Brutal Heir

Chapter One

Killian

The Russians are growing bolder by the second. That attempt on Cara’s life at Columbia University toes the line between desperation and arrogance. I can’t settle on which it is. The Russians are desperate to prevent the union between Cara and me, to put a stop to the binding of the Irish and Italian families, but all the current information we have doesn’t quite add up to an explanation I’m comfortable with.

Is it really all about stopping a merger that would create a family too powerful? Perhaps it is. After all, a move like locking down an entire building at Columbia University just for an ambush screams power move as much as it was for killer intent.

It’s a puzzle I want to crack and yet, as Tony–my driver and the only bodyguard I can usually stand to be around save for Niccolo–drives me away from my apartment and through the streets of New York, I can’t focus. I can still taste Cara on my lips, still catch her scent every time I breathe in, and it’s infuriating. Dante may have ordered me to watch over her, but the thought of being alone with her in that apartment for one more second is too much to bear. 

I wouldn’t have been able to control myself. 

She’s burrowed deep under my skin, and I can’t work out how she got there. Seeing her in the corridor of the school, trembling and pale with blood on her shirt and a gun in her hands, brought on a smothering urge to protect her, a feeling so intense I didn’t even know I was capable of such a thing. So much of my life I’ve let drift past me with the drinking and partying, that it’s entirely possible I had those feelings buried deep. Still, Cara’s managed to rip them out of me against my will.

She’s supposed to be the enemy, yet in the back of my mind, I know she’s more.

“Sir?”

Tony pulls me from my thoughts and I blink rapidly, realizing I’ve been staring blankly out the window at the passing city in silence since we left. I glance up and see Tony offering a phone to me. I take it, expecting Dante’s voice to fill my ear.

“Hello?”

“Sir,” Niccolo’s voice spills over the line, and a twist of relief curls in my gut. He is my head of security and the only man who has been able to put up with me over the years. Not many close bodyguards survived my spiral into heavy drinking and partying. He had been injured in the shoot-out at Columbia, and in my distraction with Cara in the apartment, it had completely slipped my mind to check on his state.

“Niccolo, how are you? Am I going to have to look for a replacement?” I joke, settling back into the plush leather seats as the car pulls up to a red light. “How serious is it?”

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” Niccolo replies easily, “a through and through. Week or two in a sling, and I’ll be fine.”

“I’m glad.” Those two words carry more weight than I’m ever willing to say out loud, but I know Niccolo understands. It’s not relief at his condition; it’s relief that he was with me when the attack happened and a thank you that he did his job despite getting shot in the process. 

“Should I meet you at your apartment?”

“No,” I sigh softly and press two fingers to the bridge of my nose. The dryness in my throat and the throbbing at the back of my skull taunts me. I need a drink. “I’m on my way to talk to Callahan. He’s probably heard about Columbia by now, and I want to ask him a couple of questions. Dante’s leading the retaliation, but you should rest. I need you back in good health as soon as possible.” 

I don’t expect Niccolo to plow headfirst into the fight, but I’ll never deny him the chance. He can take the information and decide for himself. Niccolo voices his thanks, and the call ends. I toss the phone next to me in the backseat and feel the car pull forward once more, returning my attention to the passing city.

Like clockwork, Cara returns to my thoughts. She’s probably wrecking my room as revenge for keeping her locked up in my penthouse, but the thought has a smile tugging at my lips. I like having her there. It’s my home, so I know it’s safe and well protected, and the thought of keeping her there, having her waiting for me to come home each night. It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is but within that thought lies the curse of keeping her there. If I can’t keep my thoughts away from her, how can I keep my hands off her body? Hopefully, some imprisonment will help dampen her attitude towards me. 

We’re a few minutes from the hospital when Tony’s phone buzzes to life once more on the seat next to me. I glance at it. It rings twice, then falls silent. Grasping the device, I check the screen and frown.

“Who is Safety Dance?” I ask, amused.

“Oh!” Tony exclaims with a snort, “that’s Larry. He’s back at your place.” Tony goes on to explain how Larry ended up with such a nickname, but I don’t hear a word of it. My heart starts to stutter and pound in my chest. If Larry is there, why is he calling Tony when he knows Tony is with me? Why is he calling twice and hanging up? A wave of cold crashes over my shoulders so suddenly that for a split second, it feels like I can’t breathe.

“Turn the car around.” I snap. “We have to go back!”

“What?” Tony stumbles over the end of his story, alarmed.

“Turn the fucking car around!” I yell, “Get back to the apartment! Now!”

The car lurches as Tony pulls the handbrake and spins the steering wheel. I have to clutch at the door handle to stop myself from being flung to the side, but that barely concerns me; my focus is on Cara and the men at my apartment. We left less than ten minutes ago, if that, and I can’t think what could have happened in the meantime. I want to yell at Tony to drive faster as he screeches back down the streets we’ve just traveled, but I can tell he’s already got the message with how recklessly he’s speeding back home.

Something’s happened. 

