Page 181 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

I cling to him, our bodies a raging inferno against the cold, wet air. Resting my forehead against his, I look deep into eyes of aquamarine.

“Disobedient, evil woman.”

His lips find mine once more. A kiss so searing it scorches my very soul. I love every side of Eoin O’Connell. I don’t want a future where he’s not in it.

CHAPTERSIXTY

JAINE

Play Gentlemen’s Club, Manhattan, New York

I listento the familiar sound of dripping water.

Memories come flooding back of me and Fergal going toe to toe. My hand instinctively reaches up to touch the scar on my cheek. A souvenir from Irish’s wedding day.

My very own hand-picked wedding favor courtesy of the blushing bride.

I stare at her as she sits on a plastic chair similar to the one I was made to sit on. She stares back. No words are spoken.

Sophia Ruocco is no longer immaculate or pristine. Her red blouse is stained, and her black trousers have ripped on both knees. She looks her age with no make-up and unkempt hair.

Nineteen. Old enough to die.

Her brother sentenced Abel to just that at the same age when he was made to let Luciano ride bitch to the Undertaker’s clubhouse, all so he could shoot down my husband in cold blood.

Yes, Sophia Ruocco is old enough to die here today.

A woman who gave me the thumbs down three times. To die of thirst in an empty church. To burn to death in that very same building. To suffocate under six feet of earth in an unmarked grave.

I may have used up most of my nine lives, but I must have at least one left as I’m right here living it.

Since the last attempt on my life, her brother has been taken into custody, and she’s been left to rot alone. First, at the containers. Now here. A disused area of the subway that doubles as a concrete tomb. A place where no one can hear you scream or beg for mercy. The only sound is the constant dripping that would slowly drive you insane.

The only smell is death.

For now.

I’m sure it will be added to soon enough by the metallic stench of blood and the stink of human waste. Maybe she’ll welcome death as a preference to going stir-crazy.

Not that she’ll get to choose.

My eyes drift to Irish. I watch as he polishes each potential murder weapon before placing them lovingly on the wheeled trolley.

Which one will he use to end his wife’s life, I wonder? Or will he do the same as his brother did? Will he allow me to choose a fitting sentence?

His brother’s domain is the docks. This is his domain. His house of horrors. His playroom of pain.

Like everyone else, he has two sides, Jaine. The happy-go-lucky persona that everyone knows and loves, and then there’s the psychopath.

Is it wrong that I’m excited to witness his alter-ego in all his maniacal glory?

I watch as he steps into coveralls. And then he turns to face me. He looks exactly the same, but his eyes… they’re gleaming. He looks unhinged. He smiles, but it doesn’t connect with them because his mind is elsewhere. It’s already bathing in the sea of Sophia’s blood.

I watch as his gaze drifts slowly over me. Like he’s playing spot the difference with how I looked last time. It stops on my neck. The bruising. The tell-tale sign that I’ve been claimed by his brother.

“You’re fucking him.”

That’s when I know that Irish isn’t in the room because, while he may have thought that before, he would never have said it aloud.

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