Page 134 of Brutal Heir
Matteo stares at me for a long second, then nods. “Alright then. Let’s fire up the bird.”
I whip out my phone, already dialing the Gemini Corp pilot. “Get the jet ready. We’re wheels up ASAP.”
I glance back at the empty sky, jaw clenching hard.
Hold on, Rory. I’m coming for you.
CHAPTER 51
THE DEVIL’S GRIN
Rory
The old Quinlan estate on the outskirts of Belfast smells like damp stone and decayed history. It’s colder than I remember. Its walls are thicker, shadows darker, air tighter. Maybe it’s not the place that’s changed. Maybe it’s me.
Bran walks beside me through the narrow corridors, silent as the grave. Much like the six-hour flight here. His jaw is tight, eyes refusing to meet mine. I don’t blame him. He’s delivering me like a lamb to the slaughter. Again.
I can’t help the wave of bitterness that rolls through. My family did nothing to protect me from these monsters, and the moment Blaine is in trouble, I come running back here like a fool.
A man in black waves us through another set of steel-reinforced doors until we reach a long hallway lined with dark oak and tarnished sconces. At the end, a room. No windows. Just a long rectangular table, two chairs, and a wide pane of mirrored glass on the wall.
It takes me half a second to realize what it is.
One-way glass.
I step forward into the dimly lit chamber, throat closing as I peer through it. On the other side, another room. Cold. Stark. Blaine sits tied to a chair in the middle, his head hanging low, a deep gash leaking blood down his temple. A sharp gasp escapes through my clenched teeth.
One eye is swollen shut. His lip is split. But he’s alive. Still breathing. Still my little brother.
I press a hand to the glass, my heart breaking open in my chest.
“You said he was okay,” I whisper to Bran, not looking away.
“Heis. For now.” His voice is hoarse, worn raw.
I don’t reply. Because we both know what comes next.
“You never should have run,” he bites out through clenched teeth.
“And Da never should have forced me to marry him,” I hiss back.
“He didn’t exactly have a say in the matter, Brig.”
“That’s a heaping load of shite and you know it.” I heave in a steadying breath. “Da made Conall Quinlan.”
The truth is heavy between us for a long moment. Neither of us speaks. Barely breathes.
The door behind us opens, and I know it’s him before I even turn around. The temperature drops, the air thickens. My lungs constrict like they remember too well what fear tastes like.
Conall Quinlan enters the room as if he owns the world. Tall, cold, controlled. The Butcher of Belfast in a three-piece suit and the devil’s grin.
"Brigid," he says smoothly, like it’s a greeting between old friends. “You look well.”
I don’t respond. I don’t move. I’m scared if I do, I might lunge for his throat. Or faint. Maybe both.
His smile sharpens as he steps closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the hunt. “You’ve grown even more beautiful,” he murmurs, circling the table slowly. “New York’s been kind to you.”
I keep my mouth shut despite the volley of curses perched on the tip of my tongue.
