Page 88 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Then, before either one of us can react, I see a tire iron swing out of the shadows and crash against the back of Cillian’s head.

It makes a sickeningthunk.Cillian crumbles to the ground.

Fury burns through me as I whip around and grab the arm that holds the tire iron. I pull the son of a bitch out of the shadows and twist his arm before crashing it down against my knee.

The crack of bone snaps through the air, followed by an agonized scream.

I hear the second mugger curse in a panic, but I don’t allow him the opportunity to run. He’s holding a tire iron of his own, but there’s also a dagger in his other hand.

I headbutt him into a wall, snatch the dagger out of his hand, and stab him in the stomach in one smooth motion.

He lets out a pathetic little squeak as I bury it to the hilt. Blood oozes out, hot and thick.

I sneer at his wide, fearful eyes before he drops to the ground.

Then I turn to Cillian, who’s clutching the back of his head. His fingers come away sticky with blood.

He groans and rolls over to look at the limp, unconscious bodies of the two attackers.

“That’s a fancy knife,” he says with a pained whistle.

“Probably stolen,” I answer. “Come on, let’s go. Before we draw attention to ourselves.”

I help him to his feet. He’s breathing heavily, but he’ll be all right.

“Jesus,” Cillian mutters, as we walk out of the alleyway, trying to look calm and unflustered. “Fucker packed a punch.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. But your jacket nearly got me killed.”

I frown. “Huh?”

“Right before they attacked,” he explains in a wheeze. “They said, ‘the one in the red jacket.’ Leave it to me to pay attention to the details.” He stops, shrugs out of the jacket, and hands it back to me. “You can have it back. I don’t like red anyway.”

“Not interested in being the don anymore?” I ask, half-amused and half-concerned.

“I never was,” Cillian sighs. “Another reason my family kicked me out of Ireland.”

“I thought they kicked you out of Ireland because you killed a politician’s son?”

“Fucking hell, I just got whacked in the head with a fucking tire iron. Do we really need to dig into my personal history right now? I could have brain damage.”

I grin. “How would we ever be able to tell?”

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, but he’s chuckling.

I’m laughing, but I am worried about the damage that initial hit has done to his head. He seems fine, but you can never be too sure.

“I’m calling the doctor. We need to get that wound checked out,” I tell him. “No arguments.”

“Fine,” Cillian concedes. “You fuss like my grandma.”

“You’re welcome by the way,” I prod. “You know, for saving your life.”

Cillian sighs dramatically. “You’re not going to let me live this down, are you?”

I shrug. “Story of my life. I’m always saving your ass.”

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