Page 3 of Stolen Rival
She’s the patron saint of babies and nuns for Christ’s sake and was known for her ability to perform miraculous healings.
Ha. Miraculous healings. Maybe Mammy—rest her soul—and Da wished giving me the name would give me some ofBrigid’s Zen. That backfired considering I grew up with a temper that could cut Connemara marble.
Though I’d give a lot of things for St. Brigid’s ability to turn water into beer.
I could do with a cold one right now. That has to be what this is. The world’s worst hangover. And I need the hair of the dog.
My stomach cramps, quickly changing my mind. Strike that, I’m never drinking again.
I can’t recall where I went last night, or what I drank, but the more empty space I find in my brain, the more alarm bells and red flags pop up.
Was I drugged? Or worse?
My body is sluggish to respond. Mercifully, there’s no immediate pain between my legs. I’d rather not lose my virginity while unconscious. My fingers and toes check in with a wiggle, but my limbs are heavy, and when I try to lift my head, I don’t get far.
Fuck. Did some arsehole drug me?
My confusion and fear quickly give way to a bloom of anger in my chest. If someone did me dirty, I’ll rip his balls off and feed them to the stray dogs.
At least I remember with crystal clarity who I am. Only daughter, biggest disappointment—and the only one with red hair—of Brendan McCarthy, most powerful man in Ireland and leader of one of three Irish mafia families on the island. If I could get my eyes to open, I’d roll them. All I can hear is Da’s pompous voice in my head as he recites his spiel.
According to Irish legend, St. Patrick used a shamrock to teach the Holy Trinity to Celtic pagans in the seventeenth century. Seventy-three years ago, after the worst bloodshedthe Irish mafia had ever seen, the heads of three families came together to make a truce using the very same emblem.
Apparently, my ancient history is still on point, Da would be so proud. But when I reach for what happened yesterday again in my gray matter, it’s still gone.
I attempt to open my lips to talk but they’re stuck together, and when I try to pull my body off the bed, searing pain rips through my abdomen.
What the fuck happened to me?
The stab of pain seems to unlock something in my brain. Gunfire raining down on the house, Da shoving me out of the way as he tried to reload a gun, everyone screaming.
Although the screaming might be from me. Those images flashing through my head aren’t dreams, they’re memories.
My house was under attack.
Firm hands press my shoulders into the mattress underneath me. “Easy love, you’ll rip your stitches.” A soft, calming voice is close to my ear. I’m anything but calm.
My senses kick in one at a time. The beeping sound of machines, and the faint buzz of luminescent lights. The clinical, chemical smell of a medical building. Pain. Bone-deep, agonizing pain in my gut, and a persistent throbbing in my head that won’t leave me alone.
I snap my eyes open, then scrunch them closed under the harsh glare. Those luminescent tubes are blinding but at least my eyes still work.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Sorcha, would you stop fighting and settle? I’m an old woman. I don’t have the patience for this.” There’s no malice in her voice, but she’s definitely crabby.
When my eyes finally adjust to the light, I focus on the person speaking. She’s probably in her early sixties, she’s gotblue-rinsed hair, crow’s feet, and her lips are turned down in a sympathetic grimace.
“I’ll stop,” is what I attempt to say, but a low moan of pain comes out instead. A mist of sweat has prickled across my body, and if there was anything in my stomach, I’d probably hurl.
As if it’s listening to my thoughts, my stomach growls, too. My last meal was a fish supper from the chipper, Emerald Fry. When was that?
I can’t tell what time of day it is in this room.
The nurse with kind eyes checks the machines and puts a monitor back on my index finger before patting my forearm. There’s no pain where she touches. It’s a start.
“What’s the damage, nurse?” I can’t see her name tag.
“You have a nasty gash on your forehead that we sealed up with some staples. Your gunshot was a flesh wound. It’s superficial, a graze, you barely even got shot.” There’s humor in her voice. I definitely got shot. Surface wound or not, the burning and throbbing is fucking real.
“And you have some cuts and scrapes on the soles of your feet. Took us a while to get all of the shards of glass out.”
