Thy Kingdom Come (Deliver Us From Evil Trilogy Book One) Page 8

  “What happened to your face?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

  “That’s none of yer concern,” he replies, gesturing with his hand that he wants the brooch back.

  I give it to him, wishing he’d tell me what happened.

  His hard, angry exterior is replaced with what I can only describe as genuine relief and a flash of happiness. It’s gone a second later.

  “Why’d ya take it then?” he asks as if remembering I’m still here.

  “You’re welcome,” I smartly reply, ignoring his naked, defined chest and abs inches away.

  His hair is mussed, his long fringe flicked to the high heavens. I must have woken him even though I was quiet. He clearly sleeps with one eye open as nothing slips past him.

  “I’ll not tell ya again,” he warns, not in the mood to play games.

  “Why’d you think I took it?” I declare, hating how weak my admission makes me sound. “I’m the Duffys’ fucking servant, for Christ’s sake. Do the maths and spare me the fucking lecture.”

  He seems caught off guard by my response, as I can imagine most wouldn’t dare speak to a Kelly this way. But I’m not most.

  “How’d ya know where I live?”

  “It’s not exactly a secret,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “I know how to use Google.”

  Punky’s lips lift into an amused grin. “If that’s true, ya know all about the Kelly name then?”

  I swallow subtly, my bravado soon fading. I know all about the Kellys. Some pieces of information I wish I didn’t know. But I play coy.

  “Not really. I don’t care, to be honest with you. I came here because I wanted to do the right thing, and now that I have, I’m leaving and plan on never returning. Good day.”

  I turn in vain because we both know I’m not going anywhere.

  Punky seizes my wrist, drawing me into his chest. I put my arms up, a defensive move to protect my chest from being pressed to his. But sadly, all that it does is allow my hands to touch his warm, hardened flesh.

  A sigh escapes me in betrayal, and I curse it, and this illogical response I have to him. I need it to stop. But when his heartbeat thumps beneath my fingers, I know stopping is nigh on impossible.

  His scent is comparable to a warm summer’s day, but on the flipside, I can smell an approaching thunderstorm beneath the surface. He has one hand wrapped around my wrist, but with the other, he cautiously brushes a strand of hair from my cheek.

  The simple action has the ability to leave me breathless.

  We’re inches apart, and the world soon fades into the background so it’s merely us. It’s quiet here.

  I take a moment to examine him unguarded because I need to know why I’m so drawn to him. The silver hoop in his bottom lip emphasizes its fullness, and the one in his nose draws attention to how elegantly straight it is—or was before he was beaten to a bloody pulp. It’s slightly upturned, which just adds to the air of arrogance he owns with each breath he takes.

  His jawline is chiseled, a sprinkle of dark scruff hinting he hasn’t yet shaved. His body is muscular, but lean. Every muscle is defined, taut, and when my gaze drops to his rock-hard V-muscle and dusting of hair leading from his belly button into the sweats which sit low on his tapered waist, I need to remember to swallow.

  He is bloody beautiful.

  “Why aren’t ya afraid?” he queries, watching me with those astute eyes.

  “Afraid of w-what?” I question, my heart beating madly, threatening to break free as I peer up at him from under my lashes.

  He licks his bottom lip, his tongue brushing over the ball in the hoop. “Of me.”

  His question isn’t cocky. He seems genuinely curious as to why I’m not recoiling from his touch. If only he knew the truth.

  “Because there are nastier things in this world than you, Punky,” I reply, saying more than I should.

  He cocks his head to the side, appearing to weigh my confession. “I doubt that,” he counters heavily, still watching me as if trying to work me out.

  This is a dangerous game; one I have to lose.

  “Where were ya comin’ from the other night? I went back to find ya, but there wasn’t a gaff for miles.”

  And this is my cue to leave.

  “Good talk, but I’ve got to go. I gave back what’s yours, so let’s never do this again.” Sarcasm is my security blanket. It’s how I cope with awkward situations—like right now.

