Page 18 of Soulless Saint

I gave him a hard look. “What the fuck do you think it’s about?”

The Sons of O’Sullivan. It had to be. When Dad wanted to meet about smaller matters, we’d meet at his place so Ma could cook us all a big dinner and then force us to clean the kitchen after. When it was important—when he wanted his main crew there for the meet—we met here.

Bells atop the door rattled as we entered and I tipped my head to Pope behind the counter on the right.

“Hey, Pope,” Kaleb called. “You get that last order sorted?”

“Stripped clean and put away wet,” Pope called back, indicating the two vehicles we’d brought him the week before, stolen from a flatbed while in transit headed someplace east, had been stripped of all useful parts with the rest sent away to be destroyed beyond any recognition.

“That’s my man. How’s my baby?”

“Almost ready. Hooking up the NOS this week.”

“As long as she’s ready by next weekend for the race.”

“Would I leave you without a ride?”

Kaleb kissed his two fingers and threw them in Pope’s direction. I shook my head, feeling the spark of heated frustration attempt to ignite in my blood and fail. My muscles heavy and bones leaden from a night spent chasing my brother all over this godforsaken city without so much as a lick of sleep.

“Kaleb. Hardin,” our father said as we entered the back room through the weathered oak door to find him standing over a table and open laptop. “Glad you’ve both decided to grace us with your presence.”

His slate gray eyes jerked between us, made to look even lighter with the way his black hair fell over them, unkempt and still damp from a recent shower.

I cleared my throat, giving him an inclined head in apology, my gaze unconsciously shifting to Kaleb, laying the blame where it was due. Damien St. Vincent’s eyes snaked to his other son and narrowed before trailing back to me. I shook my head, warning him not to question Kaleb’s state. His lips tightened.

Archer and Zade cleared the area nearest the head of the table for Kaleb and me to take our seats to the right and left of our father.

Dad took a sharp inhale and I could see the moment he reset from father back to gang leader. “As I was saying before your asses showed up twenty minutes late,” he began, spinning the laptop around with two fingers so the screen was visible to the group of Dad’s most trusted Saints at the table. “We still haven’t made contact with our Irish neighbors. They’ve evaded us at every turn.”

I squinted to see the images on the screen, finding grainy footage of a group of men in leather jackets. The first our father has been able to capture as proof that they are in our territory. “Anyone recognize the location?”

My jaw flared as I took in the familiar area, a residential street. Dad took us there a bunch as kids to have dinner with the police chief and his wife and their son, Danny.

“Chief Andrews died of a heart attack last night.”

Fury rolled up my back, locking every muscle. My nostrils flared as I let out a hot breath, clenching my jaw and my fist atop the table.

“A heart attack?” Kaleb pressed, asking the question all of us wanted to know the answer to.

There was no way the Sons of O’Sullivan were within a block of Chief Andrews’ house—at 8:53 pm by the timestamp on the footage—for him to die of natural causes a few hours later.

No. Fucking. Way.

“That’s what the coroner said.”

The coroner? Why hadn’t Dad just asked Maggie, his wife.

My dad caught my stare, and the flash of pain he hid from the others only intensified my need for blood. Chief Andrews wasn’t just some cop we paid off to run our business. He was fucking family. He and Maggie both. For fuck’s sake, his son, Danny, went to Kilborn with us. He was in one of Kaleb’s classes.

We’d find out the truth of what happened. One way or another.

“This is an act of war,” Zade said, his gravelly voice rumbling through the small room.

Damien was nodding, but his brows were drawn as he leaned into the table, palms flat against the wood. “It might be.”

“Dad,” Kaleb said, indignant as he leaned back in his chair, more torn up about Chief Andrews than he was letting on. Dad wasn’t much for throwing a ball around when we were kids. But whenever we had dinner at the Andrews’ place, the Chief would always take time to toss a ball with Kaleb and Danny in the backyard while Ma and Mrs. Andrews gabbed over wine. Dad and I would watch it all from the deck.

Like I said, the man was fucking family.

---