The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Lorcan
The end is coming.
Sinking into the deep seat of my Herman Miller, I drag my fingers over my jaw. Both are bruised and aching, like every other muscle and joint in my body.
I lean my head against the chair’s headrest, taking the weight off my shoulders. When I close my eyes, Poppy’s face appears. Emerald eyes sparkling like precious gems, copper hair glistening like precious metal.
The end is coming, I know that. What I don’t know is what comes after the end.
I have to plan accordingly.
My fingers twitch towards my drink. Only it’s not there, because I’ve been sober for seven days. My entire whiskey cabinet is cleaned out to help me avoid any temptation. I have to stay sharp and lucid and sensible to see our plan through.
Our new alliance has been a blessing. The Regazzis have doubled our men on the ground, and Rodriguez’s son, Miguel, has been like a bloodhound with a tear tattoo. With his nose to the ground, he did in three days what the Quinns couldn’t do in a month—hunt down Igor’s whereabouts. Turns out, he’s been moving from town to town. Airbnb rentals, YMCA’s, and even camping in the wilderness. The great King Igor Bratnov has been living like a pauper, snaking his way closer to Quinn territory.
If I wasn’t so fired up, I’d be chilled to my core. He hasn’t sent his men to do his dirty work, he’s doing it himself. Bratnov means business, just like I do.
Miguel’s men have followed him right to our city. Now the Russian bastard is on our doorstep, on our turf. It’s only a matter of time until the final showdown.
And I need a plan for after the fact.
I steal one more glance back at the Museum. The view of it from my study is the very reason I’ve barely stepped foot in here all week. Too much temptation to break the goddamn window, shimmy down the fucking drainpipe and cross the grounds to see her. To get into her bed and breathe in her vanilla and bubblegum scent and feel her soft curves against mine.
To fuck the reality of war away.
No lights and no signs of movement tonight. I swallow the desire and ignore my twitching hands and head out of my study. I take the stairs to the lobby then another set of stairs that lead to the lower level. Passing the fleet of cars in the garage and the laundry room, I stop outside a door at the of the hall.
One sharp knock and the door opens. Orna’s face immediately contorts into a scowl. “Is the estate on fire?”
“Can you smell smoke?”
“No. But it must be an emergency if the great Lorcan Quinn is making an appearance in the peasant chambers.”
My ribs hurt when I laugh, but not because anything Orna says is remotely funny. I push past my cousin and stride into her quarters. I stand in the middle of the living room area, with its soft cream walls and overstuffed corner sofa. It’s impossible to resist the pull of the million cushions lining it, and I sink into it without thinking twice.
“What do you want, Lorcan,” Orna groans, “I’m off duty and I’m tired.”
“Remember when your mom lived here?” I muse, “She painted the walls the color of Pepto Bismol.”
This gets a huff from her. “Yeah. You know it took me twelve layers of paint to get rid of it?”
“You? ‘Cause if I remember correctly, I’m the one who gave up a week’s vacation in Cancun to paint over that shit show. I get PTSD every time I have heartburn.”
“All right, well I chose the paint color, at least.”
I glance at the cream walls. “Yeah. Difficult choice.”
“And kept you company the entire week,” she protests, sinking onto the other side of the sofa.
“Yeah, being tortured by every ABBA album on repeat was really entertaining.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but her face softens. I throw a cushion at her head and get right to my first question. “Why have you had a face like a slapped ass every day for the last month, then?”
She’s quicker than I gave her credit for, grabbing it before it knocks the messy bun off her head. “It doesn’t matter why. I’m over it now.”
“Tell me.”
She flashes me a signature Orna scowl, before deciding it’s easier to tell me after all. “You never told me Poppy was Marcus Murphy’s daughter.”
“She’s not,” I snap back fast. Too fast. “She’s just Poppy.”
“Yes, but she’s still the daughter of the man who killed my mom,” she snaps back.
When she hurls the cushion at my head with surprising force, I throw my shoulder back in the nick of time. It crashes into the lamp on the side table and sends it flying to the floor.
Neither of us flinch. This is the chaos we grew up in.
“I get it,” I say quietly.
And I do. After the betrayal, my father took everything from Marcus Murphy. His estate, fleet of cars, staff. But it was all materialistic bullshit. He didn’t take anything that actually mattered, like his family. But Murphy took that from us. Orna’s mom was caught in the crossfire in the kitchen, right before O’Sullivan turned his gun on Murphy himself.
Orna’s mom had a big hand in raising me after my own mom died. She had that maternal instinct for me, which is why she pushed me behind the breakfast bar and took the bullet herself.
So, when I took Poppy, all I wanted was for Marcus to feel a fraction of the pain that my family felt.
He didn’t.
“Poppy didn’t kill your mom, Orna. She didn’t betray our family. In fact, she hates her father as much as we do.”
Orna nods slowly, swallowing my words. Eventually, she says. “I know. I spent a lot of time trying to hate her, but it’s hard.”
A loud sigh escapes my lips, and I run my hand through my hair. “You’re telling me.”
Feeling the weight of my words, Orna regards me with fresh suspicion. “If you don’t hate her, then why don’t you let her go?” We lock eyes, and I’m silent long enough for the penny to drop. A grin spreads across her face. “Jesus Christ, Lorcan. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“I do,” she chimes in, “you like her. And not just in the way I like her. You built her a whole-ass workshop, for Christ’s sake. You bring her along to your business outings and even that treaty dinner you had with the Cartel and the Italians. And the whole time, you can’t take your eyes off her. Like a man possessed.”
Her laser-like glare follows me around the room as I stretch my legs and begin to pace. Fuck, I’m turning into Antoin. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “You’ve been through a lot and you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be human. I’ll give you a clue—humans have hearts, and yours is starting to thaw.”
I clamp my molars together and ignore the stabbing pain in my chest. I’m getting good at that. “I’m not here for a discounted therapy session.”
“Discounted? I didn’t know you were going to pay me at all.”
I’m getting good at ignoring Orna’s sarcasm too.
Time to get serious.
“Remember the chalet on Martha’s Vineyard?”
“The one we’d go to every Easter as kids?”
“I’ve opened it up again.”
“Really?” she clutches her hands to her chest in delight, eyes brimming with nostalgia. “God, I love that place.”
But I’m not interested in taking a trip down memory lane. “If anything happens to me, take Poppy there.”
This brings her right back into the present. Uncurling her legs, she jumps up and closes the gap between her. Then she jabs her skinny finger into my chest. “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” she hisses. “Jesus, Lorcan. I know you think you’re not worthy of standing in the shoes of your father, but you are. You will win this. There’s not a goddamn doubt in my mind.”
Suddenly, I see Orna for who she really is for the first time in a decade. Not only my housekeeper or annoying cousin that gives too much lip. But more of a younger sister.
A friend.
Stalking towards the door, I say, “get some sleep.”
“Lorcan?”
I twist my head around and see her wringing her hands.
“How soon will it happen?”
“Remember the pistol I gave you on your sixteenth birthday?”
“How can I forget? You hid it in a Louis Vuitton box and I thought I was getting the purse I’d had my eye on.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “You still have it?”
“Somewhere.”
“Keep it loaded. And keep it on you at all times.”
I won’t let what happened to her mom happen to her too.