Chapter 47
It seemed pointless rushing home when Zara was meeting a client after hours, which is why I’m at my office at the new Hartmann Hotel. I let Belle clock off for the day. She’s enjoying our stay in Dublin, taking in the sights after work each evening—especially the sight of the scruffy musician she’s been dating for the past three weeks. There’s no accounting for taste, but maybe, just maybe, she’ll agree to stay on here with me when this project is complete, because the thought of having to train up someone else to step into her shoes is unbearable.
The construction crew has gone home for the night. After putting up with so much noise all day, it’s almost eerily quiet.
Gabriel is patrolling around somewhere; other than that, it’s just me and my thoughts.
I reach into my top drawer and pull out a bottle of whiskey. Becketts Gold.
Zara was right.
It’s the best whiskey I’ve ever tasted, even though it kills me to admit it. I pour myself a double and stalk towards the floor to ceiling window overlooking the city below. I can see why my father loved it here. I wish he could see me now. See what I’ve built. Not just professionally, but personally too.
I have a family.
My brain loops back to my mother. I called her yesterday. Told her I have a surprise for her. I didn’t tell her that surprise is that I have a pregnant girlfriend. I can’t wait to see her face next weekend. Even if it does mean enduring Doug the douche.
Luke is out of rehab. He got released yesterday, which is why I text him and asked him to go to Mom’s next weekend too.
It’s time to pull together as a family.
I don’t like the Beckett brothers, but I have to admire the way they work together. The loyalty that they share. Their business ethic. If they hadn’t intervened in my business, hell, I’d probably even admire them.
I knock back the whiskey, wincing as it burns.
Fuck. I rub my chest. That feeling again. That feeling that something shifted hits me like a hammer.
My fingers tighten around the empty glass.
Heartburn?
No, it feels more like a heart attack.
Something’s up.
Instinctively, I pluck my phone from my pocket and dial Zara.
It rings out.
I tap the screen again and redial. I know she’s with a client, but I need to know she’s okay. That our baby is okay. She told me herself, Beckett code—two rings and we have a problem, so if she doesn’t pick up in the next ten seconds, then we have a colossal fucking problem.
I run out of my office door and straight into Gabriel. ‘Boss p>
‘We need to get to Ballsbridge. Now,’ I snap, running towards the stairs. There’s no time for the lift.
‘Right away,’ Gabriel is hot on my heels as we take the stairs two at a time.
Holmes is outside in the SUV. He takes one look at my face and starts the car. ‘Where to p>
I hop in the front beside him; Gabriel jumps into the back. ‘Zara’s building. Somethings up p>
I reach into the glove compartment for a handgun and tuck it into my pocket. Each of my vehicles are always stocked. I take a switchblade as well, just in case.
A car horn honks in the distance. Traffic is a fucking nightmare. Bumper to bumper cars line the roads. Fuck. I pull up her number and try to call her again. It rings out for the third time. I dial Tate. Then Felstead. No answer. Where the fuck is everyone?
What did she say the client was called?
Salter?
No, Slater.
That’s what she called him.
I tap open Google on my phone and type in Slater—bespoke cocktail bars. There’s nothing. I try Slater—planning permission for bars. I scroll through endless articles about cocktail bars but there’s no mention of a Slater anywhere. Nothing.
Shit.
Who the fuck was she meeting?
My phone vibrates in my hand. Incoming Call. Unknown.
I swipe to answer, silently praying to God it’s her.
‘Where’s Zara?’ A deep voice booms. I’d recognise it anywhere. Killian Beckett.
‘At her office p>
‘Fuck,’ he spits. ‘The CCTV footage at her office went down twenty-six minutes ago p>
Her building has state-of-the-art security. It’s practically bulletproof. I know because she advised I install the exact same model in the casino. Which can only mean one thing—sabotage. ‘Jack O’Connor?’ Despite my men’s efforts and Killian’s, no one has been able to track him down, or locate the body we were all increasingly certain must be in the woods somewhere.
‘It can only be him. No one else is stupid enough to go after my sister,’ Killian spits.
‘Where are you?’ I snap.
‘The distillery with Caelon, Rian and James.’ That’s at the docklands. ‘We’re on our way to Ballsbridge now. ETA twelve minutes. Where are you p>
I glance out the window. Traffic is moving again. Nowhere near as fast as I’d like, but it’s moving. ‘Eight minutes away p>
‘I’ll send men.’ He hangs up.
Traffic loosens just enough for Holmes to squeeze between lanes, the SUV jerking forward in short, violent bursts. My chest is a vice. Every breath burns. I’ve felt fear before, real fear, but nothing like this—nothing that feels like someone is reaching into my ribcage, twisting my heart and tearing it straight out of my chest.
The minutes pass like hours.
Finally, we reach Ballsbridge–just in time to hear an almighty explosion in the distance.
Fuck.
Smoke fills the sky, forming a thick grey column beyond the rooftops. It’s rising fast. Too fast.
‘Boss?’ Holmes mutters, eyes widening as he cranes forward.
Sirens wail from somewhere.
I need to get to her.
And our baby.
My pulse detonates.
‘Faster,’ I snarl.
‘I’m trying p>
‘DRIVE p>
He slams the accelerator. The SUV bucks forward. Sirens continue to wail—too far away, too slow. A cold pressure builds behind my sternum until it feels like a knife being driven between my ribs, twisting harder with each passing second.
We turn onto the long road that leads toward her building—and my stomach drops.
There are bodies everywhere.
Felstead staggers across the footpath. ‘She’s in there,’ he yells, clutching his head. Blood pours from it. He must have been hit with something when the building exploded.
Nico is collapsed on the curb, clutching his arms. He’s rocking back and forth in a state of shock as people crowd around him, dust and debris coats their clothes, their hair. Some are bleeding. A shopfront across the street has shattered, glass glittering across the pavement.
Holmes slams on the brakes, the SUV fishtailing slightly before screeching to a stop.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Gabriel breathes behind me.
I’m already out of the car.
The heat hits first—radiating across the street in heavy pulses. Smoke belches from the side of Zara’s building, rolling upward in thick black waves. The lower windows are blown out, jagged glass and metal framing the orange glow inside.
‘Zara!’ I roar, my voice tearing out of my throat like an animal trying to claw free.
I sprint across the street, ignoring the people trying to call out to me. The stabbing pain in my chest explodes into something raw and feral, driving me faster.
The glass lines the ground. The front façade of Beckett Deluxe Design is warped, one door hanging off its hinges, the other twisted inward. Smoke curls out in dark, choking coils.
He did this.
Jack O’Connor walked into Zara’s building and set a bomb—or something close enough—to blow the place apart. So help me fucking God if she’s dead…
I step inside. Heat licks my face, blistering, angry. The fire hasn’t reached the upstairs level where her office is yet, but it will. Soon. Too soon. I can only pray she’s up there and not on the ground floor.
‘Boss!’ Gabriel calls out behind me. ‘Keep back p>
‘She’s in there,’ I snarl without turning. ‘She’s in THERE.’ A roar tears out of my throat, primal and violent.
I charge further inside. The heat punches me, smoke clawing down my lungs. My vision swims—but I don’t fucking stop. I don’t feel fear. Only one thought consumes me, ignites me, drives me straight through the flames licking the walls.
I’m coming for you, sweetheart.
Hold on.
Hold on.
Because the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.