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I shook my head and continued to eat my coddle, a Dublin dish made of a thick slice of pork, stewed for hours over onions and potatoes.
I looked at Hugo, who stared at me in disbelief as I devoured my meal. He did not care for Irish food. He would rather have a baguette than soda bread, and would have preferred porc aux champignons to our more standard fare of coddle. But that wasn’t up to him. Eoghan was true to his roots, and I was more than happy to dig in.
“She did something to him.” Eoghan reached over to grab a whiskey tumbler and brought it up to his lips. “Witchcraft.”
He said the last bit quietly, almost reverently. As if it could even be a possibility.
I laughed and clapped my hands together as if it was a great prank.
“It would have to be!” I exclaimed. “Uncle Alastair died in his sleep without a scratch on him. Witchcraft is the only way.”
Guards were standing outside the floor to ceiling glass that surrounded the dining room, giving us a beautiful view of the woods and the small rose garden. The guards had just changed, and the sky was dark save for the silver wash of moonlight. Were it not for the security lights that surrounded us, we would have a clear view straight into the heavens and could pluck the stars from the sky.
“That’s my point.” He brought his glass down onto the table a little too hard. “He was fine when he got married, then he started losing his mind, going crazy. There’s no explanation except for…her.”
The wordherwas practically a curse on his lips. He drank a healthy gulp of his whiskey as if trying to wash the taste out of his mouth.
“That’s the old country talking,” I laughed at him.
But there was no changing his mind. He would never accept that Uncle Alastair died naturally in his sleep. The man drank like a fish, fought like a tasmanian devil, and ran himself ragged building Green Fields into what it was today. Life could take a toll on the man, especially after the war with the bratva.
“You weren’t here,” Eoghan spat, emphasizing the word with a pound of his finger on the table. “He was different that last year before...”
“You’re both different,” I countered. “That painting in the foyer is a testament to that.”
Like father, like son. They were both unhinged. They were sickeningly violent, and they found beauty in gore.
Thankfully, that particular gene didn’t pass to me.
The guards were in a dull black. Their tops and bottoms were made of coarse material, with several pockets. The private Army had ranks and furnished the same weapons as the US Military. How they were able to pull that off in the state of New York was one of the many mysteries that Eoghan would keep close to his chest until I was ready to swear into the family by spilling blood. Mine, or someone else’s.
“So if you come back,” Hugo scrunched his nose in disgust, using the knife in his hand to point at the men outside. “Are you going to be like them? Walking around and whispering on the radio?”
Eoghan raised a brow at me.
“No,” I said, “I’d be in here, doing the same thing I’m doing now.”
“Well, that’s not completely true.” Eoghan leaned back in his seat, putting his fork and knife down with a clatter. “A man in this position is both a general to a small army, and a businessman. You understand? When Alastair comes back–”
“If I come back.” I grumble.
“–He’ll be my right-hand man.” Eoghan clapped me on the back. “My lieutenant.”
“Lieutenants stand to your left.” Hugo mumbled. “Not your right.”
“That’s hardly the point.” I rolled my eyes. “The point is Eoghan spends part of his day with his soldiers…”
There was a sudden commotion. A man with a buzz cut entered the room, pushing the doors open so that they clattered against the wall.
“Easy, man.” Eoghan reprimanded. “Mind the furniture.”
The man didn’t respond, tapping on his tablet and showing an image of the front gate.
“We have someone trying to get in, sir,” he said, showing him the image. “She says she has business with you.”
The grainy, black-and-white image showed a woman, her hands up in the air, her long black hair down to her waist. She stared up at the camera with defiance in her eyes and a smirk on her lips. The men had three rifles pointed right at her, but other than her hands in the air, she looked like she was in complete control.
The defiant, plump lips sent a jolt right through me. It was her. I knew those shoulders - those defined delts and biceps that could only belong to a boxer, were unmistakable under a tight, long-sleeve black shirt. Her jeans were skin-tight, showing the roundness of her hips, the definition of her thighs and her knee-high black boots made her look as dangerous on the outside as she was on the inside. Like a biker chick, ready for a brawl.
