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“I’d rather not,” I told him dryly. “Now her? Yeah. I’d fuck her anytime.”
He wafted a dismissive hand at my teasing. “I knew from that look in your eye, there was a woman involved. I just didn’t know it would be a looker like this.”
I snatched the photo from him. “Mine.”
My growl had him snickering. “The Old Country ain’t where I get my women from, Finn. Simmer down.”
Throat tightening, I grated out, “What the fuck am I going to do?”
“Screw her?” he suggested.
“I can’t.”
He snorted. “You can.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to get her in my bed when I’m about to bribe her into selling off her commercial lot?”
Aidan shrugged. “Do the bribing after.”
That had me blowing out a breath. “You’re a bastard, you know that, right?”
Piously, he murmured, “My parents were well and truly married before I came along. I have the wedding and birth certificates to prove it.” He grinned. “Anyway, you’re only just figuring that out?”
I shot him a scowl. “You’re remarkably cheerful today.”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“Both?” The word sounded far too Irish for my own taste. My mother had come from Ireland, Tipperary to be precise—yeah, like the song. I was American born and bred, my accent that of someone who’d been raised in Hell’s Kitchen but, and I hated it, my mother’s accent would make an appearance every now and then.
‘Both’ came out sounding almost like ‘boat.’
Aidan, knowing me as well as he did, smirked again—the fucker. “I got laid.”
Grunting, I told him, “That doesn’t usually make you cheerful.”
“It does. I just never see you first thing after I wake up. Da hasn’t managed to piss me off today.”
Aidan was the heir to the Five Points—an Irish gang who operated out of Hell’s Kitchen. It wasn’t like being the heir to a candy company or a title. It came with responsibilities that no one really appreciated.
We were tied into the life, though. Had been since the day we were born.
There was no use in whining over it, and Aidan wasn’t. But if I had to deal with his father on a daily basis? I’d have been whining to the morgue and back.
Aidan Sr. was the shrewdest man I knew. What the man could do with our clout defied belief. Even if I thought he was a sociopath, he had my respect, and in truth, my love and loyalty.
Bastard or no, he’d taken me in when I was fourteen and had made me one of his family. I’d gone from being his kids’ friend, the son of one of his runners, to suddenly being welcome in the main house.
All because Aidan Sr.—though I was sure he was certifiable—believed in family.
I shot Aidan Jr. a look. “Was it that blonde over on Canal Street?”
He rubbed his chin. “Yeah.”
Snorting, I told him, “Hope you wore a rubber. I swear that woman has so many men going in and out of her door, it should be on double-action hinges.”
He scowled at me. “Are you trying to piss me off?”
“Why? Didn’t wear a jimmy?” I grinned at him, my mood soaring in the face of his irritation. “Better get to the clinic before it drops off.”