  I yank out of his hold, making a beeline for the front door, but Punky quickly sidesteps to block my exit. “What’s the rush, love?” he says with a lopsided grin. “I was just gettin’ to know ya.”

  “Yeah, well, I have no interest in knowing you. So please let me leave.” I attempt to push past him, but he doesn’t budge.

  “Ack, now yer just hurtin’ my feelings. Yer the one who broke into my gaff.”

  “I did no such thing,” I argue, offended. “You really should lock your door.”

  Punky appears taken aback by my revelation.

  “Your brother and sister told me you lived out here. So don’t worry, I’m not stalking you. I’m sure you have enough of those—stalkers, I mean.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask who Amber is, but I don’t. I’m already in too deep.

  Punky bursts into husky laughter, surprising me. “I don’t know about that. I don’t have time for such nonsense.”

  “But you surely have enough time to be a bloody arsehole!” I spit before I can stop myself.

  I expect Punky to be tired of my insolence by now and throw me out, but he does nothing of the sort.

  “Aye, that I am, but at least ya know. I don’t know what to be expectin’ with ye. Ya steal from me, with no explanation, and then ya come into my home, like everythin’ is going to be sound. What do ya want from me?”

  And this is the reason I shouldn’t have come.

  Punky is smart, and he will eventually figure out why I’m here. That’s a given. What remains unknown is what he will do when he does.

  “Nothing,” I reply, and I mean it.

  “I don’t believe ya,” he rebukes calmly. “I think yer here for a reason. I just haven’t figured out what that reason is.”

  The reddening of my cheeks betrays my horror because if he continues to dig, I wonder what he’ll find.

  “Well, good luck with that. Goodbye, Puck Kelly.” I push past him, and this time, he lets me leave. With my back turned, hand poised on the door handle, Punky makes it clear, however, that I can’t run forever.

  “But I will, Babydoll. I promise ya that.”

  His cautioning isn’t meant to scare, but rather, warn me of what’s ahead.

  Needing to get out of here before I crumple, I quickly open the door and walk briskly down the driveway with Punky’s warning sounding loudly in my ears.

  I am so fucked.

  The moon is full, setting an ominous mood for what’s ahead.

  I was right. My dad is now best friends with Patrick Duffy because he wants access to his real estate, or more accurately, he wants to use abandoned buildings around town as his personal dumping grounds. I know this because I’m standing in an aul’ building which will soon be torn down to make way for trendy waterfront apartments.

  But for now, it’ll serve as the place Nolen Ryan takes his last breath.

  With the River Lagan at my disposal, getting rid of Nolen’s body won’t be a problem. My dad said he’ll have reinforcements waiting for me, which means, once I’m done, they’ll take care of the body.

  Nolen made the wrong choice, and now, it’s time he paid his dues.

  He’ll be here any minute in the belief we’re picking up a shipment of 200 kilograms of cocaine. The van he drives has been modified to conceal the drugs. Large metal drawers hidden underneath a false floor is how we transport our goods.

  My dad has thought of everything, which is why he’s been able to get away with the shite that he does. Mr. Walsh and Mr. Davies are his business partners, but my dad is the kingpin. Mr. Wal
sh takes care of the money side of things, making smart business moves so the authorities are not alerted to the money laundering our families are involved in. While Mr. Davies takes care of the business side, as dealing drugs in a modern world isn’t what it used to be.

  A three-tier hierarchy is what the drug business involves these days.

  The lower tier consists of highly disadvantaged youths involved in bullying, stealing, vandalizing, and spreading fear on behalf of the Kellys. Cian and Rory oversee the dealings, ensuring no one steps out of line. They also run the “hotlines” and social media accounts where people can order drugs. A European drug agency calls this the “uberization” of the trade—how very appropriate and accurate.

  The second tier involves people who engage in high-risk, low-reward activities such as transporting, holding or dealing drugs, carrying guns and conducting shootings, and inflicting beatings and serious intimidation of behalf of the top tier of “serious players” aka my dad, Mr. Davies, and Mr. Walsh.

  The second tier is where I belong, but as I bear the Kelly name, I oversee who does what. Nolen works for me, which is why I have to deal with him accordingly.

