“Speaking of family drama,” I say, completely changing the subject. “You guys hear from Ronan lately?”
“I’d rather talk about you getting laid.” Gavin’s grin fades.
“He called me last week,” Cillian says. “He’s still pissed about the whole marriage thing. Thinks Dad gave you the golden ticket.”
“Golden ticket to what? A forced marriage and a target on my back?” I grunt. “Fucking tool.”
“Golden ticket, golden pussy,” Cillian says with a smirk. “But seriously, you know how he is. Everything's a competition. He asked a bunch of questions about Adriana. What's she like. How she's handling things. Whether you're actually running shit over there.”
“What'd you tell him?” I ask, stepping into the cage where Cillian is shadow boxing.
“That you're doing your job and he can mind his own business.” He throws a jab at the air. “He didn't like that. And I didn’t give him much more, mainly because we don’t really know her beyond a few words at the wedding. Which needs to change, by the way, especially if she’s gonna be responsible for that shit-eating grin on your face.”
I take a practice swing and Cillian ducks out of the way of my fist. “He never likes anything.”
“True.” Cillian pauses. "He's been weird, though. More distant than usual. I haven’t seen him at all, not since the wedding.”
“That's not new. He's been pulling away for years,” Gavin calls out, staring at his phone again. “All he gives a shit about is getting more power and control over Dad’s businesses. If he comes around, it’s only because he’s looking for new ways to get it.”
I file it away. Ronan's always been the difficult one. As the oldest, he’s the heir apparent, which is fine by me. But the chip on his shoulder is the size of Boston.
We've never been close. He made it clear years ago that he resented me for leaving the family business, and now he resents me for getting pulled back in on better terms than him.
But distant is one thing. Avoiding family entirely is another. He can’t stand me, but what about our brothers? It’s bad enough Dad cast them all aside after Mom died. Why the fuck would he do the same thing and cut himself off from their lives?
Rage bubbles in my gut. Greedy, self-centered bastard.
The apple definitely didn’t fall far from the damn tree.
“Anyway.” Cillian tosses me headgear. “I don’t want to talk about Ronan anymore. Let's spar. You can tell me more about the sounds your wife makes while you’re drilling her, and I’ll kick your ass.”
I flip him off. “You've never come close to kicking my ass.”
“There's a first time for everything.”
We slowly circle each other on the mat. Cillian's got reach on me, but I'm faster. We've been doing this since we were kids, working out our shit the only way Molloy men know how.
He throws a jab. I slip around it and counter with a hook.
“So things are good?” he asks breathlessly between punches. “With her?”
“Getting there.” I block a combination jab-cross. “She's still dealing with a lot. The capos don't respect her yet. Her cousin's a problem. And the Russians...”
“What about them?”
“They hit Moretti's, the Italian place, last night. Trashed it and left a message on the wall that said, ‘New management coming soon.’” I shake my head. “Motherfuckers.”
Cillian's eyebrows shoot up. “Shit. They're getting bold, yeah?”
“Too bold. Three of them showed up while we were there. It got ugly.”
“How ugly?” Gavin asks from outside the cage.
“I shot one in the leg. Broke another one's arm.”
I block a kick and swivel around to sweep his legs. Cillian goes down hard, and I stand over him.
“The third had a gun to my head, ready to shoot.” I use the back of my arm to wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Right before Adriana cracked a wine bottle over his skull.”
