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I watched him pour, but I still feel like it’s laced with some date rape drug. He finishes his drink in one big swallow before setting the glass back on the table neatly.
“I said drink it.” This time it’s an order, not an offer of kindness.
A cold shiver runs through my body and icy beads of sweat form on my brow. He’s going to kill me, isn’t he? He’s going to kill us. How could I be so blind in believing this would work out? That Mickey and I were going to be together and get away with our happily ever after? It’s a fool’s wish, but I still wouldn’t change it for the world.
I lift the glass to my lips and drink. The freezing water barely makes a dent in the rock that’s formed in the pit of my belly.
The room falls silent again. It doesn’t last long this time, however, with the front door swinging as if a violent wind just smashed it open. In the doorway, clad all in black from hair to toe, Mickey Byrne stands with another lit cigarette.
He sure knows how to make an entrance.
I shouldn’t count my chickens yet, but I can’t stop the sensation of relief flooding me. Mickey’s here to save the day and get me away from these vile bastards.
“There he is, the man of the hour. The Butcher of Belfast, the Killer of Kildare, the King of Kil—” The Italian starts going off, listing the many titles Mickey has achieved.
“Hold that thought, would you?” Mickey raises a finger to silence the skinny man. His confidence astounds me. Even when he steps into the lion’s den, Mickey isn’t afraid. He carries the same swagger he’s had since the day I first saw him, and that was with low life’s who wouldn’t dare stand up to him.
I’m lost in admiration for him, even while I’ve got vile men standing around me.
“Barkeep, get me a pint of lager with a whiskey chaser. Hell, bring the bottle to the table.” Mickey walks inside. A smug grin tickles the corner of his lips, but I can see the fury burning in those green eyes. “I’ll try keep it peaceful for you, but no promises.”
“Coming right up,” Ollie says.
“Did you really set all this up to list my many accolades, Leo?” Mickey smirks. Leo’s face sinks when he hears his name, and the cockiness he’d been carrying since I walked through the door washes away with a sickly pale tone. “While you’ve been doing your digging into me, I’ve done a bit of my own. You’re Alfonso Ricci’s kid, ain’t ya?”
Leo doesn’t answer.
The way Mickey carries himself drives me crazy. He’s standing in the face of danger and it doesn’t even bring a sweat to his brow.
“So, what’s this all about then, Leo? I don’t have all night,” Mickey rolls a hand for the Italian to continue.
“We’re here to chat,” Leo says, mustering whatever strength he can find.
“We could’ve—”
“Let me rephrase, I’m here to speak, you’re here to listen,” Leo says threateningly.
“Interrupt me again and I will slap you. Do you understand?” Mickey asks.
Leo’s eyes drift from me, to the stocky man beside him, and then the other two. He shrugs and thewhat the fuckexpression dressing his face is comical.
“We could’ve spoke in your shithole eatery in Little Italy. Why come to my burrows?” Mickey takes a seat at the table beside me. He slides a hand over my knee and gives it a squeeze. If Ollie’s touch comforted me, Mickey’s lets me know we’re about to kick ass and win this thing.
“My father thought it better to make our demands here. Watch the light leave your eyes while everything around you burns to rubble.”
A burst of hearty belly laughter rings out through the bar. Mickey can’t contain himself, but I don’t see the joke. Ollie brings the order and places it in front of Mickey. He lifts the beer glass and takes a massive gulp.
“What’s so fucking funny?” Leo asks through gritted teeth.
Mickey has this under control, but some part of me fears the worst. Leo’s men are getting antsy with hands hovering close to their hips, where I’m sure they’re keeping guns at the ready. Any one of them could draw and fire on Leo’s order, and then we’d be totally screwed.
“That’s awfully poetic,” Mickey ignores his question, “you fancy yourself a poet?”
Leo’s temper is rising. The veins on his forehead are bulging, and his tight jaw hasn’t unclenched since Mickey sat down. He’s lost control before he ever even had it.
“Alright, I’ll stop teasing you, boyo,” Mickey says when he’s had enough fun. “You’re in your booster seat, and I’m being disrespectful. So come, tell me your demands? Let’s get this over with.”
Leo runs a hand through his greasy, slicked-back hair. “We’ve been doing some digging into you, Mickey Byrne. You run the Irish settlements, and we want it.”
