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“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 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. 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.
“Because you walked in off the street and proceeded to sit here all afternoon when I told you to come back later to see him,” the head bartender, Daryl, replies, his voice also raised.
I step into the room, lingering by the door, my eyes fixed on the scene. None of the three people present observe my entry. They are all glaring at each other, standing near the bar.
The young woman has her back to me. A denim jacket over a very short dress, miles of tanned skin, and masses of thick, dark brown hair are all I can see from this angle. I like her voice. It's nice. I could fall asleep to a voice like hers.
“Shit, Daryl,” the younger bartender, Arthur, interjects. “She’s here. Seamus is here. Just let her dance for him.”
“Yeah, Daryl,” the lass snipes, “let me dance for him. Who died and made you king of Oracle anyway?”
“Bitch, as far as you’re concerned, I’m King, Emperor, and God of Oracle,” Daryl snaps back at her.
I can’t stand liars, and that’s a fucking lie if ever I’ve heard one. I clear my throat, the three of them turning hurriedly to look at me.
Daryl looks scared, probably because he’snothingwhen it comes to Oracle, and he won’t like that I heard his proclamation. Arthur looks faintly amused for the same reason, but I don’t give a flying fuck about either of those cunts. I’m focused on the lass, and there’s only one thought running on a loop through my brain as I look at her.
Blue eyes. Jesus fuck. How is it even possible for eyes to be that fucking blue?
“Ye’re here to see Seamus, lass?” I finally find my voice as she stares at me, her blue, blue eyes locked on mine.
“Yes.” She turns, flicking a glare in Daryl’s direction. “But it seems I have arbitrarily pissed off the wrong person, and now I can’t have a job here.”
What? Fuck that. She has to get a job here. I need to see more of those fucking eyes. Her working here is the best way to make that happen.
