Chapter 1
Crucible
Sean
The thing about rock bottom is that it has a basement.
I toss back the shot. My fourth? Fifth? Who the fuck remembers?
Slamming the empty glass on the bar, I signal the bartender for another.
The Copper Lantern reeks of stale beer and poor decisions, which makes it perfect for a Monday night when I’m supposed to be reviewing shipping manifests for my father.
Fuck the manifests.
Fuck my father.
Fuck everything.
“Sean O’Neill.” A hand claps down on my shoulder, hard enough to slosh my whisky, which just pisses me off. “Thought I might find you here.”
I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Oisin Murphy has a voice like gravel in a blender and a grip that suggests he’s been practicing on smaller men’s throats.
“Oisin.” I drain my fresh shot before facing him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He’s brought friends. Two of them, both built like brick shithouses, flanking me in the narrow space between the stools on either side. The other patrons suddenly find their drinks fascinating and move away.
Can’t say I blame them. I’d move too if I could work up the effort to, but the fact is, I can’t be fucking arsed.
“You owe me thirty thousand euros,” Oisin says. “Two weeks overdue.”
Shit.
I’d forgotten about the poker game. Or more accurately, I’d tried to forget about it, which in my experience amounts to the same thing. Out of sight, out of mind is my motto.
“Temporary cash flow issue,” I say, summoning a smile that could charm the panties off any woman. Too bad Oisin is all man. “You know how it is. Money’s tied up in—”
“Bullshit.” Oisin’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Never does. “You have O’Neill accounts. You have family money. You have access.”
“Had access,” I correct him, because apparently, I’ve got a death wish tonight. “My father’s put me on an allowance after the Harrington situation.”
“The situation where you lost a quarter million in one night? Yeah, I heard about that. All of Dublin heard about that. Very impressive, losing that much money that fast.”
One of his friends laughs, a sound like a garbage disposal choking on cutlery.
“Look,” I say, turning back to the bar because looking at Oisin’s face makes me want to hit him, and hitting him would be the last thing I ever did in this state. “I’m good for it. I just need another week—”
The first punch catches me in the kidney.
Oisin’s man knows exactly where to aim for maximum effect. My vision whites out as pain explodes through my lower back, radiating up my spine.
I double over, groaning as this night catches up with me, and that’s when the second punch lands, this one to my ribs.
“Week’s up,” Oisin says conversationally, as if he’s commenting on the weather. “You don’t have the money, we take payment another way.”
The third punch makes me slide off the stool. The bartender has disappeared, along with most of the other patrons. The few who remain watch with the detached interest of people who’ve seen this movie before and know how it ends.
There is no point in trying to fight. I can barely fucking see straight. I stay down, staring up at Oisin’s face as he looms over me.
“Tell you what,” Oisin says. “I’m a reasonable man. You work for me for a month, we call it even.”
“Work for you,” I repeat, my brain struggling through the whisky and pain to understand what he’s offering.
“Information.” He releases my hair, and I slump forward. “You’re an O’Neill. You hear things. See things. Your father and brother think you’re too drunk and stupid to matter, so they talk in front of you. You tell me what they say, and your debt disappears.”
Betrayal.
He’s asking me to betray my family.
“Fuck you,” I spit, and the words come out with more blood.
Oisin sighs. “Wrong answer.”
He kicks me in the ribs, but that’s it. I’ve gone past self-awareness of my drunken state, and into the O’Neill you don’t fuck with unless you have a death wish.
I grab his foot and twist with every ounce of spite left in my body.
There’s a sickening pop of either an ankle giving way or tendons snapping, I don’t give a shit which, and Oisin goes down like a sack of wet cement.
He grunts, a rough sound that cuts through the haze of alcohol in my brain. I scramble up, ignoring the fire in my ribs, and lunge. I’m not the heir. I’m not the diplomat. I’m the spare, the one who takes the throne if Liam ever croaks. Not fucking likely. Death wouldn’t dare.
I land a fist on Oisin’s nose before his men can react. Cartilage crunches under my knuckles. Blood sprays hot across my hand, sticky and metallic.
“Wrong answer?” I snarl, breathless. “Here’s another one.”
Then the enforcers engage. A boot connects with my shoulder, spinning me away from Oisin. I crash into a table, sending glasses shattering to the floor. The world tilts on its axis. My head is swimming, the whisky turning sour in my gut, but I grab a jagged shard of glass from a broken pint.
