Chapter 9 – Liam
“Sláinte!” the lads called out, raising their pints.
My molars clacked together with enough force to break them.
What a bleeding dog and pony show. Funerals made me grumpy. They weren’t for the dead. They were already wrapped in eternal glory—or fighting in the prison yard of damnation. No, funerals were for the living, a final goodbye and a chance to get stinking drunk.
I sat deep in the booth of the Galway Arms. This was one of many joints we owned.
Since the damage to the bomb pub—The Prancing Pint—was significant, we were down in revenue.
Which meant laundering the funds had to be more carefully spread through our other pubs and eateries.
Tonight, the lads drank for free, which served two purposes.
It made my father look fucking grand, and it skewed the numbers a hair in our favor.
And it worked. The craic was ninety tonight.
“If Johny-boy drinks anymore, he’ll be calling you out for a fight,” Kevin drawled, falling onto the bench across from me. His stupid mustache twitched. “He’s already making threats.”
“Let him.” I eyed my second cousin once removed across the pub. “He’ll end up right next to his brother sooner than the good lord planned.”
Kevin snorted, and the air made the hairs on his lip dance.
He was another McDonagh cousin, a first, but three times removed.
Like many of the lads drinking and singing dirges tonight, he’d grown up on the same block as I had.
We knew entirely too much about one another, had shared in larks, then in sins.
What bound us was more than community. It was the clan we called our own.
I took a long sip of my stout, tapping my phone to see the time.
“Going somewhere?” Kevin observed.
The waitress, a pretty gal by the name of Bridgit, stopped by our booth and deposited two shots of Jameson. Kevin gave her a wink, a pat on the ass, and sent her squealing back to the bar.
“No.” I set my beer down on the table.
Kevin pushed a shot glass across the scarred oak. “Funny, you have that look about you.”
“And what look is that?”
“Like you have business.” He lifted his glass and with a salute, drained it. He winced, shaking his head and making a face.
What a little bitch.
I was tempted to show him how it was done, but I did have plans for the night. And they didn’t involve a bottle of good whiskey. I pushed my shot back to him.
“Thanks, but I’m grand.”
“Come on, Liam. Lighten up.” But Kevin didn’t offer me the shot, slugging it back instead. “Jaysus, mate, he’s got it out for you.”
I shot a look to Johny, who was badly singing at the top of his lungs, shooting scathing glances at me. “He’d be stupider than he looks if he tried.”
“It was his brother. Show a little remorse.”
He assaulted my girl. I reached up and touched my shirt, under the tie. The metal was hot against my skin.
“Do you have a solution for the barrels of apples and crates of fish?” I lowered my voice.
Kevin’s gaze was beginning to glaze over. He stared hard at me, trying to translate the words.
Fucking hell. I wanted to smash his face into the table. Just because we’d paused work for a funeral this afternoon didn’t mean there weren’t heaps of tasks on our plates.
“Ho, ha, right,” Kevin muttered. “The books. Yeah, mate, I got nothing right now. But I’ll scan them. First thing in the morning.”
“Do that.”
Kevin had gone to school for forensic accounting. A skill that we exploited daily. He was a piss poor fighter, but his brain was wicked sharp.
“Are we going to have to show the gross profits to our new allies?” Kevin leaned forward. Mercifully, he kept his voice low. “You know we don’t need them. Business is better than ever.”
It did suck. We’d been forced to join forces, which meant some of our business would likely be shared. To what extent, my father and the don were conversing regularly.
“Filthy Italians,” Kevin muttered, not realizing that I hadn’t answered. “They’re so fecking poor.”
“That decision is up to the boss.” I pushed to my feet. “You’ll do well to remember that.”
Kevin lifted his hands in defense. “I meant no disrespect, but come on, mate. The Morelli Family has what? Forty-five sworn men and seventy-five associates? They don’t seem eager to expand their net profit margins.”
It was true. They didn’t. Which made gaining this alliance all the stranger.
“Keep that kind of talk to yourself.” I loomed over him, and added with a hiss, “Just because they’re a smaller organization, doesn’t mean they’re less deadly.”
The damn mice had teeth. And balls. Big enough to mess with lions.
Kevin scowled but gave me a nod. He raised his glass in a salute. “Sláinte!”
I turned sharply on my heel, not liking that I’d put the rest of the pub to my back to threaten the accountant. Striding out the back door, I let the chaos of the mourning pub slough off me as the stillness of the night enveloped me.
There was a tale my mother used to read to me.
It was about a lion who’d trapped a mouse.
Upon a plea, the lion let it go, laughing that the tiny creature could ever help him.
When a hunter caught the great beast in a net, the mouse chewed the ropes and freed the king of the jungle, cementing their friendship. That story paralleled our situation.
The Morelli family saved us by ending the street war with a rival clan. On a personal level, I owed Vincenzo Messina my life. Two debts. Now a tentative friendship.
But what the author of that little fable failed to mention was what happened afterward. What kind of world welcomed the alliance between a mouse and a predator? We were walking daily in unknown territory, and there wasn’t enough trust on either side.
That was why I spent my nights on the streets.
Sliding into my car, I crept into the dark.
To hunt. To watch the mice and make sure they didn’t take advantage of us.
There was one mouse I had a particular interest in observing.
Except, there was nothing rodent-esque about her.
She had wings. And soon, I would make her sing.
The anticipation of hearing those sweet songs that I would make scream from her throat sent a white-hot strike of lightening through my veins, making my dick pulse in readiness.