Page 18 of Bozo

"Where are we going?" I finally ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Connor glances at me, his expression softening slightly. "My place. It's safe there."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and the pain in my ribs is becoming more pronounced. I shift in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

Connor notices my pain. "We should get you checked out," he says, concern evident in his voice. "Those ribs could be broken."

I shake my head vehemently. "No hospitals," I insist. "They'll ask questions."

He sighs but doesn't argue. "I know someone who’ll help you be seen without questions.”

I close my eyes, knowing there’s no point in arguing.

“Hey, Grá,” Connor says softly, gently pushing me awake. “We’re here.”

I blink awake. “Where are we?”

“Jerry Houlihan’s home,” he says nonchalantly.

My eyes widen at his words. “You’re not serious?” I hiss. “Jerry Houlihan?”

“I know what you think, Grá. Trust me, I know. But Jer’s not the man you think he is. Trust me.”

I grit my teeth and nod. There’s nothing I can do right now. We’re here.

Jerry Houlihan is the head of the Houlihan Gang here in Ireland. The man is a cold-blooded killer, not to mention one of the biggest drug dealers in the country.

Connor helps me out of the car, his arm gentle around my waist as we approach the imposing mansion. My heart races as we reach the huge red front door. Connor knocks, and moments later it swings open to reveal a burly man with a shaved head.

He nods at Connor. "Boss is expecting you," he grunts, stepping aside to let us in.

The opulent interior takes my breath away. It’s huge. There’s glass everywhere, paintings hanging on the walls, and sculptures dotted around the place. It's a far cry from the dingy house I've been calling home.

We're led to a study where a man sits behind an enormous mahogany desk. Jerry Houlihan looks every bit the crime boss—expensive suit, gold rings on his fingers, an air of danger about him. But when he sees us, his face breaks into a warm smile.

"Connor," he says, rising to clasp Connor's hand. "And this must be the famous Grá I've heard so much about."

I'm too stunned to speak. Connor squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. "Jer, we need your help. Grá's been hurt. Can you get Doc Murphy to take a look at her?"

Jerry's expression darkens as he takes in my bruised face. "Of course. I'll call him right away." He picks up a phone on his desk. "Murphy? Get over here now. And bring your medical bag."

As we wait for the doctor, Jerry insists I sit in a plush armchair. Connor hovers nearby, his eyes constantly darting to me with concern.

"Can I get you anything, loveen?" Jerry asks, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Water? Tea?"

I shake my head, still too overwhelmed to speak. The reality of the situation is starting to hit me. I'm sitting in the home of one of Ireland's most notorious gangsters, waiting for a doctor to treat injuries inflicted by my own father.

How did my life come to this?

A few minutes later, there's a knock at the door. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair enters, carrying a black medical bag.

"This is Doc Murphy," Jerry introduces. "He'll take good care of you, Grá."

The doctor's eyes are kind as he approaches me. "Let's have a look at you, shall we?"

Connor moves to leave the room, but I grab his hand. "Stay," I whisper. He nods, squeezing my hand gently.

Dr. Murphy's examination is thorough but gentle. He frowns as he probes my ribs, causing me to wince.

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