Page 1 of King of the Cage

PROLOGUE

BRAN

I saw her across a crowded room.

Isn’t that how the cliché goes?

Nothing in my life had ever come close to resembling a story with a happy ending, never mind a fairy tale told to clueless kids to prolong their optimism and innocence, and yet, I’d be a fucking liar if I said that the music didn’t stop the second her dark eyes met mine.

I have been a lot of things in my life. A fighter, in and out of the ring, a criminal, a gangster, an executioner, a brother, and a disappointing son, but I’d never been a liar.

I saw her across a crowded room, and the world stood still. I won’t deny it.

I also wouldn’t deny, and I’d kill anyone who did, that when I saw her across that crowded room, and the world stopped and her eyes met my gaze, from that moment on…

She was mine.

PROLOGUE

THEN

Bran

“Mam! The girls from St. Teresa’s pulled my hair braids out,” Quinn cried, running as fast as her little legs could carry her.

I followed close behind, my hand still locked around the incriminating evidence from the scene. My da had always told me that O’Connor men cleaned up after themselves.

“Don’t leave nothing for the guards to find, boy.”

I always tried to follow his advice, but seemed to fall short in ways I could never understand. Killian never had that problem. My older brother was just like Da. He never said the wrong thing or did anything to embarrass the family.

Da must wish he had two Killians to run the family, instead of one of you.

“Let me see here.” Sheila O’Connor’s voice was as warm and soft as a hug.

Quinn ran across the yard, scattering ducks and chickens as she went, and disappeared through the kitchen door. I followed slowly.

“Boy, what’s wrong with your sister?” My da sat on the doorstep of Uncle Sam’s house.

“Those O’Malley girls messed with Quinn, pulled her hair and pushed her down.”

My da shrugged. “The O’Malleys are good people. Seamus O’Malley is mighty useful to the business. I hope you didn’t go starting trouble with them on behalf of your sister.”

Both men were smoking pipes and watching me.

“But she was crying, Da! They really upset her, and she ripped her dress,” I protested hotly. My face was turning red, and my chest felt tight. I was going to be in trouble for this, I could tell.

“And little girls will cry over a torn dress or hair, but a grown boy shouldn’t care,” my da barked at me.

“She was crying,” I repeated.

“He’s a stubborn lad,” Uncle Sam remarked.

“Stubborn and soft at the same time, a losing combination.” Da sighed. His gaze dropped to my hand, and he stilled.

I took a step back when he stood.

“What have you got there, boy?”

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