Chapter 3
Brody
Sunday night dinners were one of the many traditions he and his cousins had carried on with after their parents’ deaths a decade before.
And while he enjoyed his alone time and the privacy of the home he owned one street over, he looked forward to Sunday evenings when he could sit down and enjoy his family as just his family without the shadow of their business dealings hanging over their heads.
From his spot to Killian’s left, he let his gaze travel over the gathered O’Rourkes.
Aria, their newest member, had taken what had previously been Brody’s spot at the table to Killian’s right.
While Brody was still very much Killian’s second in command, it had only seemed right for his wife to take that seat.
Especially since Aria had proven herself to be an O’Rourke in every way that mattered, over and over again.
To Aria’s right were the twins, Tiernan and Lochlan.
Eerily identical, other than the jagged scar on Tiernan’s face that he’d been gifted by an ex-girlfriend way back in high school, the twins were what most would refer to as the ‘muscle’ of the family.
Of all the cousins, they still had the most fun with their jobs, and often took great pleasure in hunting down the family’s enemies.
Lochlan, especially, had been enjoying flexing his borderline-sociopathic tendencies ever since they’d all but declared war on the other families in the area.
Or maybe they were psychopathic tendencies. Nobody was really sure.
Then there was cousin Murphy, the eldest of them all by nearly ten years.
By all rights, he should be in Killian’s spot, but he’d taken a very large, very deliberate step back from the family business over twenty years ago when he’d gotten married and had his one and only child.
His wife Abigail had long since disappeared, leaving Murphy alone in the raising of their son, Rowan.
Rowan himself was something of a disappointment. Slouched between his current conquest, Clara, and his father, he glared at all of them from under hooded eyes, as if they were somehow at fault for his life not being even more privileged than it already was.
Brody liked Clara. She was a sweet little thing who rarely spoke, but when she did it was clear how observant and quick-witted she was.
He’d be sad to see her go when Rowan finally decided he’d gotten tired of her and sent her on her way, but he also secretly thought it would be the best thing for her.
And finally, at the opposite end of the table from Killian, sat his sister Reagan. Her arm had finally been freed from the sling she’d been instructed to keep it in after being shot in front of the police station last month in the same shootout that had taken their cousin Sean’s life.
Reagan was being uncharacteristically broody, slouched down in her chair as she sipped her wine and picked at her dinner.
“Who pissed in your cereal today, Rae?” Brody asked, buoyed by the prospect of poking at his cousin.
As an only child, he’d never really had the opportunity to engage in the sibling warfare Killian and Reagan had often waged on each other, though he was close enough in age to Killian for them to have occasionally ganged up on Reagan.
Okay. Perhaps more than occasionally.
It was Aria who spoke up, her tone much more cheerful than Reagan’s expression. “She’s pouting because Naomi wasn’t at the clinic today.”
From the end of the table, Reagan scowled. “I am not pouting. I do not pout.”
“Rae, if pouting was an Olympic sport, you’d be taking gold right now,” Aria shot back dryly.
Eyes narrowing, Reagan waved her wine glass in Aria’s direction. “Killian, get your woman under control.”
Chuckling, Killian reached for his wife’s hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “I’ve tried. Alas, I fear it is an exercise in futility.”
From Brody’s left came an indelicate snort. “Clearly you aren’t trying hard enough,” Rowan mumbled.
“Rowan,” Murphy scolded quietly, but it was too late.
“Excuse me?”
Killian’s voice was cold enough to freeze the Atlantic. If the boy knew what was good for him, he’d back down.
Unfortunately, Rowan was something of a complete fucking idiot.
Jerking his chin up, he stared down his nose at Killian. “I said, clearly you aren’t trying hard enough. You’re the head of the O’Rourke family, Killian. I don’t understand why you don’t act like it.”
Silence fell around the table. Even the soft clinking of silverware stilled as everyone watched the scene unfold with bated breath.
“And I don’t understand why you’re acting like we won’t kick you out of our fucking house,” Aria replied with the same amount of glee she’d shown while she was poking at Reagan.
Only now there was a sharp edge to the cheer that would do any O’Rourke proud and Brody couldn’t help but let her see him smile as he lifted his whiskey in a silent toast.
“Killian, are you really going to let her talk to me like that?” In glaring contrast to Aria’s deadly amusement, Rowan sounded like a whining child. Which seemed apt, considering he still acted like one most of the time.
Out of the corner of his eye, Brody saw Reagan’s smile a split second before she hid it behind her wineglass. Their gazes connected and Brody had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from joining in his cousin’s laughter.
He might feel sorry for Rowan if the kid hadn’t been a total fucking ass.
Might.
Still holding his wife’s hand, Killian picked up the steak knife he’d left on his plate with his free hand. Locking eyes with Rowan, Killian ran the pad of his thumb over the keen edge of the blade, and Brody swore he actually heard Rowan swallow.
