Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I’ve heard mention of a few motorcycle clubs before. But it was only one late night not long after I got here that I heard some of the guards whisper about the President who’s out for blood. They spoke of him as if he were the Devil. And I wondered if he’s as bad as they think. Then one of them mentioned his methods of torture, and that’s when I realised I thought my father was a monster, but the rumours about Cathal, the biker, are far worse.
I hear more cars arriving as the gravel under the tires crunch.
“Father Donahue,” Dad’s voice calls to the man stepping out of the car. “What are you doing here?”
“Things are heating up in Belfast,” the older man says, and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s talking to my father. “You need to give up this witch hunt before someone gets hurt. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. It’s time you cleaned up this organisation.”
“I will never give up.” There’s conviction in my father’s voice.
“They’ve sent me to talk some sense into you. Please, Patrick, there are better ways. You know she’s stronger than you in this,” Father Donahue says, the worry evident in his tone. I’m not sure exactly who the they or she are, but I can only assume it’s the motorcycle club. It’s the only thing I can think of.
My father laughs out loud at the priest’s warning. “They can try. Nobody touches me or my daughter.” I’m surprised by his words. My father mentioned me. I’m the only family he has it seems. But then again, he could so easily be talking about the mob.
“Where is Miren?” Father Donahue asks then, and that only shocks me further. I didn’t think the man would know me since I’ve never met him.
“In her room. She won’t come out here until I call to her. I don’t need her witnessing anything untoward.” His tone is confident. There’s an edge to his voice which tells me he doesn’t want to be argued with, not about this.
“I’ll go up and see her,” the older man says, and then all I hear are the crunching footfalls of his shoes. I wonder what would happen if I were to try and escape now. I’m pretty sure Declan is downstairs. If I could slip out of the bedroom and try the window in another room, perhaps I can climb down somehow. This balcony doesn’t offer any assistance since it leads right down to the front of the house.
In the distance, I can hear the rumble of more engines, but this time, not cars. No, these are deep, vibrating rumbles. They’re motorbikes. As they near, I turn to find Father Donahue at the door of my bedroom.
“Miren,” he says my name with reverence. “It’s so lovely to meet you. I’m Father Donahue. I’ve known yer parents for a long while.” He offers me a kind smile, and I relax.
“It’s nice to meet you too. My mother has never mentioned you.” My words seem to have an effect on the older man. There’s a sadness in his gaze, and then he nods.
“I’m sorry it has come to this, Miren.” Guilt flickers in his gaze for a short moment, and then it’s as if the world tilts on its axis. An explosion from below the house shakes the walls, and the floor of my bedroom seems to vibrate with it. Windows shatter, and I’m on the floor, crawling to the exit as the priest races for me. He pulls me to my feet, and we rush from the crumbling home I was kept a prisoner in. Another eruption comes from the ground floor, and as we exit through the front door, I’m slammed to the ground. Just outside the house, the heat of the fire warms me, and when I glance over my shoulder, I notice how it wreaks havoc on the house I considered a cage. We crawl away, needing to escape.
I glance back to see the walls come down.
“Say nothing,” Father Donahue hisses at me as he drags me to my feet, and we run as fast as we can and as far away from the house as possible until we collapse on the grass. “Say nothing about who you are,” he tells me. “Do you hear me, girl?”
“What?” Confusion clouds my mind, and I’m not sure what he’s talking about.
“When I introduce ye, ye will say nothing about being a Bragan or who yer da is. You are a new woman from this day forward.” He stands, then offers me a hand. Blood drips from his wrinkled flesh, and I realise he’s hurt himself.
I take his proffered hand, and he pulls me up. “But—”
The old man glances over his shoulder, and that’s when I notice the myriad of chrome and leather. He looks to me again. “Yer name is Miren Doyle.”