27. Brady
Brady
Cora surprises me by wanting to stay at the pub. After the rest of my family leaves for the night, she makes her way behind the bar. The customers are dwindling, but Erin says she’s happy for the help.
So we stay.
As she cleans glasses, Cora chats with Erin the way she chatted with Peter—like she’s known her for years. She asks for stories about Erin’s cat, whose name is apparently Nightshade.
It’s fitting for Erin. I’ve never seen our pub’s manager in anything other than her black leather coat and black jeans.
And she’s always got on heavy, dark eye makeup, which makes her look like she knows her way around poisons.
But her cat’s name is another fact about my personnel that Cora knew before I did.
My wife is good at charming people. It’s the skill of a sociopath, of someone who excels at this mafia life. And fuck me, it is sexy to watch her wield it.
When it’s past midnight, the only patron left is Old Bob. He nurses his Tullamore and water on his usual stool, his book of large-print wordsearches open on the bar in front of him.
“We’ll close up,” I tell Erin. Cora gives me the slightest frown, but Erin doesn’t seem to mind being dismissed.
“Whatever you say, boss.” Erin takes the dish towel from her shoulder and tosses it at my face. As I snatch it from the air, I see Cora’s frown flicker again. It’s almost too fleeting to notice, but it fills me with vindictive joy.
So my wife is the jealous type.
She’s even jealous of Erin, who I’ve never once considered messing around with.
Erin bids us goodnight, clapping Old Bob on the shoulder on her way out. All of the closing tasks are pretty much done. The wooden chairs are stacked on their tables, the floor is mopped, the soda gun’s cleaned, the ice is burned. But still, Cora busies herself.
She takes it upon herself to dust the liquor bottles. They’re four shelves high along the mirrored wall behind the bar, and she’s thorough with each one. As she stretches up to reach the top shelf, I take the opportunity to admire her shapely ass.
She catches me in the mirror. With her pouty lips in a disapproving smirk, she bends her hips to lean forward, stretches up just a little bit more.
The woman is temptation itself. I want to push up her dress and turn her ass red for teasing me like that, then fuck her from behind until she can’t walk straight.
“Grab the Jameson,” I tell her. I pull out two shot glasses.
Cora obeys, but with her own flair. When she pulls the bottle from the shelf, she swings it down, then up behind her back for it to spin over her shoulder.
She’s going to do an elbow bump. Impressive, but I can one-up her.
After she bumps the bottle back into the air, I reach out to snatch it before she does.
But the clever minx outmaneuvers me. Without missing a beat, she stomps her spiky heel down on my foot, making me curse and stumble backward. Then she catches the bottle and pours our two shots. Completely uncaring of the fact that she intentionally caused me pain.
Well, well. Two can play at that game.
My heart rate accelerates as I meet her defiant gaze. We toss back our shots without breaking eye contact. After we’ve slammed down our glasses, I hear Old Bob shut his book and climb off his stool.
“Think that’s my cue,” he says, sliding crumpled bills onto the bar. “Goodnight, ya kooks.”
“Night, Bob,” Cora calls. It’s the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard from her, each word covered in syrup.
The old man throws a hand over his shoulder before pushing out the front door. Hiking up his jacket collar, he strolls down the sidewalk with his book tucked under his arm.
There was a time when he would’ve been an easy target for muggers. After dark in this part of town was risky for the vulnerable. But now that we O’Sullivans control the area, our streets are clean of petty thugs. We keep our people safe.
I lock the door behind Old Bob. Now it’s just me and my wife.
I watch Cora open the cash drawer and flick up the money clips. Sorting Bob’s bills, she starts counting my pub’s cash for the night. Bold woman. I keep an eye on those light fingers of hers. I almost want her to try something, that way I can catch her red-handed.
She doesn’t. At least not that I can see, which is an unsettling thought. This woman can outmaneuver me. When she finishes closeout, she returns to dusting the bottles on the top shelf. But I’ve put up with enough of her teasing.
“I have something to show you,” I tell her. She quirks an eyebrow at me, intrigued.
When I’d brought her to my office, I’d allowed her into my space. My sanctum. I’d never brought a woman there before. Never brought anyone into my personal spaces if I could help it. But Cora. She’s part of my life now.
And what’s more, she’s part of my family.
I lead her into the back hall and show her the rooms. The sacred spaces of the O’Sullivans.
“Office,” I say.
She peers in at the monitors, then keeps following me.
“And the back room.” I open the door for her.
She steps in cautiously, almost reverently. I can tell that she knows the significance of me bringing her back here.
I see our headquarters through her eyes. Long table surrounded with wooden chairs. Yellow walls scattered with old family photos and an Irish flag. A filing cabinet in the corner. Nothing all that exciting.
And yet, Cora takes in the room like she’s absorbing every detail of it. She does know what this means.
For me.
For her.
For us.
She meanders along one wall of pictures, then pauses.
“Is that…?” she asks.
I know the photo without looking at it. A sepia from the old country. Mam, ten years old, on the shoulders of two famous Irish sisters, in their twenties at the time.
“Yeah,” I confirm.
“Holy shit,” Cora says. “Your mom’s a badass.”
She continues down the wall of pictures. She’s taking her time, showing respect.
“No way.” She stops at my high school graduation photo, her jaw open.
I was a lot scrawnier back then. Despite all my effort, I didn’t bulk up until college. My wife turns to look me up and down. To appreciate me with that sly grin of hers.
“Well done you,” she says.
Pride glows in my chest as she continues down the wall. She takes slow, swaying steps away from me. Her high heels give her ass an extra roundness. On full display beneath the tied-up hem of my shirt.
She’s wearing my shirt. And I think I know why. My cock twitches.
I lock the door.
There’s one last thing I need to check first.
“Did you follow my orders?” I ask her. She turns to face me, and my shirt covers her tits, concealing the answer.
“Why don’t you see for yourself?” she challenges.