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“Sit the fuck down.” Monroe barks. “Look, Finnigan may be part Italian, but he is Irish too. He’s a fucking O'Shea. You all know that name, I’m sure. Rónán O’Shea is his brother-in-law. Let’s not fuck with that. M’kay? I second the order to patch the kid.”
“Are we ready to vote for the kid or still discussing?” I look between Darragh and Sid, and they concede.
We put it to a vote. The kid is in. God help me, I’m going to fucking hell, minus the handbasket.
I call the meet, but the look on my face is enough for the family to know I’m spinning out. I look to Crux and Drysten. They read me. Read the violent intent. So do several patches, who quickly file out while a few others hang back, blocking paths.
I hear the doors as they lock, and the finality of the tumblers cinches it.
“What’s going on?” Lugh stands, he’d been in Conor’s ear for a long time, and between him, Darragh and Sid, they were going to be trouble.
“You may want to say a prayer, Sully. They’re gonna need salvation.” Em says, pulling out her Glocks. That’s all it takes for triggers to cock throughout the room. One by one, the loyal and the treacherous begin to standoff. I’m staring down several barrels. Roe pulls me aside, Lachlan flips the table, and I’m pulled down.
“Guessin’ this was not the plan?” Delia huffs, sidling up next to me. “What is the plan?”
Roe and Sully look at me, and the next words I hear, I never thought I would, not from Sully.
“Kill ‘em all.”