  Cian, Rory, and I do all the legwork while our fathers deal with where the shipments come from and who buys them. We have a large network of drug dealers and drivers, all of whom are discreet and trusted, except for Nolen.

  The top tier is, of course, where my dad sits.

  The lower tier is most important to our business, which is why my dad and Mr. Davies choose with care. Most of the time, Mr. Davies recruits the lads who owe money for drugs they can’t pay for. He offers them an opportunity to pay off their debt by doing petty crimes such as smashing up someone’s car or intimidating a user who owes us money.

  But that soon leads them down the rabbit hole.

  My father prides himself on the fact he and his two friends have recruited boys and young men to carry out violence and intimidation to collect drug debts from users. He thinks they’re rather brilliant for governing an operation such as this.

  I understand no one is holding a gun to these lads’ heads, or even to the users who are desperate to shoot up and get high, but the exploitation of the weak makes me sick.

  I’m not putting myself on a pedestal, as I, too, engage in violence and intimidation on behalf of Connor Kelly, but I don’t target kids who made a stupid choice—I deal with the big fish. Like big-shot men who think they can steal from the Kellys and undercut us.

  Drugs will be dealt, that’s the reality of the world, but I’d rather it be us than some other cockhead whose moral compass is so banjaxed, they’d sell to anyone and everyone. Cian and Rory’s “hotline” catalogues every buyer, and if they’re going too hard, Cian won’t sell to them.

  They can get their product elsewhere.

  Our dads aren’t aware of this little clause in the contract, which is why Rory, the technology king, has many social media accounts set up so that we always have a stream of business coming through every avenue. If a disgruntled buyer decided to tell his mates that we refused service, then the odds are, they wouldn’t go through that vein again.

  But having multiple accounts means more people will tell their friends that channel A, B, C dealt them some grade A product, and word will spread. Most of the time, the knobs don’t even know they’re dealing with the same people.

  And the user we refuse to deal with—only looking out for their well-being—they can either wait, or they can seek out shite product elsewhere. We’ve come to learn that they wait, because not only is our product good, it’s also cost effective.

  In this case, this most definitely is two wrongs don’t make a right, but Rory swears this method has saved lives. For instance, a cub—just fifteen years old—was hooked on heroin. He wanted Rory to deal him more gear only a few hours after his last hit.

  Rory refused, knowing the cub would likely OD, and instead sold him some cannabis to tide him over until his next fix. He’s still alive, and as fucked as that is, Rory knows monitoring the distribution, especially to kids, is the lesser of two evils.

  Our lives are fucked up, but this is all we know.

  Cracking my neck from side to side, I need to focus on what I’m about to do. I don’t want to think about taking Nolen’s life. I plan on delivering justice swiftly.

  Most would let him off with a warning, but that doesn’t exist in our world. If you’re not with us, you’re against us, and that means the difference between life and death. Nolen could be a traitor, an inside man for the Doyles.

  We can’t take any risks.

  He knew the consequences working for the Kellys. No one is to blame for his choices but him alone.

  On instinct, I reach for the brooch in my pocket, thankful, but still confused why Babydoll gave it back. But to be honest, I’m confused—period—when it comes to her.

  She said my door was open, but I know I locked it which means someone was in my room. The thought leaves me ragin’ because I want to know who it was. I checked if anything was stolen, but nothing was. Amber promised she nor the kids were in my room. She looked pissed off when she asked me who Babydoll was.

  I told her she’s no one, but she didn’t seem convinced. When I asked her what Babydoll had said, she replied that she didn’t remember, which is a lie. Amber seems suspicious about Babydoll too, and I plan on finding out why.

  I changed the locks on the door, but if whoever wants to get in is determined, no lock will stop them.

  Without a doubt, Babydoll is hiding something. I know firsthand what it’s like to live a lie. Rory is currently doing every search possible on her, and I hope he finds something which will shed some light on who she is.

