All Chapters of Bought By The Irish Mafia Boss: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Cillian The docks are dead quiet. Too quiet. That kind of silence doesn’t exist naturally, not here, not in this city. It’s the kind that’s built. Forced. Maintained. Men are inside that building making sure nothing leaks out. Good. Makes it easier to know exactly where to aim.I step out of the SUV before the engine fully cuts. Cold air hits my face, sharp and damp, carrying the smell of salt and rust. The water is somewhere behind the buildings, invisible in the dark but present in the air.Ahead… The cannery. Exactly how Marco described it. Old. Worn down. Half-rotted from years of neglect. And there… The red door. Second building. My jaw tightens. She’s in there. Something inside my chest goes completely still. No anger. No panic. Just focus.“Positions,” Declan says quietly into comms behind me.Men move instantly. Shadows breaking into smaller s

Cillian She says my name like it hurts. Like it costs her something just to get the word out. “Cillian…” It’s barely a whisper. Barely sound. But it hits harder than anything I’ve heard in that room behind me. Harder than the gunfire. Harder than the screams.My chest locks. For a second, I can’t breathe. Not because I don’t know how. Because if I let it in, if I let what I’m seeing settle…  I’m going to lose control. And I can’t. Not yet. Not until she’s out of here. I keep my hand against her face. Gentle. Careful. Like she might break under the wrong kind of touch. Because she might.Her skin is cold. Too cold. Damp. Bruised in places I don’t even want to count yet. Her lip is split, blood dried, and fresh layered together. There’s a mark along her jaw that wasn’t there before. More than one.My jaw tightens so hard I feel it in my teeth. “Elena,” I say aga

Cillian She says I took too long. It should cut. It should sit wrong in my chest and stay there. It does. But not the way it should. It doesn’t make me defensive. It makes something colder settle in. Because she’s right. I was too slow. I let them take her. I let them touch her. And now I’m holding what’s left of that mistake in my arms. Never again.Her hand is still in mine. Weak. Barely a grip. But it’s there. She’s here. Alive. That’s the only thing keeping me from turning this entire building into ash before we even leave it.“Stay with me,” I murmur, my thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. Her eyes are closed again, but her breathing is still there. Shallow. Uneven. But there.I slide one arm carefully under her legs, the other behind her back, lifting her slowly from the makeshift surface they had her on in the back of the SUV.She barely reacts. That hits harder than anything. Elena alwa

CillianShe doesn’t wake up. At first, I tell myself it’s normal. The doctor said she needed rest. Said her body had taken too much, too fast. Said sleep would help. So I wait. Five minutes. Ten. An hour. I don’t move from the chair beside her bed. I don’t need to. Everything I need is right here. Her.The steady rise and fall of her chest. The quiet, repetitive beep of the monitor tracking her heartbeat. Alive. Still alive. That’s enough. For now.The room shifts around me. People come in. People leave. I don’t pay attention. The doctor checks her again. Adjusts something. Says words I don’t fully register. Stable. Resting. Recovering. They don’t mean anything. Not yet. Not until she opens her eyes.Another hour passes. Or maybe more. The clock on the wall moves, but I don’t follow it properly. Time doesn’t work the same when you’re watching someone breathe. It slows. Stretches. Breaks. I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms on my knees. My eyes do

CillianThe room is exactly how I left it. Quiet. Too quiet. The machines keep their steady rhythm behind me, a constant reminder that Elena is still breathing. Still here. Not awake. Not yet. My hand rests against hers for a moment longer before I pull away. Not because I want to. Because I need to move. Sitting still is making something inside me rot. And if I stay here any longer without doing anything I’m going to break something I can’t fix. I straighten slowly. No sudden movement. No rush. Everything controlled. Everything deliberate.Declan watches me from the corner of the room. He knows. He always does.“You have something?” I ask.My voice is even. Flat. Back to what it should be. He nods once. “Movement. He is relocating again. He knows we’re closing in.”Of course he does. He felt it. The pressure. The retaliation. The shift. Good.“Keep tracking him,” I say. “I want his