Thy Kingdom Come

“Shh, shh,” I hush him, slamming my palm over his mouth as I level him with an amused stare. “I just wa

His cries are muffled beneath my hand.

Yanking back the cuff of his sleeve, I glare at his tattoo. “What does this mean?”

His eyes dart to his tattoo, and I suddenly realize the symbolism behind this is even bigger than I thought.

Removing my hand carefully, warning him not to scream, I wait for him to answer my question. Instead, he spits in my face. “Fuck ya, Kelly.”

Tonguing my cheek, I lift my face to the ceiling and exhale. “Is that right?” I ask, unsure why he believes that question was optional.

Maybe he needs further encouragement.

Opening my bag, I reach for my face paints and brass knuckles. I don’t need a mirror because each stroke, I know by heart, thanks to him and the two other cunts who robbed me of my life. Placing the brass knuckles into my pocket, I unscrew the lid on the white paint and circle my fingers in the container.

Once they’re coated, I slather my face with no real method to my madness and paint my face white. Aidan stares, horrified, as I open the black paint container and draw a sinister grin from cheek to cheek. I use my middle finger to slash downward across my mouth, before blowing him a kiss with it.

My blue eyes are shadowed in black as I angrily rub circles around them. I repeat the same action down my nose.

My face is now painted to how it was when I saw him as a wee chile.

“Yer not the full shilling. Yer a molly, is it? No wonder, yer a Kelly, after all.”

I don’t bother addressing his slander, nor do I correct him that I actually don’t know who I am.

“Yer tattoo, I want to know what it means.”

“Why? Ye want one of yer own?”

With a smirk, I tug back my sleeve. “I already have one.”

Aidan’s confusion is clear when he sees our matching tattoos. “How’d ya know?”

It’s time to reclaim what he stole from me.

“When I was five years old, I saw ya. I saw whatcha did to my ma—Cara Kelly. Remember her?”

“Naw, I don’t. No Kelly is worth remembering.”

Regardless of his denial, I continue with my story because even if he wasn’t there, he has answers I want.

Shaking my head, I begin to whistle the song that was playing on the radio when he raped my mum. When I take a breath, I see it—recognition. He remembers. He was the fucker who was there that night.

Reaching for the black paint, I dip my finger into the container and draw a single line down my forehead. I’ve waited for this moment for what feels like an eternity.

As I stand in front of Aidan, he doesn’t cower when I tilt my head, examining him closely. This is my bogeyman, the fella who took something which can never be replaced—my soul.

He tries to fight me as I dig into his pockets until I find what I’m looking for—his wallet and phone.

The leather is soft as I open the wallet, immediately finding what I’m looking for. “These yer kids?” I ask, ru

Two boys and one girl. The wee dote is wearing a T-shirt with the words Four Leaf on the front of it.

My attention focuses on his license. Now that I have his address, he realizes he’s royally fucked. “All right. Thon tattoo, ya stupid gobshite, is what every Doyle gets when they kill one of ye! A fuckin’ Protestant. Almost all Doyles ’ave one ’cause ye Kellys are weak as piss.”

Tsking him, I keep my cool—only just. “Who were the other two fuckers with ya that night?”

Aidan laughs angrily. “Du

“Ach, maybe ya need remindin’ then?”

Taking out my phone, I do a quick search, and it doesn’t take me long to find out that Four Leaf is a preschool. “Yer wain looks to be the star pupil,” I say, turning my screen around so he can see what I’ve found.

His daughter is on the website, her fingers dipped in paints.

“I’ll fucking kill ya!” he threatens, lunging for me.

“Go on then,” I challenge, folding my arms across my chest. “All ye gotta do is pull that knife out.”

He roars in frustration because with one hand broken, that only leaves the hand pi

Clapping slowly, I catch Aidan unaware as his wee tale was supposed to upset me. All it did was piss me off even more. He clearly doesn’t think I’m serious, so I decide to call in reinforcements. Sending a text, I wait for the boys to arrive—who I know are outside, waiting for my instructions—and when they do, both Aidan and Ronan gasp.

“Whataboutye?” I cheerfully ask Cian and Rory as they enter the bedroom.

“Well then, I wouldn’t mind a wee cup a tae, but this’ll do,” Cian sarcastically says, whistling when he takes in the carnage.

Rory curses when he sees Ronan tied to the chair. “Ya wee fucker. Ya workin’ for the Doyles then?”

His bloody nose is enough of an answer.

“Lads, Aidan Doyle needs some encouragement. Here”—I offer them his license over my shoulder—“can ya pay his family a wee visit?”

Rory snatches the license from my fingers. “Beezer! Love to.”

I can see it. I can see Aidan grappling with his loyalties. Loyalty to his family. And loyalty to being a Doyle. And just like me, just for the reason of all this, his family wins out.

“All right, I was there! That geebag got what she deserved.”

Inhaling, I take a moment to process his confession because it almost doesn’t feel real. “Mind yer mouth,” I warn, awful serious. “Who were the other two fellas with ya?”

I realize that he could be lying because if what he says is true and every Doyle gets a tattoo for every Protestant they kill, then any Doyle with a tattoo could be responsible for my ma’s death. But the reason I believe it’s him is because of how personal this kill was.

My ma was sleeping with Brody, and if what Uncle Sean says is true, then they wanted her dead because she was a liability and a nuisance. If they had wanted to start a war with Co

But the reason she was murdered had nothing to do with being a Kelly, but everything to do with wanting to be a Doyle.

“I think the fucker who slit her throat, that was yer brother, Brody.”

Aidan pales but doesn’t confirm or deny it.

I want to ask him about my ma, and if he knew about her affair, but I can’t voice those words aloud.

“Think whatcha want,” Aidan snarls. “But yer ma was nothin’ but a whore. She spread her legs for whoever looked her way. She was weak, just like you. Yer not go

Aidan never gets to finish his sentence because without a second thought, I loop my fingers through my brass knuckles and silence him for good.

I co

Panting, I flex my fingers, appreciating the flesh and blood coating my knuckles. Aidan’s chin flops to his chest with a wet squelch, a trickle of bloody spittle trickling from his mouth as he attempts to breathe. There is one last thing he needs to do before he stops—breathing, that is.

Unlocking his phone, I scroll through his contacts until I reach Liam’s number. Gripping Aidan’s hair, I yank his head back and sneer, “Yer go