  I still don’t know why she stole from me as she answered a question with a question. She insinuated she took it because, as being a servant for the Duffys would imply, she isn’t as fortunate as I am. So if that’s the case, then why didn’t she sell it? Just by looking at it, she’d know it was worth a lot of money.

  Nothing about her makes any sense and I know she is trouble, but that just has me wanting her all the more.

  I have no problems touching her. I find myself reaching out for her without thought. That’s something that’s never happened before. She’s toxic, I can feel it in my bones, but the mystery of who she is and why I’m drawn to her outweigh good sense.

  I will get to the bottom of this, one way or another, and then the question is, what will I do?

  But all of that can wait when the door opens and Nolen Ryan’s silhouette is outlined by the moon.

  “Punky?” he questions, clearly shook I’m here and not my da.

  “What’s the craic, Nolen?”

  He pauses in the doorway, but enters as he knows he can willingly do so—or I’ll force him to. The gun in the small of my back will aid me if need be.

  The single light bulb hanging from the banjaxed ceiling provides some light, but I don’t need it to know that Nolen is scared. He knows what I can do. He’s seen it. But he never thought I’d do those unspeakable things to him.

  “Everythin’ all right then?” he nervously asks, taking a juke at our mingin’ surroundings.

  Curling my lip, I shrug casually. “I don’t know. Is it?”

  The room is filled with an uncomfortable tension, and as much as I don’t want to hurt Nolen, he can’t leave here alive.

  With a sigh, I reach into my backpack and produce the damning piece of evidence—his Catholic Bible.

  The moment he sees what I’m holding, he drops to his knees and interlaces his hands. “Please, naw. It’s not what ya think.”

  “No?” I counter, flicking through the pages in disgust. “So, this isn’t yer Bible?”

  When he lowers his chin, whimpering, I lose patience and slam the book against his cheek. His head snaps to the left.

  “I’ll not tell ya again.”

  “Please, let me go. Y’ll never see me again,” he begs, lifting his chin and the full moon catches the tears in his
eyes.

  “Aye, that’s where yer right. I won’t see ya ’cause y’ll be dead.”

  “Oh, shite,” he cries, shaking his head frantically. “Punky, I’ve a family.”

  If this is supposed to move me, Nolen needs to try another tactic because all he’s doing is boring me with his excuses.

  “So did I,” I reveal, the Bible clenched in my hand. “Until your kind decided to kill her. I can’t let ya live, Nolen. Ya know that. Yer a traitor. Yer a fucking Catholic. How do I know yer not involved with the Doyles?”

  “I would never!” he gasps, pleading I believe him.

  “How can I believe ya? Ya see the position y’ve put me in? I let ya go, how do I know yer not gonna run to Brody Doyle and tell him Connor Kelly’s eldest son is a pussy.”

  “I’m not messed up with Brody Doyle!” he exclaims, the white of his eyes almost glowing under the light. “I swear down. I fucked up, so I did. I’m sorry. But my wife, she’s Catholic. What was I supposed to do? I’ve not told anyone because I knew what would happen.

  “Please don’t kill me. I know yer friends with Orla. Think of her.”

  “You should have thought of her,” I spit, not appreciating him guilt tripping me. “What did ye think was gonna happen?”

  “This hatred, Puck, this isn’t you. It’s because of yer da that ye think like this. Yer a good lad. Ya can’t hate someone because of their religion. This isn’t the Middle Ages anymore.”

  Tipping my face to the ceiling, I inhale, needing a minute. “In the name of their God, they slaughtered my ma. So I can hate whoever I want. Do I hate Catholics? Aye, and the reason is, all Doyles are Catholics. To me, the Doyle name is what I have most issues with. Their religion is secondary.”

  It’s been forced onto me that I was to hate Catholics. They were the enemy. And after my hostile experiences with every Catholic I’ve met, how could I not? But Nolen is right.

  A small part of me agrees with him. To hate someone because of their beliefs is ridiculous. Would I go out and harm an innocent person because of what God they kneel before? No. But that doesn’t mean I want to be their chum either. Or have anything to do with them. As long as they stay away from me, we’re sound.