I know it. I don’t know what, but the sound of those two ominous rings twists deep into my mind, berating me for leaving Cara alone. My heart increases its rampant thumping beneath my ribs, each beat taunting me over and over that something isn’t right. Has she slipped past them? Made a run for it? I wouldn’t put it past her to try the fire escape. I hope she’s just being difficult, and they need help containing her, but that thought fades the moment I have it.

Either way, my twisted thoughts fuel the worry that itches beneath my skin, a worry that turns to anger the moment we pull up to my apartment building and I stride inside to see the concierge’s desk empty. I sprint to the elevator and punch the button to my floor so hard that the button sticks slightly as the doors open. 

Tony keeps his distance as we ride up to my floor, wary of the anger spilling off me in heated waves.

It’s justified…My men are dead, and Cara is gone.

Their corpses litter the hallway, and yet there isn’t an ounce of sympathy for the loss inside me. I’m fidgety, and angry at them. Angry that they couldn’t do their jobs and keep Cara safe. Angry that they’re all dead, and I can’t kill them myself for being so weak. Inside my apartment isn’t much better, two dead Italians and a dead Irish. I glimpse a flash of pain on Tony’s face as he regards one of the men in the hall, and I realize that must be Larry. His call was a warning, an attempt to reach out despite an impossible situation. He’s the only one I’m not furious at.

The lounge is a wreck; the black wooden coffee table is splintered and destroyed, there’s blood pooling across the floor, and the crimson stains make it look like the scarlet furniture is melting into the floor. There’s a broken statue near the large windows, and a couple of the fine art pieces that dot my walls are crooked and broken. It hints at a fight… but between who? I scan the room as I try to control the anger surging like hot iron in my veins. This is my penthouse. This is my home, and they came in here and destroyed it. They came here and took what belonged to me. Cara. She was supposed to be safe here.

Guilt churns under the anger. I left her alone. I left her alone with her men because she always insisted they were more trustworthy than my own. The bodies in the hallway and the two missing Irish bodyguards suggest otherwise. I know she’s not there, but I cross to my room anyway. There doesn’t seem to be any damage in here. She must have left the room, likely demanding to leave since she doesn’t like being cooped up. She would have thought she was safe here with her own men. Time and time again, that has failed her.

“Sir?” Tony’s hand brushes lightly against my elbow, and I turn to face him. As I do, my eyes catch a mess of glass and colorful chips scattered across the floor near the kitchen island counter. I can’t tear my gaze away. Each chip symbolizes a month ticked passed in sobriety. Sobriety that crashed the moment I met Cara, and now even the representation lies in tatters on my kitchen floor. It brings a swell of pain at the base of my skull, a pain that I know can be soothed with a drink, but there’s nothing here. I finished the bottle a few nights ago. My instinct is to call Niccolo and demand he bring me more before I remember he’s unavailable.

“The two by the door were shot in the back of the head,” Tony says once he realizes my silence is waiting to be filled with an explanation. His voice is pained at the loss of men he called friends, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not now. Not when my home is destroyed, and Cara is fuck knows where with men who definitely aren’t protecting her.

“So the attackers came from inside the apartment,” I spit, the anger bubbling up my throat. Tony doesn’t take it personally. When I finally tear my gaze away from the scattered chips, I can see he’s hurting. Angry too. Good, I’ll need that. “The missing Irish.”

“It looks that way,” Tony confirms. “They shot the two at the door, then it looks like one of our own tackled them. He took two in the chest for his efforts. They took down the rest quickly. It looks like no one expected an attack from the rear. Larry, he—” Tony cuts off, clearing his throat of the emotion I can hear threatening to take over. I move over to the dead Irish guard on my floor.

“Why kill one of their own?” I mutter, nudging his limp arm with the toe of my shoe. Killing one of their own suggests that not everyone was in on this little plan. His face is shadowed with a fresh bruise, so he must have fought back. 

“Maybe he didn’t agree with what they were doing?” Tony suggests but falls silent when I glare at him, realizing my question is rhetorical. I glance at the bodies of the two Italians, trying to piece together the puzzle of what happened here. The more information I can get, the better. Both my guards have scorch marks burned into their shirts, tasered into submission before being shot in the head. Seeing it makes distaste swirl in my stomach. It’s a cowardly move to subdue like that before taking the kill. I growl in disgust and turn my back on the bodies, striding out into the hall as Tony hurries to catch up with me.

“What do you want to do, Boss?”

“Call Niccolo, find out where he is, and tell him I need him. If he can’t be here, tell him to watch his back,” I growl. We reach the elevator, and I turn to stare out at the carnage leading up to my front door. My gaze is unwavering until the elevator doors close on the scene, and my thoughts immediately turn to Cara. If she had just trusted me, then none of this would have happened because it would have been my guards protecting her. A weight settles around my heart, squeezing against every rapid, anger fuelled beat. They took her. They took what was mine, and I’m going to kill every single one of them I can get my hands on until they give her back.

“Get me a line to Dante,” I state as the doors open to the parking lot, “and take me to the hospital. If anyone knows why the Irish did this, it’ll be her bastard father.” Tony nods, sprinting towards the car as I stride after him, no longer trying to contain my fury. It coils in my chest, ready to catch alight the moment I open my mouth. If Callahan has anything to do with this, I’ll kill him. 

Alliances be damned.