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I cradle Brianna’s head and stroke her flowing red locks. Is it enough to ease the weight on her shoulders? No, of course not. But it’s the only thing I’ve got in my limited bag of tricks to get her through this. I usually leave bodies in my wake, not consoling those who’ve been spurned.
“Looked personal to me, Butcher.”
Hearing my nickname makes me growl. The Butcher of Belfast. That title used to mean something, and it should’ve tonight. A red-hot fire courses through my veins at the thought of letting Leo Ricci walk away from this alive. He left my Brianna in disrepair, and I should’ve taken his head for it.
But cooler heads had to prevail. If I’m going to enact swift righteous vengeance on those who scared my woman, it has to be done tactically.
“Itwaspersonal,” Brianna says. Her voice is cold and distant. “They were there for me. My dad owes them money.”
Of course, he does.
Why am I not surprised that Artie fucking Declan would get in bed with the most dangerous pricks in New York?
“They weren’t. They wanted us—” I try to still her, but Brianna cuts me off.
“They wouldn’t have got to you if it weren’t for me,” she says.
“It doesn’t matter how it came to happen,” Johnny says. His voice holds the sort of care and concern I wish I could muster. “But it isn’t your fault, precious. We’re big boys that know the shit show we’ve built for ourselves.”
Brianna cuddles into my side. She whimpers softly, on the verge of tears, but she’s fighting them back. She doesn’t have to, not for me. I’d rather have her express those emotions, feel them and heal.
“We’re in for a world of hurt if we don’t nip this in the bud,” Victor says.
“Then we’ll kill the weeds at the roots and be done with this bad blood.”
“You’ve got a plan then?” He looks at me through the rearview mirror.
I hold my tongue. It’s okay for Brianna to know what we’re going to do but not how we’ll do it. I’ll preserve whatever innocence is left intact inside her. I’d hate myself if I was the reason her light burned out.
“I’m going to make this right, Brianna,” I lean in close and whisper in her ear. I’m going to keep you safe. This is my vow, and I’ll hold it until the day I die.”
* * *
One WeekLater
I’ve gotto be some kind of stupid coming here. It’s a good thing I never thought I was smart. If it weren’t for my brawn-over-brain lifestyle, I’d still be shoveling shit on the verge of death in some Irish county. Not commanding the forces of the Irish mafia, for whatever that’s worth.
But this is a whole different level.
I have to remember why I’m doing it. Beyond everything else, the reason I’m sitting in this office and waiting for that prick, Alfonso Ricci to show, is for Brianna.
At least she doesn’t know what I’m really going to do here. I let her believe that I was going to pay off her father’s debt and clear their name. An easy lie to tell when my real intentions are more sinister. What would she think of me if I outright said I was going to kill Alfonso? Leo too, if luck permits it. Not that I’ll let him walk for long if he doesn’t die at his father’s side.
The thin son of a fuck attacked my woman, left her in shambles and made me pick up the pieces. I’m not going to let it stand.
Venomous eyes have watched Victor and me since we entered Alfonso Ricci’s office. The Italian soldiers wave their guns in our direction, ensuring we know what will happen if we step out of line. Their threats of death don’t scare me. I came here to end this.
“I was told there were going to be three of you,” Alfonso says when he enters his office. Leo’s at his side, sporting the bruises I left him with.
“Johnny decided to hang back. Thought it’d be wise to leave one of the top dogs standing if you slimy fucks decide to turn violent,” I say.
Alfonso chuckles. He won’t crack as easily as his son did. Men in power, particularly in our line of work, are used to the big talk. The difference between me and the many others who have made threats?
My actions back my words.
“You’ve got a lot of balls coming in here, let alone with no guard in sight.” he falls into his thick leather chair. It squeaks and creaks beneath his weight until he’s settled his ass in it. “I like that about you.”
Age hasn’t been kind to him. The last hair atop his balding crown is a few thin strands cut halfway. Heavy jowls sink his face and make his eyes droop. Thick crow’s feet cut deep grooves around his eyes and mouth. He’s the spitting image of a bulldog and not the show-winning sort.
