Chapter 12
Seamus
My fist cracks straight into his jaw.
The young soldier’s a bloody mess. His eyes are swollen shut. Blood leaks down his face from a cut above his eyebrow. His ribs are likely broken, and I doubt he’ll ever use his fingers properly again, assuming he survives this.
My friend is tied to a steel chair. The basement floor is concrete. The lights flicker every time someone walks around upstairs. A convenient drain is placed right below him. It gurgles as blood washes down into the pipes.
I stalk back and forth across the room. His eyes track me, but his head lolls to the side. He’s barely conscious and in a lot of pain.
This hasn’t been as helpful as I had hoped.
“Normally, when a guy like you is caught sniffing around my territory, I don’t jump straight to torture.
” I stop walking and watch his reaction.
“I’m a reasonable man. I don’t enjoy violence.
It’s fun, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not a freak about it.
I don’t get off on hurting people. But I will gladly keep you down here for as long as it takes until you give me what I need. ”
He lets out a soft whimper. I think he’s trying to cry, but he’s way too fucked up for that. Breathing is just about all he can do. Forget about sobbing.
“I don’t… know anything…” He tries to open his ruined eyes. The bloody stump of his left hand flexes like his fingers haven’t all been severed. “Please… I don’t know…”
“You work for the Petrovs. They know better than to send one of their little rats to my territory, especially right now. I’ll ask again. Did your boss order the hits on my people?”
“I don’t know.” He flinches away when I approach. “Please, I don’t know! I don’t know!”
I’m about to hit him. At this point, I’m starting to think he really doesn’t have a fucking clue.
But my top lieutenant, Neal, found him watching one of our drug houses, which would be cause for a little conversation even during normal times.
When there’s a killer on the loose, that means all bets are off.
There’s a knock at the door. It creaks open before I can start the beating again. Neal looks inside, frowning slightly at the state of our friend before nodding at me.
I pat the enemy soldier on the cheek lightly. “Safe for now. I’ll be back. Do us both a favor and think very hard while I’m gone. I want to know why you were watching my property.”
Neal steps aside and closes the door behind me. The hallway’s damp and tight. Most of the space down here was stuffed with sound-dampening materials to keep the neighbors from complaining about too much screaming.
“Bad news,” Neal says. He’s in his early fifties. Old for a lieutenant, but tough as nails and no bullshit. I trust him more than most. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Right now? Can’t it wait? Our conversation was just getting good.”
He gives me a tight frown. “It’s your wife.”
I glare at him before turning to the steps. What the hell is Alina doing here? And how did she know where I was?
Finn, that bastard.
I gave him one simple job. Keep an eye on my wife until I can assign a more permanent guard duty.
It should’ve been simple. Beneath him, really. But Finn’s usually eager to help out however he can.
Only the bastard sent her here to my personal bar and home base instead.
Which is like the opposite of keeping her safe.
I storm up the steps. Neal stays below with our friend.
Saint Stephen’s is quiet this early. Regulars are stacked at the bar watching European soccer and drinking Guinnesses.
My bartender Cathy’s chatting them up and passing around baskets of salty fries.
Nobody pays me any mind, much less says anything about the blood on my fists and on my shirt.
They know better than to notice things they shouldn’t.
My wife is sitting behind the desk in my office. She’s squinting at my computer, one finger tapping lightly at her pouty lower lip while the other’s clicking around through my files.
“Who the hell organized your receipts?” she asks, shaking her head with disgust. “Don’t tell me you’re doing this yourself.”
I take a breath. God, if she weren’t so fucking pretty right now, I might actually be angry. “Believe it or not, this bar’s been open for twenty years, and it’ll be open for twenty more.”
“Not if you keep this up. My god, the accounting in here is a total mess. Seriously, who keeps your books?”
“There are a few of us.” Which is partially true. It’s mostly me, but Cathy helps out sometimes. “I take it things with Finn didn’t go well.”
She leans back in the chair and glares at me. “He’s ruining my day.”
I can’t help but laugh. What an absurd way to put it. First, the girl comes in here and starts criticizing my organizational skills, which is fair because I’m shit at it, but now she’s complaining about her day.
“Your day would be much worse if whoever’s been killing people decides to put a bullet in your head.”
“I don’t know. After seeing this—” She waves a hand at my computer. “A bullet to the skull might be nice.”
“You really are uptight and obsessive, aren’t you?”
“And you’re a flighty pain in my butt. You really can’t communicate, can you?”
“I have no problem communicating. It’s just that my wife is unreasonable and I don’t enjoy wasting my time.”
She snorts and shakes her head. Her anger’s kind of cute. Except I’m annoyed too and past the point of thinking this is adorable.
“I want Finn out of my store. He’s scaring away my customers.”
“I have a feeling your store will survive. I’m sure daddy’s money will keep it afloat.”
Her expression instantly hardens. I realize I just crossed a line, but I’m not sure why.
“Sistine isn’t some joke to me. I work hard to keep that place open.”
“I never said you didn’t.”
“No, you’re just acting like my boutique is some stupid distraction. I already know you think it, you made that clear before. It didn’t bother me, because who cares what you think, but now your brother’s making trouble. I need him gone, Seamus.”
“He’s there to keep you safe until I can come up with a more permanent solution.”
“I’m fine. Sistine’s in a safe neighborhood.”
“You’re fine because Finn’s there making sure nobody walks in and cuts your throat open. I get it, he’s making the bougie ladies uncomfortable, but you’ll survive. Finn stays.”
“Finn goes.” She pushes herself to her feet. “I understand you’re trying to make sure I’m protected. I’m not stupid and I’m not suicidal. If you had come to me and discussed this, we might’ve found a solution. Instead, you sent your brother, who wasn’t very subtle, by the way.”
“Sounds like him,” I mutter, annoyed he didn’t at least try to pull this off without making her angry.
“What do I have to do to make Finn go away?”
My eyebrows raise. “You want to cut a deal?”
“I told you. I’m not stupid.”
I consider that. She’s definitely not dumb. That’s obvious. The girl’s been around crime families long enough to know how this goes. She’s likely had protective details more than once over the years.
“Finn stays.” She starts to protest, but I keep going. “At least for the remainder of today. Then I’ll send a permanent guard duty. People who will be discreet and respectful. They’ll keep a reasonable distance, but they’ll still be around in case anything happens.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You want a deal? This is my offer.”
“Tell Finn he has to wait outside.” She comes around my desk. “And you need someone to fix those books for you. Hire a real accountant, for God’s sake.”
“I’ll tell him.” She strides past me. I’m tempted to reach out and grab her by the pretty blonde hair. I could crush her mouth with mine and tame that feisty attitude with a vicious kiss.
Instead, I let her go. No reason to make things worse.
“One more request,” I say before she leaves.
Alina pauses and looks back. “What’s that?”
“Come visit my house tonight. At least see the place before you decide you hate it.”
She stares at me. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but she’s clearly not happy. After a second, she nods sharply. “Pick me up tonight. Shop closes at six-thirty.”
“See you then, lovely wife.”
Her frown tightens. “Is that blood on your shirt?” She shakes her head and walks away. “Actually, I don’t want to know.”
I watch her hips sway as she goes.
My wife’s a pain in the ass. Not because she’s stubborn or because she’s an obsessive neat freak.
She’s a pain because I care about what she thinks.
I want to make her happy.
If she didn’t matter, this would be simple. I’d do whatever the hell I wanted and wouldn’t care if she complained.
Not happy? Too fucking bad.
Unfortunately, I’m trapped trying to actually take her feelings into account, and it’s the absolute worst.