Adam

I clenched my phone in my hand as I strode into Donovan’s office at Hannigan’s Auto Body garage. After spending the day with Anna yesterday, I was in no mood to be this Adam—the fighter. But the damn man had demanded my attention ASAP. And so I had come.

“What’s so important that you needed to see me now?” I asked.

Donovan was sitting behind his desk, and he was alone. He was never without an entourage.

“Close the door, son.” He flicked his wrist, waving his hand my way.

Son? The muscles in my body grew tight as I turned away to close the door. I released a low breath, pressing my palm against the wood, hoping to calm myself.

“Sit down. We need to talk.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and inhaled one last breath before turning back to face him.

“Sit,” he said again.

I walked over and took a seat. I clutched the chair arms as if they could prevent me from doing something stupid. Like jumping across his desk and wrapping my hands around his throat . . .

“Frankie’s the underdog in the fight.”

I shrugged. “That’s nothing new.”

“By a lot.”

Hadn’t we already discussed this? “What do you want? Get to the damn point.” Impatience seared through me.

“I want you to lose.”

“Come again?” I leaned forward and moved my hands to my thighs, pressing down until my feet began to throb against the soles of my shoes.

“You heard me.” Donovan stood and came around next to me as I tried to digest what he’d said.

Now I understood why we were alone.

“You want me to throw the fight?” I shook my head a little as the bastard filled the chair next to me. “I thought you wanted me to win.”

“Well, it occurred to me that there is a lot more money to be made if you lose.”

I almost laughed at the absurdity of this all. Donovan may have been an arse, but he’d never interfered with an outcome of a fight before. At least, not that I was aware of. Maybe his operation had changed in the past five years.

“Maybe your boy Frankie will win square,” I offered.

Donovan snickered. “Lose.”

“Or else?” I pushed up to my feet and folded my arms, staring down at him. I waited for the threat I knew was about to come.

Donovan clasped his hands together, casually resting them on his lap. His thick gold ring caught my eye as the oval emerald twinkled in its center, and I focused on that instead of the smirk on his face.

“You’re not done Saturday. You know that, right?”

“I said I would keep fighting, didn’t I?” I kept my arms locked across my chest so I didn’t lose control. There were twenty guys outside the office, and all of them were packing.

“Humor me. Let me know what might happen if you don’t lose Saturday . . . and if you don’t continue to fight for me after you lose to Frankie.”

I wasn’t some eighteen-year-old kid meeting Donovan for the first time. I wouldn’t let him play mind games with me.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice deep and threatening.

“Cut to it. I’m growing tired of this.” I dropped my arms and angled my head.

“Maybe you think you can protect Anna by hiding her somewhere. Or maybe you even think you can threaten me with going to the Garda like you did last time. But, tell me, how much do you care about the kids at that center of yours? What about Conor? Little Chloe?” He held up his hand between us. “How’s Abby doing? You ever find out who pumped her full of drugs?”

I shoved the chair out of my way and reached for him, yanking the lapels of his blazer and pulled him to his feet. He didn’t look scared or even worried as his eyes refocused on me. “You son-of-a-bitch. Was it you? Were you her feckin’ dealer?” I screamed. Flecks of spit spattered in his face as I yelled.

It took me a second to register the sound of a click in my ear. It was the sound of a safety being removed from a gun.

“Let him go.”

I didn’t care to see who it was—I kept my attention on Donovan’s beady eyes. “If you hurt them—if you hurt Anna—”

Donovan’s lips spread into a grin.

“Let him go, or you won’t make it to the fight Saturday,” the voice said in my ear.

“You know what you need to do. After the fight, we’ll talk about the next steps,” Donovan said. I slowly released his blazer and took a step back.

The barrel of a gun was hazily drifting in and out of my peripheral vision. “Fuck you, Donovan Hannigan.” I faced the blonde giant at my side, who was holding the gun sideways, his arm stiff.

I started for the door, my feet feeling like lead, my body heavy as I moved.

“See you Saturday,” Donovan called, and a flicker of fear rolled through me.

I’d been almost hopeful on Sunday after spending the day with Anna, that somehow I’d make things work for us. How impossible that seemed now. I’d be glad just to get her out of Dublin alive.

Five years ago I had stood up to Donovan, vowing never to fight again. It was easy to walk away—I had nothing to lose.

Now I had everything.