Page 95 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

I smile softly, turning around in his arms, still a little dizzy from the intensity of it all. “Good,” I reply with a smirk, “because I’m not done with you yet.”

His grip on me tightens, a wicked gleam flashing in his eyes as he shifts, carrying me toward the bed.

“Careful what you wish for, love.”

And then he makes sure I come undone all over again.

Epilogue: Desmond

The stench of sweat, blood, and spilled beer hangs thick in the air, coating my throat like tar. The underground fight club beneath a rundown Dublin pub is packed, bodies pressing in, the heat of them turning the basement into a furnace. Dim bulbs flicker overhead, casting erratic shadows over the rusted cage at the center of the room—the ring where I find my solace, or maybe my damnation.

A chorus of roars erupts as the announcer bellows my name. I roll my shoulders, shaking out my arms, the ache of old bruises and fresh wounds a constant hum beneath my skin. My hands, wrapped in stained white tape, flex as I exhale slow and measured. Across from me, my opponent- a hulking bastard with a mountain of muscle and a nose crooked from too many breaks- cracks his knuckles and grins, a predator scenting blood.

Good. Let him think this is easy.

The bell clangs.

I move before the other man can, feinting left, then driving my fist into his ribs with a sickening crunch. The impact shudders up my arm, but I don’t stop- can’t stop. I live for this moment, when thought and pain blur, when my body takes over and I can forget everything outside this cage.

A fist slams into my jaw, snapping my head back. My vision blackens at the edges, the crowd’s screams distorting into a dull roar. The taste of copper floods my mouth. I spit blood onto the cracked floor and smile, the rush surging through me like fire in my veins.

I don’t fight to win. I fight to feel.

The crowd’s roars are deafening, but I don’t hear any of it as I catch my breath, standing tall over the fallen opponent at my feet. My mind is already moving past the fight, calculating the next steps, the next game, the next high that comes with this life I’ve built for myself in the shadows.

Another win under my belt. Another night in the depths of Dublin’s underground where men like me are either made or broken. I’ve been spending more and more time here lately, drowning my thoughts in the chaos of it all. It’s easy- easy to lose myself in the brutality, the pain. Easier than dealing with the weight of everything that’s changed.

I let my feet carry me out of the ring and into the locker room, my breath still ragged from the fight. I strip off my gear, my muscles sore from the wear and tear, but I ignore the discomfort. The pain reminds me I’m still alive, still in control. The life I’ve chosen is one of constant motion, constant action. There’s no room for stagnation.

The rain here always smells like steel and fire- blood in the gutters, adrenaline thick in the air, even hours after the last fight ends. My knuckles are still raw, one split wide along the ridge of the bone. I twist my wrist in the silence of the backseat, feeling that familiar pulse of pain. It’s not punishment. Not this time. Tonight, I won.

Again.

The driver doesn’t speak. He knows better. I stare out the window as the Crowe estate looms into view, its stone walls slick with rain, the gates yawning open like some ancient mouth ready to swallow me whole. The car rolls to a slow stop, and I step out without a word, slipping on my coat, ignoring the sting when the fabric brushes my knuckles.

There’s a message waiting for me at the door- a summons, written in Fintan’s script, sharp and sure even after all this time.

My father’s handwriting is like everything else about him: uncompromising.

He wants to see me. Now.

The rain pools around my boots as I move through the halls I’ve walked since I was a boy. Generations of Crowes watch me from the portraits along the walls, eyes that never blink, never forgive. I used to stand in front of them as a teenager, fist clenched, wondering what they'd think of me. If they ever had doubts too. If they ever wanted to run.

But I don’t run. Never needed to.

I find him in the old meeting room, where business deals were inked in blood and whisky, and secrets passed between war-hardened men like heirlooms. He’s seated at the head of the long table, the fire casting uneven light over his features. He’s weaker now, but he still sits like a general- spine straight, chin high, hands folded as if they never belonged to a man who killed with them.

“You’re limping,” he says without looking up, gaze fixed on the flames. “Did he hit you?”

I chuckle. “Clipped me once. Nothing worth mentioning.”

A small nod. Then silence stretches between us, thick and still.

“I’ve seen the numbers,” Fintan says finally. “You’ve doubled Crowe territory in six months. Our warehouses are secure. Our shipments move clean. And the O’Connors are a bad memory now, nothing more.”

I lean a shoulder against the doorframe and cross my arms, letting his words settle. “I did what needed doing.”

He pivots on his heel, finally facing me full-on. That calculating stillness settles over him again, the kind that once made lieutenants break into cold sweats. But this silence isn't oppressive anymore; it's our old dance, measured in shared blinks and controlled breaths.

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