Killian
THREE
“Just close my tab, alright?”
The new server pivots on her heel and marches off without so much as a backward glance. Not that I’d expect any better after the piss-poor service she’s given tonight.
Rude little thing.
I’m going to find out from Tom just where she’s come from and what the fuck he was thinking when he hired her on.
I’m still glaring after her when Sean snorts and interrupts my thoughts. I glance back over at him to find him grinning like a fucking idiot.
“I like her. She’s got spirit.”
“She’s got an attitude problem.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?” he asks. He takes a swig of his drink, eyes crinkling with amusement. “So, how’s it feel being Clan Chief while the boss is off honeymooning with his missus?”
I grunt, reaching for my whiskey. “It’s my worst fucking nightmare.”
“Come on. You’re telling me there’s no part of you that enjoys being in charge? Calling the shots? Having lads like me at your beck and call?”
“I’m telling you I’d rather be in the ring getting my face rearranged than deal with the politics of this shit. The underworld is more formal than the fucking city council—which makes it funnier that those snobby fucks look down on us.”
Sean laughs, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Gotta say, I was surprised when Ronan tapped you for it.”
“He wanted Lochlan. But you know the deal there.”
A brief beat of awkward silence follows.
Sean’s face turns as red as his hair as he clears his throat and downs the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp. Then he reaches for his Guinness and polishes that off too.
There’s no need to ponder about his sudden discomfort—he is fucking Loch’s ex-wife after all.
Has been since before they were ever divorced, if the rumors are true.
Turns out, Cara could hardly wait ’til her husband was locked up and she had freedom for the first real time in adulthood. She filed for divorce and started up an affair with one of his buttonmen as if that wasn’t going to be awkward as hell the moment it inevitably got out.
“Yeah… err… well…” Sean stammers finally. “I get why he wouldn’t be interested. Lucky you.”
“Lucky fucking me.”
I drain the rest of my whiskey and set the glass down almost as hard as the new server girl had. Across the pub, I catch her glancing over at our table again. Third time in the last ten minutes.
What’s her deal? Why is she looking over here if she’s so keen to escape as soon as she’s flagged over?
As if shocked by electricity, she flinches and looks away the second she catches me catching her. The instant she realizes I see her staring and I’m glaring back.
She returns to serving a slumped idiot at the bar counter as if she wasn’t just watching me.
I’m a paranoid fuck; I won’t pretend otherwise. But I didn’t survive this long by ignoring my instincts. The girl pings my bullshit meter, and I’ll be making a point to find out why.
Who the fuck is she, and why does she feel like trouble orbiting my space?
“At least things’re stable enough for now,” Sean continues, oblivious to my distraction. “The crews are in line. Shipments are moving. We’re raking in dough. No major fires to put out.”
“Except the Bratva.”
Sean’s expression dims. “Right, which I guess is a major fire, isn’t it?”
It’s the unfortunate truth we’ve grappled with for weeks.
The Russians have been a thorn in our side ever since things went south with a couple deals that had been brokered.
Lochlan was behind the situation—as well as some excommunicated, former Italian capo who got his face blown off—but as far as the Raguzins are concerned, the entire clan is responsible.
One Irish fucks with them, all Irish are responsible.
Since then, we’ve been dealing with escalating tensions and small skirmishes that are sure to grow if the temperature’s not turned down.
“I’ve arranged a meeting with Rurik,” I say. “At Gossier’s. Neutral ground.”
Sean’s brows shoot up. “You? A diplomatic meeting? Thought I’d see pigs fly before the boneman played negotiator.”
“Keep running your mouth and you’ll see my fist fly into your fucking teeth.”
He holds up his hands in surrender, still smirking. “Easy, boss. Just saying it’s not exactly your usual wheelhouse.”
“My usual wheelhouse is breaking bones. But Ronan wants this handled, so I’m handling it like he’s asked.” I slide out from the booth and fish my keys and wallet out of my pocket. “Doesn’t mean I won’t snap Rurik’s neck if he gives me a reason.”
“There’s the killer I know and fear.”
I toss a couple twenty dollar bills on the table for the drinks and the tip—more than the rude server girl deserves.
But I’m not trying to prove whatever assumptions she’s made about me are true.
Not that I give a shit what she thinks.
My eyes drift to the bar again, but she’s disappeared into the back. Probably counting down the minutes ’til closing so she can be rid of customers like me.
Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart.
“I’m heading out,” I say. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. But I’m out too. Promised Cara I’d… um, stop by her place.”
Another awkward beat passes as his ears redden and he averts my eyes.
We go our separate ways once outside the pub.
On Tuesday nights, the streets are quiet at this late hour.
Not exactly a peaceful kind of quiet—more so the kind where everybody with half a brain is home and locked behind their doors.
This part of Brooklyn isn’t known for its safety. Muggings, rapes, drug deals, the occasional body turning up in an alley. It’s not unusual to encounter trouble wandering these streets after dark.
…unless you’re me.
I walk these streets like I own them, no matter the hour.
Anybody familiar with the neighborhood knows not to fuck with the boneman. Not even the junkies on the block are that fucking dumb.
It doesn’t hurt that I’m six three and built like a brick shithouse, with a face that’s been rearranged enough times to make it clear I’m not afraid of a fight. In fact, I welcome them. Nothing clears my head like knocking somebody’s lights out.
But tonight, for once, I’m not looking for trouble.
