Page 111 of Mine
Frankie pushes us toward the cars. ‘Move!’
Something else catches my eye, crawling out of the warehouse doorway. A body dragging itself across thegravel. Cruz. The slippery cunt. He’s soaked in blood but still alive, clawing his way toward a fallen pistol a few feet away.
I can’t leave him alive.
Not after what he’s done.
Not when he’ll come for us again.
My stomach drops as his fingers scramble for it in slow motion, close around the handle. I point my own pistol. A shot cracks through the air a split second before I can pull the trigger.
Ciaran stands in front of the warehouse.
Cruz’s body jerks, his head cracking off the concrete before he goes limp.
Blue lights flash at the end of the road. Police.
‘Shit,’ Owen mutters.
Frankie grabs my shoulder. ‘Get her in the car.’
I pull Aoife against me, guiding her toward the BMW. But when I look back—Ciaran isn’t moving. He stands in the middle of the car park. Gun still in his hand. Cruz’s body lies motionless at his feet.
Police cars roar into the yard seconds later. Uniformed police officers hop out of the car. ‘ARMED POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON!’
I take a step forward.
‘Ciaran—’
Frankie grabs me hard. ‘Dominic. We have to leave him. He knew what he was doing. He did it for you.’
Ciaran’s eyes meet mine. ‘Go,’ he mouths, lowering the gun, then placing it at his feet.
I shove Aoife into the back seat of the BMW and hop in behind her. Frankie takes the passenger seat. Cathal drives. Tristan, Owen, and Kai hop into the second vehicle and speed off.
I watch helplessly out the back window as Police swarm him moments later. Cuffs snap around his wrists as the warehouse burns behind him.
Aoife’s clammy hand slips into mine.
But all I can see is my brother standing in the flashing blue lights.
53
AOIFE
Aweek later, I’m back where this strange new life of mine truly began—sitting on the plush cushioned couch on the decking behind Dominic’s house—our house—I should say. The back doors have been replaced. The glass cleared from the floor, but every time I close my eyes I still see it—the mess, the violence. Every night since, I’ve bolted awake in a cold sweat.
The late evening sun casts long golden streaks across the pool, turning the water into a sheet of liquid glass. The air is warm and still, the quiet broken only by the soft clink of ice against crystal as Dominic pours more rose wine into my glass.
For a moment, if I close my eyes, it feels exactly like the start of summer. Like I didn’t watch several Colombians bleed out on the floor in front of me. Like I didn’t watch Ciaran get carted off in handcuffs. Like we didn’t start a bigger war than the one we were already fighting against Rory Kavanagh—killing the Colombians won’t go unpunished.
Santiago Cruz’s cousins are circling. Demanding their due—in blood.
Because this is Dominic’s world.
The world I thought I’d worked so hard to escape.
But I’m not going anywhere. Not because I can’t. Not because I’ve seen too much. But because I don’t want to.
