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Lads like him think they’re untouchable because of who their daddy is. Like we give a fuck who their daddies are. Their daddies are more scared of us than we are of them. Especially when Niall gets involved. I’ve yet to see some suited businessman willing to go toe to toe with the Irish Reaper.
It takes another twenty minutes for the frat boy to lose his head. His final hand is a bust. He drops the cards onto the table, spouting curses, and throws his drink in Ryan’s face.
Fucking unacceptable. Our staff is off fucking limits. In an instant, I’m on my feet, round the table, hauling frat boy to his by his throat while his preppy fucking mates all jump up holding their hands out in front of them yelling “whoa, whoa, whoa,” like I’m a fucking bucking bronco or some shit. Do they think they’re fucking cowboys or something?
I haul the preppy fucker out through the door to the small landing at the top of the stairs. We don’t discipline where the tables are. Downstairs, the dull thudding of the music from the VIP room is audible.
Shoving the fucker against the wall, I pin him there with my forearm to his throat, sinking a fist into his gut. He slumps against my arm, gasping for breath. His mates have followed us out, as has a vodka-soaked Ryan.
“Fetch the Reaper,” I growl at Ryan, who disappears instantly.
Frat boy’s eyes widen as he starts gasping out protests. “Please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown my drink. It won’t happen again.”
He’s damn right. It won’t. They’re barred. I’ll not have anyone in here disrespecting my dealers.
“Are you fucking crazy, man?”
“Let him go. It was a fucking drink. We’re leaving!”
“You can’t just assault people!”
His posse is now making their feelings known. Yet not one of them has the fucking balls to try to wrestle me off their friend. Fucking pussies.
Niall comes striding up the stairs within minutes. He will have been down in the VIP room with his wife. Mellie Byrne used to be one of our bartenders until Niall whisked her off to the courthouse and married her on the spot.
No matter how good she was at her job or how popular with the partons, we can’t have the Reaper’s wife serving drinks for tips. She’s now in charge of the bar staff, liquor orders, the lot.
Sometimes she likes to come in and keep an eye on new hires, which is why she and Niall were downstairs tonight rather than ten minutes away at their apartment.
Niall takes one look at the frat boy, a truly sinister smile tugging at the corners of his lips. At least two lads surrounding me shudder and inch away while the frat boy just about pisses himself.
I step back, my forearm dropping away as Niall grabs the lad’s collar, hauling him down the stairs. His four friends trail them, half-heartedly voicing words of protest.
I don’t know what they’re bitching about. The Reaper isn’t going to kill their friend. He’s going to fuck him up a bit and warn him to stay away.
It’ll be enough. Those lads are only here because they think they want a bit of danger in their lives. I guess they found out how much trouble was too much for them. After this little excursion, they’ll hightail it back to Cambridge and won’t set foot outside their ivory towers for a while.
“You all right?” I ask Ryan, who is still dripping.
“Yeah," he sighs, wrinkling his nose as he gets a whiff of his smell. “Just glad it was me and not one of the girls.”
I’m glad about that too. If it had been one of our female dealers on the receiving end of the frat boy’s antics, he wouldn’t have left with Niall with an intact face.
“Clean up, then get back inside.” I nod to the back room where the staff have lockers.
“Will do, boss.” Ryan disappears through the nondescript wooden door. Running a hand through my ash blonde hair, I head back inside the gambling hall.
Another dealer has taken the spot at Ryan’s table, and the waitress has collected my chips to deposit in the back safe. No one else acts like they noticed the disappearance. The frat boy’s table only has three poker players remaining.
I prowl between the other three tables – ignoring the high rollers at table five –carefully selecting another three players for table two. The job done, I accept a whiskey from a passing waitress and continue to move around the room, chatting to a few of the regulars.
Christ. It’s Thursday tomorrow. My new housekeeper is moving in. Shit. Did I organize the cleaning service to come before she gets there? I’ll have to check on that.
ANDIE
I stare up at the house openmouthed as Paddy Flynn pulls the SUV into the driveway beside it. Lauren, Paddy’s wife and my old neighbor from Dot, twists from her seat in the front of the vehicle, beaming at me.
“Wicked nice, huh?” she laughs, scrunching her freckled nose.