All I want is to get home, take a hot shower, and pass out on my shitty mattress for a few hours before I’m up at the ass crack of dawn for more training at the local gym. My next match is a month away, and that’ll come quicker than it sounds like it would.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I fish it out, expecting a message from one of the crew. Maybe Cian alerting me to some urgent situation that needs to be handled, or Sean drunk texting me about taking the wrong subway (wouldn’t be the first time). Instead, it’s Bridget.
heyyyy sorry I missed you at the pub tonight!! was thinking about u tho lol
I stare at the screen for a few seconds, my brain trying to catch up with my eyes.
We only exchanged numbers a few days ago.
She’d been flirting with me for weeks before this—bright smiles, lingering touches on my arm when she’d drop off drinks, the little giggle she does when I say something that’s not even funny.
I’m not an idiot. I know when a woman’s interested.
What I am is fucking useless when it comes to doing anything about it.
Fighting I understand. Violence makes sense to me in a way nothing else does.
There’re rules to a fight—hit or be hit, win or lose, kill or be killed.
But women? Women are a goddamn mystery. A beautiful, confusing enigma I’ve never managed to uncover.
The fairer sex has always reminded me how big, tactless, and dumb I can be. I’ve never been smart enough to understand their emotions or how to make them happy…
Still, Bridget seems to like me despite my lack of game. She’s cute and friendly, and I’ve found myself with that funny feeling in my stomach when she’s around.
I figure I should at least try. I bang out a reply.
Missed you too. Where were you?
Her reply comes fast.
ughhh it was my time of the month cramps were SO bad I had to leave early. felt like death lol
I frown at the screen, thumbing out another response.
You should’ve told me. I would’ve stopped by your place. Brought you something.
The second I hit send, I wonder if that’s too forward.
We’ve been flirting, sure, but it’s not like we’ve gone on a date or anything. I’ve never even kissed this woman before.
Maybe offering to come to her apartment is crossing some kind of line. She’s probably going to think I’m a creep now.
A minute passes, then that turns into two, and no response comes.
She’s left me on read.
Fuck.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, scowling at the sidewalk. This is exactly why I stick to fighting. At least when I fuck up in the ring, I know how to recover. With women, I’m swinging blind and hoping for the best.
The dry cleaners comes into view; the faded sign barely visible in the meager glow of the streetlights.
My apartment’s on the second floor—a cramped studio that’s barely big enough for my bed and gym equipment. The place has spotty hot water and is cheap and modest, especially considering what I really can afford, but the pros outweigh the cons.
It’s simple and fits my lifestyle. Most importantly, it’s close enough to both my favorite gym and my favorite pub. What more can I ask for?
I reach into my pocket for my keys and come up empty.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
I check my other pocket, then the first pocket again.
The keys are gone. Which means they’re probably sitting on the table back at the pub, right where I left them after tossing down the cash.
They say boxers are dumb and maybe that’s for a reason.
I’ve obviously taken too many fucking punches to the head. My memory’s turning to shit.
I turn around and start walking back the way I came, swearing under my breath.
The keys better be at the pub. Otherwise I’m breaking into my own goddamn apartment.
The walk back to the Banshee takes about ten minutes, and I spend every single one of them cursing my own stupidity.
Fucking keys. Fucking braincells. Fucking boxing turning my skull into swiss cheese.
Maeve’s always telling me I need to start writing things down or using those reminder apps on my phone like a normal person.
But every time I try, I forget to check the damn reminders anyway, so what’s the damn point?
My baby sister got the brains in the family. I got the fists.
Fair trade I guess, all things considered.
The Banshee slips into view at the end of the block, dark and quiet now that closing time’s come and gone.
Tom’s probably already home, which means I’ll have to use the alarm code to get in.
He gave it to me years ago, back when I first started working for the Callahans and the pub became my unofficial second home.
Tom’s good people—one of the few civilians who knows exactly what I do for a living and doesn’t flinch when I walk through the door with blood on my knuckles. He’s had enough experience with the Irish mob to know we’re fair men deep down.
So long as you don’t fuck us over, we won’t fuck you over.
I’m about halfway down the final block when I hear it.
Glass shatters from inside the pub, sounding five times louder in the silent night.
I freeze mid-step, every instinct snapping to attention.
Then comes a woman’s scream. It’s sharp and panicked and cuts off too quickly, as if somebody’s shut her up midway through.
What the fuck?!
I break into a run, closing the distance in seconds. I press myself against the brick wall beside the window and peer through the grimy, dark glass.
The lights are off inside. The chairs are stacked on the tables like they should be after closing. But there’s movement in the shadows—large shapes converging near the back of the pub.
Three men. Big guys, moving with purpose.
In the middle of them, struggling against the grip of the largest one, is a woman with messy, curly hair and glasses that are hanging crooked off her face.
The new server. The rude little thing with the sharp tongue and the bad attitude.
She’s fighting like a wildcat, kicking and clawing at the men surrounding her, but she’s half their size and there’s three of them.
One of them backhands her hard enough to send her glasses flying to the ground, and she crumples against a table.
Rage explodes to life from within, and I’m in go mode all at once. I’m in that headspace, where I blackout and give into fighter instincts.
Killer instincts.
I don’t know who these fucking assholes are or what they want with the server girl. The same girl I can’t even fucking stand.
But I know predators when I see them, and I made a promise a long time ago I’d never standby as a man put his hands on a woman.
Not after the household I grew up in. Not then and not now.
Looks like I’m going for round two after all. T-Bone was the warm-up. Let’s see what these fuckers are made of.