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If he wants a look, he can pay me. Plus, I’m sure the person who has the final say in who gets hired wouldn’t be stacking glasses in the middle of the day.
“If you want a job, you’ll have to impress Seamus Fitzpatrick. He interviews all the girls. He’s not in for a few more hours. You’ll need to come back then.”
I blink, telling myself that I’m not going to cry. I only just managed to get the nerve to stroll in here once. Leaving isn’t an option. Not until I know I’ve got a job.
“That’s okay.” I flash him what I hope is a winning smile. “I’ll wait.”
He opens his mouth to say more but doesn’t get the chance. I turn on my heels, striding across the room and planting my ass down on one of the red-leather booth seats, sliding along to the wall.
If they want me out of here, they can drag me kicking and screaming, but I won’t make it easy for them. I need this job.
NIALL
“Please, Jesus,please.”
They always beg. Always. No matter how tough they act when they first land on my table, in the end, they always beg.
“Jaysus can’t hear ye down here,” I tell him.
He shudders at the sound of my voice, his eyes wide with fear, tinged with pain.
“I have money,” he gurgles, causing my eyebrows to raise. Well, we’ve moved rather quickly from begging to bargaining. That has to be some record.
“I have money too,” I assure him, pausing as he screams in agony when I use the gardening shears to remove his pinky toe from his right foot.
“Why are you doing this?” he sobs as I move to his left foot, grabbing his pinky toe. Glancing over, I snip, waiting for the screams to die down before I reply.
“Because I’ve been told to.”
He doesn’t understand. I can see it in his eyes. How could he? In his world, if he doesn’t like what he’s told to do, he just walks away. Quits or raises his complaint with HR. But that’s not my world. You don’t walk away from the Irish Mafia. You stay, or you die. And if you stay, eventually, you’ll probably die.
What I do doesn’t bother me. It never has. Call it one part personality and three parts upbringing. It’s why Seamus picked me for the job. It’s how I got my rather unflattering nickname. I suppose it should bother me, being known as the Irish Reaper, but it doesn’t. I deal in death; my nickname probably should reflect that fact.
When I first picked up a knife for the Fitzpatricks, Seamus and Connor started calling medúlachán. Sean Fitzpatrick dubbed me the Reaper. He thought it would be more intimidating in case the people strapped to my table didn’t know Irish mythology.
“You don’t have to, though.”
I stop what I’m doing, glancing down at him in surprise. He seems relieved that I have stopped and keeps talking as though it will delay or maybe even postpone the inevitable.
“No one can force you to torture and kill if you don’t want to. No one can force you to taint your soul in such a way….”
He’s getting into the swing of his sermon now. I wonder if he actually believes what he’s saying or if he likes the sound of his own voice? It’s probably a bit of both. It’s usually a bit of both with these sermonizing types.
“One day, you’ll have to face Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates, and he’ll ask you to look back on your life. And what are you going to say to explain all this?”
Gazing at him in fascination, I let him run on for a bit, finally digging the tip of the shears into his side, cutting him off midsentence as he pants with pain.
“I’ve no intention of getting as far as the Pearly Gates,” I smirk at him. “But since ye’re so fecking sure ye’ll get there, maybe ye can put in a good word for me?”
He doesn’t talk anymore after that. He’s too busy screaming.
Chapter Two
NIALL
Striding into the main bar, tugging on my fresh button-down shirt, the first thing I hear is arguing. There shouldn’t be any arguing here in the middle of the afternoon. Frowning, I hurry my footsteps. Those fucking Vice cops better not have finally found the balls to wander in here.
“But if this Seamus is here, why can’t I see him?” A melodic female voice is heated and raised.
