Whiskey Kisses (Gangland Hearts #2)

1. Tristan

Ten Months Later

T he microwave beeps faintly, letting me know my burritos are ready, but I barely hear it over the roar of the crowd crackling from my laptop’s speakers. I might not be able to fight right now, but I can watch old videos of myself dancing around the ring, reminding me of how good it felt to dominate.

Movement catches my eye, and I look up, spotting my reflection in the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony. It’s the tail end of twilight, and the lights of Boston are blinking on just as stars start to speckle the clear September sky. That view is the reason I chose this unit over all the others.

It’s hard to see all that right now through the colorful canvas of my body, once immaculate but now marred with the memories of bullets that tore through my flesh. I trace a finger along the worst of them, a jagged scar rising from my left bicep like a little mountain range. Ironically, it’s one of the only parts of my upper body that isn’t tattooed. I’d had plans to finish my sleeve, but then I got shot. Needless to say, surgery and rehab took precedence over aesthetics.

Turning away from my reflection, I slam my laptop shut, plunging the room into silence. I pull on a shirt and close the blinds, shutting the city out. My phone blinks to life with the latest in a series of unanswered texts from friends, but I shut that out, too. Yes, I’m fine. No, I don’t want to meet up later.

Another text comes through as I retrieve my dinner from the microwave, and I catch Lucky’s name. It’s not the first message he’s sent today. I usually always text him back—I just forgot this time.

We still on for tomorrow?

Yeah.

And then, because I don’t want to sound sulky, I follow up with

I’ll come by around 12.

And then, because no one knows me like my big brother, he follows up with

You ok? Want to come over? Nola made shepherd’s pie.

The heaviness hovering over me clears a little. Bria, my sister-in-law, keeps reminding me that connection is key. I know this. Family has always, always, come first. And, since I got hurt, it’s more than that—my family is my lifeline.

Because honestly, it’s hard to muster the motivation to do … well, anything. My life used to be full to bursting. I trained hard every day, taught up-and-comers to fight at Callaghan’s, and competed locally all the time, occasionally traveling for a fight. I spent quality time with my parents and sister and handled business with Lucky. I hung with my friends most nights, hitting the bars and playing pool, hooking up with cute girls.

Life looks a lot different these days.

I still train every day at Callaghan’s, but it’s a far cry from what it used to be. I haven’t been officially cleared to fight yet, so I don’t spar with anyone besides my coach. I go to physical therapy twice a week and work out at home. My social life consists of hanging at my brother’s, family dinners, and Mass because Mom wants so desperately for me to be there. Otherwise, it’s food delivery and binging Netflix until I fall asleep.

Bria says this shrinking of my life, this reclusiveness, is a trauma response. She can’t help herself—she’s a therapist-in-training. She’s not wrong, though. She was injured pretty bad the same night I was, so she gets me in a way that no one else does—not even Lucky. Being alone too much does eat away at me. Without sparring and winning matches and teaching folks to fight, I feel purposeless. Empty.

I text Lucky back.

I’m great

After dinner, I head for the guest room, aka my training room. I start with some of the gentle yoga moves my physical therapist, Mia, prescribed back when we first started. Taking a long, deep breath, I try to calm the mess of emotions within. Focus . Another breath.

The exercise regimen I’ve designed for myself is grueling, designed not just to test the limits of my endurance, but to shatter them. Push-ups come first, my form decent despite the tremors quaking through my impaired arm. I push through the discomfort, one punishing repetition after another. Crunches. Burpees. A few more stretches, deeper, not so easy this time, until I feel ready to throw a few punches.

I shadowbox for a half hour before moving onto the punching bag, alternating slow and steady with rapid-fire combos. “Come on,” I grit out, ignoring the itchy pull of scar tissue. Because it’s not enough to do just enough . It wasn’t when I was healthy and whole, and it sure as shit isn’t now. With each jab, each hook, each uppercut, I fight against the creeping doubts that try to take root in my mind every fucking day.

Eventually, like every time I train, my movements become less about technique and more about catharsis. I go hard, reclaiming myself with every smack of the bag until I fold to the floor, panting, muscles trembling from exertion. I’m tired. And my arm hurts so bad I could puke.

“ Easy, Tristan. You're no good to anyone if you push too hard and bust yourself up even more.” Coach Abioye’s words run through my brain, the same shit he says every time we train. “Healing is just as much a part of the fight as throwing punches.”

Yeah, yeah. But today I win. I win against me .

A couple of feet away, my phone vibrates against the hardwood floor. With a groan, I roll over and pick it up. It’s Mia.

WYD?

