Page 60 of Manic

“Manic, behind you,” Aiden barked through my earpiece.

I grunted and swung around with my knife, sinking my blade into the temple of a copper haired man with tattoos crawling up his neck. His eyes widened before the light beneath them dulled.

With a menacing grin, I pulled my knife out with a sickening squelch as he thudded to the ground. I resumed my position, thoroughly unsurprised by the silence that followed.

It took all of five minutes to wipe this container of Irish filth.

Training had been instilled in the mafia heirs since we could effectively hold a gun. Then, as soon as we turned seven, we were shipped off and forced to survive Russia’s harsh weather without so much as an ounce of aid. One of the many tests involved survival, in which we were all separated into groups as a team. No one, not even our leaders, were allowed to intervene unless someone had died.

I cracked my neck again and forced the memory aside—forced myself not to dwell on the past even though the ache of it all threatened to drown me. Father blamed me for what happened back then, but the truth was, I blamed myself, too.

“At least save some for the rest of us,” Grave remarked, still firmly holding his pistol. Then he scoffed and shook his head. “You’re too reckless.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Says the one who jumped off a moving train in Moscow.”

“I landed it,” Grave said. “And I chased the fucker down with a broken ankle.”

I glanced around and steadily breathed through my nose. “Well, if it’s going to be this easy every time, maybe the Irish won’t be such a problem, after all.”

Grave scanned me before focusing on the blood misting my face. My clothes. “You good?”

I curled my lip and ignored his concern by walking off.

Blood soaked the metal floor, sticky beneath my boots. I nodded to our men, jerking my chin toward the dead Irish, and they swept through the stacked crates to search their pockets.

Cries and whimpers bounced off the walls. Dozens of captured women huddled near the back, and a blazing heat shot through my chest. Sick fucks.

As we followed the noise and wove through the crates, barred metal cages came into view, each one packed to the edges with women. They were all dirty, as if they hadn’t bathed in days. Some wore tattered clothing while others wore nothing but their own skin. Buckets sat in the corner.

“Shit,” I mumbled, pulling out my worn pack of smokes.

My hands shook with residual adrenaline as I placed one between my lips and looked at our dead Crowe member.

After tonight, we’d have to reach out to his family and inform them of his death. While the Mortaines had their own family customs of traditional burial in a church, most of the Crowe’s families skipped a funeral entirely, choosing to burn them instead. Secrets and corruption turned to ash by our personal coroner.

“Got the keys,” Jaxon called out.

He tossed them to me, and I made my way down to free each woman.

“Have the vans ready,” I told Aiden after opening the fifth cage. I slid the key into another lock, and the door creaked open with a low groan. “And bring some extra blankets and food. We need more vans.”

“On it.”

“Christ, lady!” Grave grunted. “We’re just here to help.”

I chuckled quietly as a woman's fist pounded into his chest before he held her at arms length. His features hardened as he rubbed the area, and I knew he was holding back a deliberate insult.

“You’re a Crowe,” the woman hissed. “Which one are you?”

“The fun one,” he answered flatly.

We quickly got to work, and two hours flew by.

After each woman entered the waiting vans and we loaded the weapons crates, I stood just past the container's entrance and rubbed my chest. One of the men left my car for me, and Grave entered a van with the others. After a moment, darkness swallowed their descending taillights.

With my face tilted toward the sky, I inhaled over and over until my lungs burned. My hands still shook, my chest still tight. Annoyance dug into me as that pressure beneath my ribs returned with a vengeance.

Nothing had worked. Nothing had fucking worked. Not the torturing. Not the killing. Or the cigarettes or the alcohol or the fucking distance away from her.