Sparrow

“I like your touch, T-boyo. You remind me of your father.” Paddy turned his head to spit out some phlegm. Grayish-black fluid, a souvenir from his long years of smoking, landed in a bucket next to him on the duvet. “He always was a sick, violent bastard. Runs in your blood I guess.”

“How many young girls have you touched?” I asked, concealing the fury I felt with a condescending smirk. I wasn’t a prime example of how to treat women. I didn’t do love, f*cked rough, never called the day after, but I always had their consent. And I never touched someone underage.

“If what you’re looking for is guilt, boyo, you better turn around and walk back the way you came. You ain’t no saint yourself. News travels, and from what I hear, you shame your family name on a regular basis. Being the errand boy for the rich and corrupt of Boston. At least we had pride. We put our lives in danger for our families, for our children, to bring food to the table. We weren’t the upper class’s hired help. Breaks my heart.” He chuckled. “Cillian’s son, a lap dog to the rich.”

I rolled my shoulders back, looking amused. Underneath the tailored suit and easy grin, though, my blood boiled, my veins bubbling with fury. Killing Rowan was an itch I was desperate to scratch.

“How many girls, *? Tell me now, how many children have you molested?”

Paddy threw his head back with whatever energy he had left in him and hooted loudly. When his head bounced back from the pillow, a flicker of insanity danced in his eyes. He almost looked well again. At the very least, it appeared he was he was vital enough to taunt me.

He ran his nearly white tongue over his upper teeth, then sucked in air. “Oh, how I loved your wife’s tight little *. Is it still as taut as it used to be?”

Don’t kill him, I reminded myself.

“You know I did it for a while. Almost a year, maybe, before her father got a little sober and got himself a girlfriend to babysit her when he was at work.” He laughed like a hyena.

I felt my fist tightening around the Glock inside my holster.

Clench, release. Clench, release.

Fuck, I wanted to end him so badly. But at the same time, I knew that’s exactly what he wanted me to do. He’d pushed all the buttons. Pressed the soft spots. Tried to get me to react.

He had nothing to lose.

Other than her.

I looked down, taking a deep breath. Calm washed over me. I was going to do right by Sparrow, by my dad, by all the little girls Patrick probably molested over the years. I pulled my brows together, raising my eyes to meet his gaze slowly and steadily.

“You’ve got a lot of assets and shit to leave behind once you drop dead, now don’t you, Captain McPervert? Got a few bucks saved in your offshore accounts. I know of at least three of’em in the Caymans and there are a couple in Belize, too, right?”

This melted his smile off faster than acid. A rookie’s mistake his former self never would have made.

Bingo, motherf*cker.

I shook my head and took a step forward, so he could see just how much I was enjoying it. Paddy yanked off his oxygen mask and reached toward the nightstand, patting it while keeping his eyes fixed on me. His fingers landed on a soft cigarette pack. He tugged one out and lit it, taking a breath so labored I could actually hear his lungs squeak under the pressure.

“Ah, crap,” he said.

I nodded. Crap, indeed.

“So I was thinking, who’s gonna get all of this assf*ck’s money and assets when he dies? You cheated on all your wives, collecting divorces at an impressive rate. Not one of ’em gives two shits you’re dying. No one to take care of you. Send letters. No one to inherit all the hard-earned money you stole from my old man. So I started snooping around, asking people, taking an interest.” I paused as I turned my back to him. “Nobody cared about Paddy, so I wondered if maybe there was someone he cared about.”

Pacing, I folded the handkerchief and tucked it back in my jacket. The scent of cigarette smoke was enough to dilute the reek of death. Besides, I’d gone nose-blind to the stench. I tipped my chin lower so that he could see the amusement flickering in my eyes. “And as you mentioned before, news travels fast. Wife number two had a few details to share about your cheating.”

Paddy’s face collapsed into a heap of wrinkles, like he was one of those shar-pei dogs, and he winced, a sure sign of his inner torture. I was glad I hadn’t pulled out my Glock after all. This was far more entertaining.

“How dare you! I was your father’s best friend. When your girl needed rehab, I hooked you up with the best place in the States.”

I almost laughed out loud. That had ended up being just another disaster.

“Paddy,” I warned.

“Don’t touch her.” His voice shook, after a stretched silence that spoke volumes of his love for her.

“Touch her?” I let the words roll off my tongue lazily, like I was weighing on this option. “I’m not going to stop at touching. This errand boy knows the f*cking drill.” I walked over to a painting hanging on his wall, my arms folded behind my back, and scanned it with a playful smile. A cheap print of The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli. How ironic. A vision of a woman’s deepest fears.

The painting was covered in glass and reflected Paddy’s face. He bit his lower lip, releasing it slowly as he blinked away what was beginning to look like actual tears. Taking another drag and coughing it out, his eyes narrowed on my back.