“Pleased to see you’re up and at ’em, boss,” he says by way of greeting. “How’s the shoulder treating you?”
“Still good enough to knock somebody out if need be.” I lift my now empty glass and pour the chipped ice into my mouth to crunch on.
“When’re we settling the score?” he asks. “Next move on the game board is ours, isn’t it?”
“The next move is about to make whoever fucked with me regret ever being born,” I answer darkly. “Just need to get the details sorted first.”
Eddie leans forward, his expression cryptic and conspiratorial compared to Sean’s hot-headed anger. “What if it’s not the Langstonsorthe Albanians? What if it’s the Russians? We’ve never exactly got on with the Raguzins.”
“How the fuck wouldyouknow the Langstons are under suspicion?” Killian asks irritably.
The twenty-year-old shrugs. “Word spreads. Don’t know what else to tell you.”
“You mean gossip, you fucking wanker?”
I ignore their usual sparring and address the meat of what’s been said.
“Could be the Raguzins. Things between us and the Bratva have cooled over the years. But my father’s got a point. The Albanians could be too obvious,” I say. “We look into everybody ’til we get some solid leads. ’Til then, they’re all suspects. Bottom line is nobody shoots at me or my wife without signing their own death warrant.”
The ginger returns yet again to refill my glass and Killian’s then turns to Sean and Eddie to take their orders. As she scribbles on her notepad, I catch the way her gaze flicks to Killian—a quick, blushing glance she tries to hide behind her curtain of orange hair.
Killian notices too, the corner of his mouth twitching.
When she walks off, Sean leans against the backward chair with a shit-eating grin. “So what’s the deal with the ginger, Kill? You tapping that?”
“Her name is Bridget,” he snaps. “Get it right, you fuckwad.”
Sean throws his hands up in mock surrender. The ribbing continues with Eddie joining in, landing a few well-placed jabs about Killian finally finding somebody who can tolerate his PMS-level mood swings.
Killian counters the jokes by pointing out Eddie’s voice still pitches high like a fourteen-year-old girl and then gives Sean shit about his munchkin size.
I tune them out, my shoulder throbbing with the same dull, persistent ache. Tossing back my second glass of whiskey, I turn over the questions still without answers.
Whoever’s behind this—Albanian, Italian, Russian, or somebody else entirely—I’m going to find them.
When I do, they’ll wish they’d found God before they ever fucked with me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, disrupting my vengeful thoughts. I pull it out to find a number I don’t recognize. New York area code but otherwise unfamiliar.
I answer on guard, suspicious from the moment the call begins.
A robotic, automated recording greets me. “You have a collect call from Sing Sing Maximum Security Prison. Press one to accept.”
I press one, connecting myself to the caller. It’s only been a couple months since we’ve spoken, though Lochlan’s rasp sounds rougher and drier than I remember it.
“Little brother,” he says as soon as we’re connected. “How is the free world treating you?”
I push back my chair and step away from the table for some semblance of privacy.
“Loch, didn’t know you’d be reaching out. You hardly ever call.”
“And you hardly ever visit,” he counters. “Though I’m guessing that’s Dad’s doing. He does run things after all. Has he actually let you take the reins, or is he still pretending he’s retired?”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“At what cost?”
I allow a second or two for Lochlan’s bitterness to pass, deep down aware he’s got a right to feel the way he does.