Chapter 5 - Fire and IronThe blow sent Colin stumbling back against the side of his Mercedes, his umbrella dropping into the puddles below.
Before Colin’s men could raise their rifles, Colin spat a streak of blood onto the wet asphalt, raised his hand to stop them, and let out a harsh, barking laugh. 🔗 He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, looking at Declan with a mix of respect and absolute mockery.
“Is that how the king of the South Docks thanks the man who just saved his wife’s life?” Colin taunted, wiping more blood from his lip.
Declan stood between us, his chest heaving, his body radiating a violent, lethal energy. He grabbed the lapel of my coat, pulling me firmly behind his broad back as if shielding me even from Colin’s words.
“I didn't ask for your help, Mercer,” Declan growled, his voice raw from smoke and exhaustion.
“No, you didn't,” Colin admitted, straightening his coat and stepping back up with unbothered calm. “You were too busy playing lone wolf while your own council was selling you out to the Outfit. Those hitters tonight weren't random, Hayes. They had internal security codes. Someone inside your own mansion gave you up.”
Declan froze. The violent anger in his eyes flickered, replaced by a cold, calculating realization.
“Vince,” Declan whispered.
“Vince and your chief financial officer,” Colin confirmed, picking up his umbrella and handing it to one of his guards. “They figured if you and your wife died on the expressway, they could carve up the South Docks before morning. I just happened to be tracking their communication lines for my own business.”
Colin looked past Declan’s shoulder, meeting my eyes for a fraction of a second.
“Take care of her, Hayes,” Colin said quietly, stepping back into his car. “Next time, I might not arrive quite so fast.”
The Mercedes glided away into the stormy night, leaving us standing alone on the blood-stained highway with Donovan and a handful of surviving loyal guards.
Declan turned around slowly. His dark eyes searched my face, scanning every inch of my skin as if terrified he would find a wound he couldn't heal.
“Nora…” he started, his voice cracking, losing all its iron authority. “I’m sorry.”
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For eighteen months, I had dreamed of hearing him say those words. I had imagined screaming at him, packing my bags, walking out the door. But standing here in the freezing rain, with the wreckage of our car smoking behind us and our enemies hunting us down, anger felt too small.
“Don't apologize here,” I said quietly, reaching out to touch his bruised, bleeding cheek with my bare hand. “Let’s go home and finish this.”
