Page 1 of Bloody Knuckles

CHAPTER1

CORMAC

BLOOD & MEMORY

The bell clangs, cutting through the underground space. Sweat and copper fill my nostrils as the crowd erupts around the makeshift ring. My fists connect with jawbone—a satisfying crack that vibrates up my arm.

Across from me, the rookie staggers. Fresh meat with more ink than brains. His eyes widen as I advance, circling like a predator. Four years fighting in Dublin's pits taught me patience. The art of pain.

"A Donovan doesn't lose."

My father's voice cuts through my skull. The memory flashes: twelve years old, my cheek pressed against concrete, garage floor cold beneath my body. His boot against my spine. "Pathetic," he'd said, grinding down until breathing became a luxury. All because I'd flinched during training.

The rookie spits a glob of crimson onto the mat. "Fuck you, Donovan."

He charges. Amateur. I pivot, driving my elbow into his temple. The impact sends him reeling. Another strike to his kidney drops him to his knees.

The warehouse trembles with shouts and stomping feet. Men wave cash in the air, hungry for the finish. My crew presses against the ropes—Declan's voice rises above the din. "Make an example of him, Mac!"

I circle the fallen fighter. Teaching requires demonstration. My foot connects with his ribs—once, twice. The crack is audible even over the roaring crowd. Pain radiates through my split knuckles, but pain is an old friend. We understand each other.

The rookie curls inward, a wounded animal begging for mercy. I grant none. The crowd needs to see what happens when you face a Donovan.

After the match, Declan tosses a rag my way. His gaze locks on my hands. "Christ, those need stitching."

I wipe my face, tasting salt and iron. "Where's Finn?"

"Outside. News about the Gallaghers."

My muscles tighten at the name. A reflex born from years of hate. "Tell me."

"Their crew hit our dock yesterday. Torched three crates of product. Liam Gallagher paid us a personal visit, apparently did it himself."

Liam. That smirking prick with his pressed suits and university accent. Acting civilized while playing in the dirt. "How much did we lose?"

"Quarter million, at least."

The rage builds, familiar and welcome. Better than the numbness. I have an idea, that no one will like. "Find his sister. Aoife. Drag her to the estate."

Declan steps back. "You want to kidnap Patrick Gallagher's daughter? You'll start a fucking war."

A smile tugs at my lips. "I'm counting on it."

* * *

The manor isquiet when I arrive, stone walls housing generations of Dublin's most feared family. Security nods at me as I pass. My father built this place as a fortress—a monument to fear disguised as respectability.

In my office, I pour whiskey into a tumbler. The amber liquid burns a path down my throat. Planning a war requires clarity, even when vengeance clouds my judgment.

Finn enters without knocking. My younger brother carries tension in his shoulders. "Tell me you're not serious about the Gallagher girl."

I set down my glass. "You going question me now?"

"It's suicide. Patrick Gallagher will burn this city to ashes looking for her."

"Let him try." I gesture toward the chair. "Sit. Listen."

Finn remains standing. Defiance runs in our blood. "We can make him pay for the product in other, more rational ways."

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