Page 62 of Then We Shatter

It’s dark when I slip into the alley at the rear of the restaurant. Katarina and her goons left twenty minutes ago. It was cold comfort when Duke didn’t leave with her. The fucker got to stay behind so he could take Grace home. And here I am, the anti-hero who was never going to get the girl.

Up ahead, the headlights of passing cars cast shadows down the litter-strewn alley and I clock the figure lurking between a couple of industrial garbage units. He’s wearing a baseball cap and a puffer jacket that gives him extra bulk he doesn’t need. He’s big.

He could be a drug dealer, or a pimp going about his unlawful business, but he doesn’t look up as I draw closer. Anyone that disinterested is a threat. He knows I’m coming and he knows who I am. It’s not Danyl or Andrey, but he has to be another Russian.

I don’t know how the Bratva could have figured out I was here. I’d arrived at the restaurant long before Katarina and her other dinner guests showed up, cutting the CCTV feed until I was safely hidden. The only silver lining in being discovered is that I get to knock the shit out of someone.

My gaze flicks left and right, scanning buildings from the ground up to confirm I’m not the target in a sniper’s scope. Satisfied I’m dealing with only one arsehole, I slip my hand into my jacket. I have a Glock and a knife strapped to my shoulder and I’m choosing between the two when my opponent pushes off the wall. His hands remain in his pockets.

“You don’t need to shoot me, dickhead.”

The familiar voice doesn’t brighten my mood one iota and I keep my hand inside my jacket. “I was going to stab you. I still might.” The Russian’s alert wasn’t because of me. “Your undercover skills are shit, Mal. The Bratva spotted you.”

Malachy stops in the middle of the alley and waits for me to reach him. He frowns at my wig, but doesn’t mention it. “They knew one of us was hanging around outside the restaurant, and that’s where they were looking while you played with their little princess.”

The only weapon I draw is my fist and I punch Malachy’s shoulder hard enough for him to stagger back a step. “You put them on high-alert, idiot. They could have searched the restaurant.”

“They’re always on high-fucking-alert, you should know that,” Malachy counters. “That was a stupid risk to take.”

I never did tell him how I’d walked into Katarina’s apartment building completely blind. And I don’t intend on telling him now. Nor do I offer any gratitude. Fine, maybe he did divert some heat away from me, but I’m not about to feed my brother’s ego. It’s big enough as it is.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask as we start walking towards the street. The team we’ve put together is supposed to pick me up tomorrow.

“I’m the advance party,” my brother explains. “I hitched a ride with a group of playboys who lost big on our tables. The others will collect us as planned.”

“I hope you’re not expecting to stay at my place.”

“I thought we’d go for a drink first,” he replies, not taking the bait for an argument.

“I’ve been staying low,” I explain. His eyebrows quirk at that but I ignore him. This evening was a necessary risk. “Getting shit-faced in a bar while there’s a rumor circulating that we’re in Chicago is not a good idea.”

We turn onto the sidewalk and Malachy keeps pace with me, even when I steer him towards oncoming pedestrians to block his path. Unfortunately, everyone steps aside when met with his scowl.

“Drinks at yours it is then,” he says. “Do we need to pick up some booze on our way back?”

“I’ve got plenty for myself, thank you very much.”

Malachy’s quiet for a few steps. “So, what’s got you in a mood? Did Katarina not put out? Or is it that dead ferret on your head?”

“Jesus, it’s going to be a long night.”

Truth be told, I don’t hate the company, and by the time we’ve drained the first bottle of whiskey, Malachy and I are crashed out on my apartment floor, backs resting against armchairs, legs stretched out and a fresh bottle within easy reach.

We’ve caught up on business, bitched about our brothers and complained about Dad. We’re not quite at the level of drunkenness to stray onto the reason I’ve been lost and forlorn in Chicago, but there is another topic we’ve also been avoiding.

Malachy drags one of the pizza boxes towards him and takes a slice. His mouth is full when he asks, “If we do find him, would you take the shot?”

I don’t need to ask who we’re talking about, but I struggle to find an answer. “If it’s a choice between letting Ignacio escape or claiming the kill that belongs to Dad, I’d shoot. No hesitation. Would you?”

“Truthfully?” Malachy asks, discarding the pizza crust. “Even if the bastard was trussed up and ready to be returned to Vegas, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.” He shakes his head, fighting against the thoughts that haunt him. As they do me.

Four years ago, when Ignacio was still a member of his brother’s cartel, he cooked up a scheme to hold one of us for ransom until Dad returned a shipment we’d stolen from them. Drugs mostly, but some weapons too. He had five of us to choose from, but Tiernan and Ronan are rarely separated, and on the day our mother died, Malachy and I were busy reinforcing security across all our assets, preparing for a retaliatory strike. Dad was checking in at our various clubs while Lorcan headed for our biggest casino just off the Strip. Mam was always hands-on in the family business and tagged along with him.

Ignacio and his sons, Diego and Tomas, jumped Lorcan as he was leaving the casino. Naturally, Agnes McConkey came out to join in the fight all guns blazing. Diego shot her in the leg, Tomas disarmed her and Ignacio put a bullet in her head. For months afterwards, Dad played the CCTV footage on repeat until the image was seared into his eyeballs.

“Diego belongs to Lorcan,” Malachy says when the pain of dwelling on our mother’s death becomes too much to bear.

But this isn’t a lighter subject by any means. Lorcan was held captive by Ignacio’s splinter group and tortured for two weeks. From the little he’s shared, it’s clear Diego took the greatest pleasure in his torment.