feet. “What a nice surprise, coming back to give us a real show!”

My opponent, a man about three inches shorter than me but a good bit wider with muscle, eyes me nervously all the same. He likely wasn’t expecting to fight me, and is also likely rethinking his position in all of this. But there’s no backing down now, as the bell rings and we go in on each other.

Bare-knuckle, like always. Fists against flesh, against bone, against noses and teeth and ribs, the two of us fighting the way God and nature intended. No gloves or pads or protective equipment here, just two men scrapping, looking to see which of them can best the other. And before the fight’s even barely begun, I know it will be me.

Desmond, my opponent, is bigger than I am, but he’s slower. He’s never seen me fight before, either, like he probably has seen the man he expected to go up against. I’ve never seen him fight either—I’ve never met the man before; he’s not a regular—but he has the unfortunate habit of telegraphing his moves before he makes them. A twitch of the hand before he’s about to swing, a glance of the eyes in the direction he’s going to go. And time and again, I dodge his attack, just to hit him squarely with mine.

His size means he can take the hits. But three rounds in, I have him on the ropes, bleeding from his nose and his mouth as I pummel his ribs, the violence overtaking me. He doesn’t give in, trying to get back into a fighting stance, trying to land a hit, but I never give him a chance. And when I clock him squarely with an uppercut to the jaw, I see his teeth clack together, see the blood spurt from his mouth as he bites his tongue, and he slumps down to the mats.

I pivot, raising my bloody fists to the screaming crowd, jubilant with the adrenaline of the fight and the feeling of the win.Thisis the sensation of victory I was missing earlier.Thisis the thrill I needed. This is the release that I craved, and now I can go back home, and deal with Sabrina with a clear head?—

---