“Come on, then!” I roar, swaying on my feet. I probably look like a lunatic, bleeding and laughing, but the fear in the younger man’s eyes is worth every ache.
They hesitate. Just for a second. That’s the power of the O’Neill name, even when attached to the family disappointment. They know if they kill me, my father will burn this city to ash to find them.
The first one lunges, a wall of meat and bad intentions. I swing the jagged pint glass in a wild arc. It’s sloppy—the whisky has robbed me of finesse, leaving only raw, ugly force—but it connects. The shard rakes across his forearm as he throws a block, slicing through skin.
“That all you got?” I taunt.
I don’t see the second one coming until his fist slams into the side of my head.
Lights burst behind my eyes, brighter than the neon signage flickering in the window.
My knees buckle, and gravity finally wins the war against my balance.
I hit the deck hard, the breath driven from my lungs in a wheezing gasp.
A boot to my head is the last thing I register before the world goes black.
I wake up on a bench in St. Stephen’s Green with a pigeon staring at me like I’m an exhibit in a zoo.
“Fuck off,” I tell it, squinting into the weak sunlight.
It doesn’t move. Just keeps watching with those beady little eyes.
“He lives.”
I groan at Liam’s voice. “You can fuck off as well.”
“Not happening, because if I do that, you are dead. Who did you piss off this time?”
I push myself up, a symphony of agony playing through my ribs and head.
The pigeon, finally sensing a better show elsewhere, flutters away.
Liam stands over me, not a hair out of place in his tailored suit, looking more like a banker than the heir to Connor O’Neill’s criminal empire. He doesn’t offer a hand. He never does.
“Oisin Murphy,” I manage, the name tasting like blood and stale whisky in my mouth.
“How much?” he asks, staring over me in the way he does, which makes me feel like nothing.
“Thirty grand,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face.
“That’s it?” he scoffs. “I’m impressed. You’ve changed.”
His sarcasm grates on what is left of my last nerve.
“He wanted information. On the family.”
That gets his attention. His blue eyes, so much like mine but without the exhaustion weighing them down, snap to mine.
He grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet.
The world spins, and I have to lean against him for a second, hating the weakness, hating that he’s the one holding me up.
Again. He smells clean and responsible. I smell of stale whisky, sweat and blood.
“And what did you tell him?” Liam’s voice is low, dangerous. The voice of the O’Neill heir, not my brother.
“To go fuck himself,” I spit, shoving away from him. I stumble but catch my balance. “What do you take me for?”
He doesn’t answer, just studies my battered face. “Did you pay up?”
“Not yet,” I admit, pulling out my empty pockets. “I’m a bit short of cash.”
He sighs, closing his eyes briefly before they open and pin me in place like two lasers. “I’ll take care of it.”
I start to say thank you for bailing me out again, but I just can’t bear to say the words. “No,” I say, swaying slightly. “I’ve got this.”
His gaze rakes over me. “Yeah, looks like it.”
“I said, I’ve got this,” I growl, my head banging like a fucking drum. “Stay out of it.”
“Oh, I’d love to. But when landlords of pubs call me up to tell me my brother has started a bar fight that will cost them thousands to fix, I’m kind of dragged into it, you fuck.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
He stares at me for a long time, and then he comes to some sort of decision.
Whatever it is, I know I’m not going to enjoy the consequences of it.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He stalks off, leaving me swaying in the morning chill.
I give him the finger and turn the opposite way.
I need to get to my car, get home, shower and then hit something until it breaks.
He doesn’t get it. He never will. He doesn’t have to deal with Connor’s disappointment on an hourly fucking basis.
Fishing around in my suit jacket for my keys, I pull them out and consider calling a cab, but fuck it.
It’s not that far to my apartment. The walk is a special kind of hell.
Each jarring step sends a wave of agony through my ribs.
My head feels like it’s full of broken glass, and the crisp morning air does fuck all to clear it.
It only sharpens the pain. Dublin is waking up around me with suits rushing to work, tourists with their maps, the whole fucking world moving on while I’m stuck in last night’s wreckage.
Fuck Liam. I’ll find the money to pay Oisin, even if I have to extract it from a business account somewhere deep in the forages of Connor’s portfolio.