“You should be glad I am not following in my father and his father’s footsteps,” Killian began conversationally, still playing with the blade of his knife. “Because any one of our ancestors would have carved the heart from your chest for the disrespect you’ve shown my wife. Apologize or get out.”
Rowan, stubborn dumbass that he was, stiffened, his chin jerking up. “I will not apologize for demanding the respect we deserve as O’Rourke men.”
Ah, hell.
From the end of the table, Reagan smiled, the curve of her lips as sharp and deadly as the knife her brother held. “Oh, so it’s only the men in our family who deserve respect, is it?”
Paling slightly, Rowan glanced toward his father, who only raised a brow.
Finding no help there, Rowan cleared his throat, though it did nothing to stop his voice from cracking when he spoke again.
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just, Killian is the head of the family and his wife should respect that. ”
“I have all the respect in the world for my husband,” Aria purred. “Just not for spoiled little shits who think they can talk to me any way they please in my own home.”
“Do you hear how she’s talking to me? Seriously, Killian, you can’t—”
“Rowan,” Killian interrupted, his tone deceptively calm. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
Without giving his son a chance to respond, Murphy grabbed him by the back of the shirt and hauled him to his feet. “Killian, Aria, our apologies. I will be sure my son offers you a full and sincere apology soon.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Shut up, Rowan,” Murphy snapped, his own waning patience clear in the razor sharpness of his tone. “Clara, come.”
Pushing back from the table, Clara popped obediently to her feet, a strained smile pulling at her lips. “I’m really sorry, everyone. He's not usually like this.”
“He is,” Killian said breezily, though there was still a bite to his tone. “And you have nothing to apologize for, Clara. You’re welcome to stay if you’d like and I can have my driver take you home after.”
“Ah…” Clara’s gaze slid toward the hall where Murphy and Rowan’s hushed voices could still be heard arguing with each other. “No. I should go. Rowan needs me.”
“All right, then.” Killian inclined his head. “Have a good night.”
She scurried out of the dining room and Killian set the knife down again. But his fingers moved, tapping against the table the way they did when he was agitated or thinking something over. “My apologies for my… overreaction.”
“Please.” Reagan snorted. “That boy has needed someone to put him in his place for years.”
“Perhaps. But that’s not who we are anymore.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I thought it was really hot.” Eyes sparkling with mischief, Aria grinned at him over the rim of her water glass. “Kinda wanna go jump your bones now.”
“That’s it, everyone out of my house. You too, Reagan.”
“Hey!”
Laughter erupted around the table easing some of the tension left behind by Rowan’s outburst. But just as they were all settling in to return to their meal, Murphy came striding back into the dining room, a grim expression on his face.
“We have company. Car parked out front, clearly surveillance. Fucking feds aren’t even trying to hide it. ”
Immediately, Brody’s mind went to a certain bratty, bright-eyed author. But surely even she was smart enough not to conduct surveillance right outside a mob boss’s house.
Right?
“I’ll check it out,” he said, pushing to his feet. “Don’t wait for me.”
“No fighting with the police!” Killian called after him as he followed Murphy to the entryway where Rowan was still standing, looking so smug Brody had to force his fist to unclench.
Beside him, Clara’s expression was stricken, worried, and not for the first time Brody found himself hoping she got free of Rowan sooner rather than later.
“Are the police really watching us?” she whispered, as if they could hear her through the thick walls of the house.
“That’s what I’m going to find out, sweetheart. Murphy, Rowan, head to your cars like everything is normal. Like you’re just leaving the house after a perfectly lovely dinner. I’m going to go out the side door and take the long way round.”
“I look forward to the day we don’t have to go skulking around like sewer rats,” Murphy muttered. “Call me if you need backup.”
“Thanks. I shouldn’t, but I’ll let you know.”
Praying Murphy could keep his son from doing anything stupid, Brody headed for the secret side entrance of his cousin’s house.
It wasn’t listed on any of the blueprints from when the house was first built and it was carefully concealed in the wall so that even as many times as the house had been raided and searched by the cops it had, to Brody’s knowledge, never been discovered.
The car was parked facing west, so he headed east in the dark until he was sure he wouldn’t be spotted crossing the road.
He moved unhurriedly, as if he were just taking a stroll.
People in this neighborhood didn’t think anything of a well-dressed man taking a leisurely evening walk, but they would if he acted like he was up to something.
So he strolled, slowing only when he came upon the car.
He knew before he even spotted her that they weren’t dealing with any form of law enforcement.
For starters, her car was bright white, and if the half-dozen glittery bumper stickers on the back wouldn’t have given her away, the personalized ‘SMTATHR’ license plate would have.
Jesus tapdancing Christ, she was so bad at this.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, he sent off a text to the family group chat, letting them know it was a false alarm and he was taking care of it. And then he sent a text for Killian’s eyes only.
[Brody: Probably won’t be back tonight. Dealing with a menace.
Killian: Ah. I’ll have your dinner wrapped up and waiting in the fridge. Enjoy yourself, cousin.]
That was an order he had no problem following. He was absolutely going to enjoy this.