Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Says the man who, what? Runs the mafia on the east coast, is it?” Tiernan says.
Sheena opens her mouth to protest, but I raise my hand to stop her.
“I’ll handle this.”
The boy needs a fucking lesson. I look ahead to make sure Fiona’s a good bit ahead of us, with Lachlan and Tully nearby. We’re by a grove of trees that shades us from her view. I release Sheena’s hand and sidestep toward the tree.
I know why he protests, but he needs to know what he’s done, how dangerous it is, and I need to prove to Keenan he won’t pose a threat to us again.
For once, I imagine I feel the way my older brothers might have when I was horsing around and fucking off, with not a care in the world. Class clown. I remember how they lectured, how they’d try to teach me to grow up and take responsibility. I didn’t heed them until it was too late. And I’ll be damned if I watch Tiernan do the same.
Under the shade of trees, I beckon him. “Come here.”
Every one of the men of The Clan learned ealaíona comhraic, Irish martial arts, at St. Albert’s, including wrestling, stick fighting, and bare-knuckled boxing. I easily remember what I’ve been taught. This lad needs a lesson.
I stand casually with my hands on my hips, my eyes on him. He takes one step toward me, looks over his shoulder at Sheena, and when his focus is off me, I make my move. I sweep his leg so he topples over, and in one swift movement, I’ve got him on the ground, pinned beneath me in the most basic wrestling move I know.
“Get off, motherfucker,” Tiernan grunts, but he bears my weight and can’t move me.
“You’d rather fight, then?” I ask him. “Trained in boxing, too, have you?”
He blanches when I get off him, and scrambles to his feet. I’ve spent hours upon hours with my brothers and Malachy learning how to fight. The Irish don’t wear gloves but prefer bare fists. My fingers tingle at the memory.
Tiernan heads toward me, his cheeks flaming with anger, but he doesn’t assume the stance of a good boxer. I easily duck his blow, and using the flat of my palm, hit him hard on the shoulder. I don’t really want to hurt him, I only want to teach him a lesson.
He topples to the ground and comes up raging, and lunges at me. I easily deflect.
“Toe the line, lad.”
“What?” he says, shakes his head and attacks again.
I duck his blow, swivel and squat, and when he heads my way I level him with a sharp blow that’ll only knock the wind out of him. When he’s on the ground, I fall beside him, kneel on his chest, and shake my head.
Sheena doesn’t flinch or protest, and that pleases me. She trusts me.
“All you did was take your eyes off me,” I say. “You looked away for one second, and it was enough for me to take you down. You call that a fight?” In seconds my knife is in my hand, open, the cold metal against his neck. Sheena gasps but still doesn’t move.
I shake my head at him. “One swipe, lad, and the soil’s stained with your blood.” When he submits with a quiet nod, I release him. He scrambles to his feet, rubbing his neck. He’s glaring at me with a look somewhere between fury and admiration.
“You see my point?” I ask.
“Aye,” he grunts. “I see your point.”
I haven’t hurt him, not a bit, only bruised his pride.
I get to my feet and brush the stray bits of grass from my legs.
“Now, walk over to your sister,” I order.
This time, he eyes me warily. He’s no fool, he’s gotten my point. He expects my next move. So when he starts to walk over to her, and I shoot my leg out to trip him, he’s ready. He dodges my leg, but still, he’s no match for me. I was trained heavily at St. Albert’s. Malachy worked us until our eyes blurred with sweat, our bodies were pushed to exhaustion, our muscles ached. We learned to adapt to the pain and sting of bruises, to use open palms to avoid breaking the bones in our hands.
So when he moves to deflect, I easily grab his wrist and pin it to his lower back. He hisses out a breath, but still, I don’t hurt him. It’s uncomfortable, no doubt, but I have a point to make. This time, it’s the cold metal of my gun I press to his temple.
“And that easily again,” I say quietly. “You’re fucking dead.”
“Fine,” he says. “Get off me!”
“This is just me, Tiernan,” I tell him. “I’m just one man. But you see, up ahead of me? I’ve got brothers, also armed and trained. Willing to sacrifice their lives for me, bound by honor to do so. One word from me, and you’re surrounded.” I let my words sink in. “Can you say the same?”