Page 96 of Arranged Scars
“You really want Whelan muscle?”
“Fuck, yes, I do. Come on, Finn, don’t act like you can’t get it. We’ll do it off the books. I’ll pay for the whole operation if that’s what you need. But you have the guns and the men to pull the triggers. That’s all I need.”
I pretend to consider it. He smokes furiously, puffing away like a chimney. Poor, pathetic, weak fucking Malachy.
This is the problem with bullies. When they’re on top, they feel invincible. Nothing can touch them.
But once they realize how small they really are?
They fall apart like paper soaked in water.
I get to my feet. “No.”
He flinches away. “What? What do you mean no?”
“We’re not doing that.”
“What the fuck, Finn?! You said you’d help me.”
“You’re right, which is why we’re doing it my way. I don’t rush into operations without a plan. I’ll gather intelligence, handpick some fighters?—”
“Fuck that!” Mal stabs the cigarette at me. “By the time you get off your ass, I’ll be dead. We do it now.”
I stare at him, all good humor fading away. I take a step in his direction and he cringes back.
“Understand something, Mal. I’m not the kid I used to be. You don’t order me around. You don’t command me to do shit. You are nothing compared to me. You never were. That’s why you hated me so much back then, isn’t it? You were jealous because I was a Whelan and you were a Flanagan. You were never going to be on my level.”
His eyelid twitches. “We were kids.”
“You were a rotten, vindictive prick. I have half a mind to let Dermot murder you here and now.” I let him stew in that before I give him my best smile. “But you’re useful so I’ll keep you alive. Just remember, I fucking own you, Malachy. I always have.”
He gapes at me, face drained of color, and he doesn’t say a word. Even if his pride is broken, he’s too pathetic to stand up for himself and risk losing my help.
That’s how I know he’s still the rat he’s always been.
I leave him in the basement.
I’m feeling pretty good. Malachy’s losing his mind. He’s suffering like Shane and Redmond never did. Dermot’s probably the same. It wasn’t just the physical abuse they put me through that really fucked me up, but all the mind games they played too. They were constantly acting like I was weak and soft, and if I just toughed it out and acted like a man, all the beatings, the scars, the broken bones, they’d somehow fade away into the background.
What do the kids call it these days?
Those fuckers were gaslighting me.
Now I’m doing something similar to them, or at least I’m letting them torture themselves. Whatever’s going on in Malachy’s head, it’s brutal and twisting him out of shape, and I hope it only gets worse before they tear each other apart.
I come home in a remarkably good mood only to stop short on the threshold.
Something smells… really fucking good.
I take a second to acclimate. My place is usually sterile. I didn’t buy this apartment because it felt like a home. I moved in here because it had good views, was reasonably defensible, and it was available at the time I needed a place.
The cooking smells are incredible. I can’t put my finger on what exactly it is—something tomatoey, like a sauce, and doughy too, like fresh bread. I drift toward it and the sound of soft music hits me in the face. I almost laugh at the idea of how calm… and simple… and domestic this is. I come home to cooking dinner.
And there she is, standing near the oven, a big frown on her face as she peers through the glass. I stare at her, heart racing suddenly. She’s stained with splotches of flour on the cuffs of her shirt and on the thigh of her jeans. Her hair’s up but starting to come undone. I’m dimly aware of pots and pans on the stove and a few of those enormous pizza things with the wide, flat ends stacked haphazardly beside jars, shredded cheese, and more flour.
“What’s going on?” I ask softly.
Caroline looks over at me wildly. “You’re home early! I thought I had more time!”
