Page 129 of Bloodstained Wings

War is finally on our doorstep, and I welcome it with open arms.

I know how to navigate this terrain; it’s as familiar to me as the back of my hand, and it’s not the first time I’ve had to fight for my family.

But it is the first time I’ve had something precious on the line.

Each person I kill, each name I cross off the list, is one less threat, and I tell myself that I’m making the world a safer and better place for Isabella.

During my first night without her, I sleep on the couch at Anita’s, and my monster lies awake while I toss and turn, the smell of blood still lingering in my nostrils. I ache for Isabella’s touch, for the sound of her voice in my ear, and her even breathing reverberating inside my head.

She’s the only one who can calm my demons—the only one I’ll let close enough to try.

But I can’t have her anywhere near this, not when I know the bodies are just going to pile up. In the morning, when the early morning sun pours in through the open curtain, I’m already awake. I am pouring myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen when Paul bursts in, his hair in tufts on top of his head and a wild look in his eyes.

I eye him over the rim. “This better be important.”

“I looked into that thing you told me about.” Paul drifts closer and runs a hand through his hair. “It took me a while to be able to find out the truth because Rich isn’t his birth name. Our guy on the inside was more than willing to help after Rich had his girlfriend killed.”

I take a long sip of my freshly brewed coffee, and it’s suddenly cold and flavorless. “Having someone from within the Philips ranks is useful. Did he say anything else?”

Paul pulls a folder from behind his back and tosses it onto the counter. “They’re keeping a close eye on him, so he’s gone radio silent for now.”

I frown. “Fuck. We need to keep him happy. Find a way to get him what he needs, and what the fuck do you mean Rich isn’t his birth name?”

“It’s his middle name,” Paul explains, with a vague hand gesture to indicate the folder. “That’s why it took a while to find out. This folder has some of the plans Rich has in mind when he takes over.”

“And his sister?” I set the mug down on the counter, some of the liquid sloshing over. Pulling the folder closer, I flip it open, and the ringing in my ears grows louder. “Have you found anything about her?”

“There’s no sister,” Paul replies, with a shake of his head. “I pulled in a few favors, and I had them check. There’s no record of Nathan Rich Donahue having a sister.”

I clench my hands into fists. “Not even a half-sister?”

“Only Jacob,” Paul confirms, pausing to run a hand over his face. “There’s something else too. The guy’s mom isn’t sick. She never was. She works for some mobster in Vegas.”

“Fuck.” I swing my fist, and it connects with the nearest wall. A sharp pain shoots up my arm, but I ignore it and punch the wall again, needing to let my frustration out on something. “That lying motherfucking piece of shit. Is there anything he said that’s true?”

How in the hell did I not look into any of this? How had I let myself be blinded by my need for an ally?

I’m usually a lot better at digging into people’s pasts and dragging out skeletons they left buried in the most obscure of places.

Rich fucking Donahue shouldn’t have been an exception. I’m going to rip his head off with my bare hands when I get a hold of him.

“He and Jacob didn’t get along. That much is true. There was some kind of bitter rivalry, and their father encouraged it, thinking it would make the boys tougher.”

“Put out some feelers.” I stop punching the wall and spin around to face Paul, letting my bloody hand fall limply to my side. “Offer a reward for anyone who knows anything about the whereabouts of Rich Donahue. God only knows what that son of a bitch is planning.”

Or how long he’s been waiting in the wings to swoop in. Jacob’s death gave him the excuse he needed to step out of the shadows and into the limelight. And like an idiot, I’ve been paving the way and clearing all obstacles for him.

Goddamn Donahues.

I give Paul a pointed look, and he scurries out of the kitchen. Through the window, I watch him stagger and stumble down the driveway before getting into the car. Once he’s gone, I call Tristan and tap my feet impatiently. I’m debating whether or not to drive over to the safehouse myself when Tristan picks up, sounding disoriented and confused.

“It can’t be over already.”

“You need to keep a close eye out. Fucking Rich lied about everything. This means he’s going to gun for Isabella.”

Tristan’s exhale is sharp. “How much bullshit are we talking about?”

“I don’t have proof yet, but I’m guessing he was behind the kidnapping at the hospital and everything else. I’m going to fucking bury him myself.”

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