Just finished working out

You should come work out over here ;)

I flop onto my back, considering. Let’s just say that Mia’s good at all kinds of physical therapy. We have fun together, no strings attached. That’s the only thing that works for me these days. My last real relationship crashed and burned ages ago, before I got shot, and I haven’t had the emotional bandwidth to try again.

Or you could come here ;)

OMW.

I let myself in through the back door, poking my head into Lucky’s kitchen.

"Hey, Tristan." Bria looks up from the kitchen table, which is covered in textbooks, notes, highlighters, and coffee cups. She’s in grad school at Boston University, taking forensic psychology classes while Liam is in school. It’s only been a few months since she went from being my nephew’s nanny to his stepmom, but the transition’s been smooth as butter.

“Bria the Cheese.” Stepping inside, I kick off my Nikes and shut the door. “How’s it hangin’?”

“You do realize I’ve got nothing to hang,” she deadpans, eyeing me as I swipe a cookie from the glass jar on the countertop. She’s always baking cookies, and they’re always fantastic.

“I don’t know about that. You’ve got more cojones than most guys I know.” I pop the cookie into my mouth. “Um, hmm. Is that … matcha?”

“Yes!” She raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Good tastebuds. ”

I chew thoughtfully, examining the flavors. “It’s kinda weird, but I like it.”

“Feel free to take some home, then. Lucky and Liam think they’re gross.”

“Where is Lucky? He back yet?”

“Yeah, he’s upstairs in the office.”

“Well, what about Liam Kelly? Is he around?” I call loudly, looking around. “I’ve got a delivery.”

There’s a far-off woot, followed by rapid footsteps thumping down the stairs. Liam slides into the kitchen on socked feet, his blue nose pit bull Shelby skidding in right behind him. His unruly black curls are so much like his dad’s when we were little it’s like traveling back in time. “Hey, Uncle Tris!”

I extend my fist in greeting. He bumps it, twisting to see what I have behind my back, but I lift the wrapped package over his head. "Not so fast, Liam-a-saurus Rex. You've got to catch me first."

He chases me into the living room, where I let him tackle me to the couch. “Gotcha!”

Shelby barks, licking my face. Sighing dramatically, I sit up and surrender the box to Liam’s outstretched hands. “Fine, fine.”

"What did you get me?” he asks, ripping open the box.

“More toys?” Lucky appears in the doorway, pushing his sleeves up. “You know you spoil him, right?”

“Don’t worry.” I lean back against the couch, hands clasped behind my head. “I’ll spoil all your kids just the same.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Bria calls from the kitchen, but Lucky just smirks. I give ‘em a year before he knocks her up, grad school or not.

“What is this?” Liam asks, all smiles as he examines the gadget.

“It’s a planetarium projector,” I explain, pointing to the picture on the box. “It makes your ceiling look like the night sky. There are different settings for?—”

“Wow!” yells Liam, holding the projector aloft for a second as he flings himself at me. “Can we do it now? Can we look at the stars right now?”

I catch him with a grunt, positioning him so he’s not leaning against my bad arm. At five, he’s not as little as he used to be, or as soft, now all pointy elbows and knees. “Sure, bud, when I get back. I gotta go someplace with your dad first.”

“Be careful with Uncle Tris.” Lucky plucks him off me and sets him on the floor. “He’s still healing, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Liam casts a worried glance at my arm, giving it a gentle pat. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I ruffle his hair as I stand. “I’m tougher than I look.”

He wraps his arms around my middle and squeezes. “You look very tough to me.”

The familiar din of Dubliner’s welcomes Dad, Lucky and me as we duck into our usual snug, a warmly lit booth in the back of the pub. A couple of patrons sitting at the bar greet us with hearty handshakes and hellos as we pass by. Everyone knows my family. My father ran Saoirse, Boston’s most successful crime syndicate, for the past two decades and my brother runs it now. Most love us, some hate us. But everyone respects us.

Jacey stops by with three pints as we settle in. “From your buddies at the bar.”

Dad doesn’t drink as much as he used to for health reasons, but he lifts a glass toward the bar, tipping his chin in acknowledgment. “Sláinte.” Lucky and I follow, raising our glasses.

“May your troubles be less, and your blessings be more,” someone calls back, sounding sauced. I sip my beer with a snort. It’s just past one in the afternoon.

“How are things?” Dad asks, setting his glass aside. His bright green eyes, so like mine, study me from across the table like he might glean something important he can’t from our daily phone calls and texts. “Abioye and Ramirez give you the all-clear yet?”

