“We’re not,” Sandro says flatly.
Leaning against a refrigerated case, I cross my arms, trying to anchor myself in the room and focus.
I should be listening closely, but my thoughts keep drifting as I take a back seat to the confrontation.
My brothers know how to handle deadbeats like Luigi, and thoughts of Aisling keep intruding on my mind—like they have every damn day since Riley went home.
I can’t stop seeing Aisling’s tear-stained face, her achingly vulnerable eyes and pouting lips that were too close and far too tempting to expect any red-blooded man to resist.
I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me like I was the one solid support she could count on rather than a man built out of ruin.
My thoughts of her are driving me to distraction, and I don’t know what to do about it.
Then Sandro’s voice regains my wandering attention. “You took the money. You pay it back.”
“I don’t have it,” the butcher snaps too quickly.
“What do you mean, you don’t have it?” Sandro presses.
“I mean I had a bad run,” Luigi whines, his expression pinched, like he’s hoping we might take pity on him.
Miko scoffs. “You always do.”
The Murray brothers keep their distance, standing near the door, arms crossed over their chests, expressions amused as the tension in the butchery starts to rise with the voices.
I should step in.
It’s my responsibility to get these strays firmly back under my thumb before they can cause too much damage.
I know that.
But my mind shifts again, traitorously replaying the feel of Aisling in my arms, the way she buried her face against me, and when she rested her chin on my chest, I almost let myself forget who I am—what I owe to the dead.
The butcher moves with a panicky quickness, his hands shaking as he comes out from behind the counter, a butcher knife clutched in his fist. “I said I don’t have the money!” he shouts, fear bleeding into aggression. “Your threats won’t change that fact. It’s gone, okay? How was I supposed to know you’d show up today? Please, I have a family to feed.”
“What do you think you’re going to do with that knife, Luigi?” Sandro mocks, taking a warning step in the butcher’s direction.
“If you come closer, I’ll stab you,” the potbellied man threatens, his voice quivering nearly as violently as his hands.
The threat snaps me back into the moment. I’ve let this go far enough.
“Easy,signore,” I say, raising my hands slowly, palms up, my tone calm and measured. “No one wants this to get messy.”
The last thing I need is for Sandro to lose his temper and get himself hurt in my name.
Then I’ll have to explain to his pregnant wife why she needs to stitch up another one of his reckless injuries.
No, thank you.
I’ve seen my twin bleed enough for a lifetime.
Never again will I let it be because of me.
But Luigi’s eyes are wild, his fear getting the better of him. “You people ruin lives.”
“Hey, now, you borrowed from us,” I counter evenly. “No one forced you.”
“I thought you were gone!”