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They didn’t have their guns out, but I knew they had a significant amount of firepower on them.
Eoghan tugged at the upturned lapel of his black peacoat as one of his minions held the door open.
One of his guards was familiar. Rohan, I think his name was. A scar ran from his clavicle, up his neck to his left ear. It had the clean lines of a blade and never healed right. He was one of the scariest men alive. I gave him a nod, and he returned the gesture.
Hugo inspected his beer. He even sniffed it before tasting it, and frowned. He hated beer but said he wanted to inoculate himself to the taste so that he could drink it as part of his cover without cringing. I’d say the process wasn’t working.
I couldn’t help but smile at the strange Frenchman. Thank God he was lethal, otherwise he’d just be strange.
Eoghan came straight to the table and pulled up a chair in the middle of the walkway, dumping his peacoat on the back.
He gestured with his finger and Quinn, the bartender, came over with an ashtray.
“What’s the craic, Dairo?“ He grinned, leaning back in his seat.What’s going on, Dairo?
He packed the cigarettes in his hand by slapping the top against his palm. He was using an old nickname, bestowed in a Dublin manner of removing syllables and adding an o at the end. Alastair in old Gaelic was Alisdair, hence Dairo. It differentiated me from my uncle, Eoghan’s father, who I was named after. I had been born first, and my own father–God rest his soul—didn’t think his elder sibling would have children. In retrospect, my father jumped the shark, as Eoghan followed soon after.
“I thought smoking indoors was illegal in the states.” I smirked at him, and he lifted an annoyed brow in return.
We had the same blond hair, the same square jaw. We were so alike that we could be mistaken for brothers, instead of cousins. Twins, even. Of the Irish kind, of course. He was eleven months younger than me. But it wasn’t just our looks, which heavily favored our respective fathers. Our similarities were forged from proximity, growing up together like two climbing vines.
“Is that the voice you use now,boyo?“ Eoghan teased, lighting a Dunhill and putting it to his lips. I did the same with my own pack and offered one to Hugo who declined.
My cousin had left Ireland years before the Good Friday Agreement, but had never cared to assimilate. In fact, his accent only got thicker. He could be from Kerry with how thick his accent had become.
“I find it more effective for business,” I said, contrasting his Irish with my British public school voice.
“Aye, denying yer roots, eh?” He took a deep pull from the cigarette. “What would Da’ think of his namesake?”
“That I’ve obviously sold out and gone legitimate.” I toyed with my lapel, as if the suit was an illustration of that legitimacy.
“Green Fields is a legitimate enterprise.” Eoghan’s lips twitched.
I made a show of assessing each of his men.
“I count no less than six pistols between you and yourboyos, and the big one by the entrance looks to be carrying a Desert Eagle.“ I turned my gaze to Hugo and raised a brow as I asked him, “What legitimate enterprise requires that much fire power?”
Hugo inspected the men, as if noticing them for the first time. Then he shrugged, completely indifferent.
“I could take them, with or without the guns.” His accent gave his arrogant comment an extra bite. “What does it matter?”
Eoghan nodded to Hugo appreciatively. “I like him.”
“Really? I despise him.” I sipped what was left of my martini. My woman had left a colorless lip stain where she had commandeered my drink, and it made me smile.
Hugo grunted beside me and continued to analyze his beer.
“I heard about a fight down on the Russian side of town.” Eoghan casually ashed his cigarette into the tray.
“Oh?” I asked, prompting him to say more.
“I heard there was a woman and—“
”—You’ve heard a lot.“ I interjected.
”—the Russians tried to get her to lose to their fighter. What was his name?“ He pretended to ponder, but from the glint in his eye, he knew exactly who he was talking about. “Morosov!” He snapped his fingers. “Did you know there are rumors that Morosov is Vasiliev’s illegitimate son?”
“I hadn’t heard.” I actually hadn’t. I wasn’t yanking his chain.