Dele Abioye and Dr. Javi Ramirez have been working with me since high school when I branched out from competitive Brazilian jiu jitsu into MMA. They work together to handle the intricacies of both my training regimen and my health, so the last year has been really different for all of us. Before, I trained to win. I was Callaghan’s top fighter, one of the best in the Northeast. Now, I’m training just to get back into the ring. My only opponent is my own body.

I shake my head. “Javi doesn’t think I’m there yet, so Coach doesn’t want to push it. I’m close, though—a couple more months.”

“I know it’s taking longer than you want, but you’re doing everything right.” Dad’s eyes soften. “You’ll get there.”

“It’s hard sitting on the sidelines, watching the other guys move on,” I admit after a moment. “Guys I used to dominate.”

“You’ll dominate again,” Lucky says quietly, gazing at his beer. “And you’ll be stronger than ever because you had to work harder than any of those bozos to get back.”

He still blames himself for how things went down last year, when his girl—now his wife—and I got hurt. Always the big brother. But nobody forced me to run into that house, and nobody could’ve kept me from getting my nephew back. Or Bria. I’m responsible for my own shit. Hopefully Lucky’s therapy sessions will drill this into his thick skull sometime soon.

“No doubt,” I agree, clinking my glass to his so hard it splashes.

“Idiot,” he says with a laugh, flicking some of the liquid back at me.

"All right, let’s get down to business,” Dad says, glancing at his watch. “Tristan, how do you feel about taking the lead with Doyle Whiskey?”

“Seriously?” I pause, surprised. I’ve long been interested in our family’s expansion beyond Mom’s wine business, but I didn’t see this coming. “Why, what’s going on?”

“Randall Doyle’s still playing games.” Lucky leans forward, voice low. “Remember when I was down there last time? I told him he could either start paying up without interest, which is pretty damn charitable, or turn the distillery over to us. We would own it, but he’d still run it and make a cut off the profits.”

“Damn, that’s right.” I sit up, thinking back. “He’s still waffling?”

“A year and a half later,” Dad says grimly. “Dodging our calls like a coward. I’ve known Randall for a long time, and he can be slippery, but I gotta say I didn’t expect him to pull this with me.”

“Especially with how generous your offer was,” I murmur, thinking back to the last time we were in Savannah as a family. I was still a kid. “You guys used to be pretty tight. ”

“They say money ruins friendships,” Dad says. “But pride and greed are just as bad. Randall’s made a few unwise moves over the years, and the distillery’s suffering as a result. I know how iffy business can be, even with one as seemingly solid as his, so I tried to be there for him. My mistake.”

“Being a good guy is never a mistake,” Lucky says, and I have to agree. Dad’s savage when it calls for it, but he’s also got a huge heart. It’s why he’s respected the way he is. “Randall’s the one making mistakes. He’s had plenty of chances to work this out with us amicably, but he chooses to be a shady fucker.”

Jacey stops by to take our order, leaving a fresh round of pints behind. Our comrades from the bar wave as they leave, shouting for us not to be strangers.

“How much does he owe?” I ask.

“Three hundred and fifteen grand.” Lucky pushes a printed spreadsheet across the table.

“Doyle must really be mucking things up if he can’t pay,” I muse, glancing over the numbers. Several loans were made over the course of eight years, the last of which was three years ago. “That distillery’s one of the most popular in the South.”

“And we’re not the only ones he owes,” my father adds, tapping the spreadsheet to emphasize his point. “He’s in debt with a few other lenders and suppliers—that we know of. Not all of whom are above board, if you catch my drift.”

“Doyle’s a gambler,” says Lucky. “He pretends to be this proper businessman, and maybe at one point he was, but …”

“So basically, if we don’t act soon, we might never see this money,” I say.

“Right. But it’s more than just settling old debts.” Lucky’s mouth flattens as he reaches across the table and pushes up my sleeve, revealing the small family crest tattooed on my right wrist. Every man in our family has this tattoo somewhere on his body. “It’s about making sure people know this family won’t be trifled with.”

“Which is good business. Straightening this out can only strengthen our legacy,” Dad says.

He means our legit legacy, comprised of Kelly Logistics, which has been in our family since the early 1980s, and Fiáin Estate, Mom’s winery. She has three vineyards to her name and a production team specializing in experimental wines.

I nod, thinking of a popular microbrewery I’d looked into once. “I’ve always thought we should expand beyond Fiáin.”

“I know. That’s exactly why this job is perfect for you,” Lucky says with a smug grin.

Maybe it is, but that’s only part of it. I know Dad and Lucky are worried about me these days. They think I’m depressed, that I’m having an identity crisis or something because I can’t fight.

“All right,” I say after a moment.

“Good,” Dad says. “How soon can you go?”

I review my phone’s calendar, making note of which commitments I’ll have to put on hold. “Give me two days.”