Page 71 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

“If he ever hurt you. I’d nail his guts to the wall and make him walk,” Liam states flatly.

I swallow, shaking my head. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“He wants to take the business, and feckin Freddie isn’t picking up his phone, so he could have killed him too,” Liam says, twisting his tongue into the corner of his lower lip.

“There’s something I heard tonight at the club that I need to tell you.”

“What?” he asks peering around the curtain looking for hitmen.

“One of Admir’s lads was in there earlier. He knows you killed your da, and he’s told your uncle. Your uncle sent someone to London, and Connor confirmed you pulled the trigger. You killed Lucky.”

Liam lowers his head before standing up straight. He pulls the lapels of his suit and re-buttons his jacket. He pulls out his phone and types a message.

“I knew this day would come. I just thought it would be much later.” He says.

Just as he says those words, a bullet steams through my window, hitting Liam in the shoulder.

Liam drags me to the floor and pushes my sofa back. He stands returning fire.

The blood is oozing through his suit.

“You’re bleeding,” I say.

“It’s just a surface wound, a scratch,” he says, holding his shoulder while three more shots plough into my living room.

“It doesn’t look like a scratch,” I say.

He picks up his phone and dials. “I need the lads at Ciara’s place. Admir has a sniper trained on us.”

“Just apply pressure on it,” he says, pressing my hand to the wound on his shoulder. His blood seeps into the tops of my acrylic nails.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“I took my first bullet when I was three years old. I have taken sixteen since. You get used to the pain.”

“What are we going to do?” I ask, my wrist hurting from applying pressure to his wound.

“I messaged Freddie. I told him we’re going away for a night. And tomorrow is the family casino night where I’ve arranged for every hit man in Dublin to compete to take him out.”

Outside, I hear several cars screech to a stop.

“Stay away from the window, madam.” I hear someone call.

“Fuck, it’s the garda. Someone must have called them.” Liam says.

Boots race up the stairs. I hear Ferg’s voice. “On my count. One. Two. Three.”

My door swings off its hinges. The guard with the battering ram stands back, allowing Ferg to enter.

Of course, they’d come to save me.

Ferg wears an annoyed expression. His shirt rolled up to his elbows.

“Have you ever heard of feckin’ knocking?” Liam asks.

“Why is someone shooting at you, Mr O’Shaughnessy?” Ferg replies, ignoring his question.

“You’re the detective, Mr Oman, you tell me.”

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