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“Guy you loaned money to can’t pay,” Mark explains.
Anger flares up, fueling a newfound focus. My position as a mafia leader in this part of the city demands respect, and this man is defying that. I nod and step back into the penthouse, knowing what must be done. The others follow silently, understanding that this requires my personal attention.
“Let’s go,” I say, grabbing my leather jacket off a nearby chair and shrugging it on.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Mark asks hesitantly, eyeing the empty glasses strewn about the room.
“Never been better.” I don’t have time for weakness or doubt, not when there’s work to be done.
With a swift nod, he leads the way out of the penthouse and down towards the Angel pub, which is easily accessible by foot. The fresh air hits my nostrils, and I breathe deeply. Those thunderstorms they keep harping on about are coming. The sky has darkened ominously, matching my mood.
As we step into the dimly lit pub, the noise and chaos seem almost foreign to me, distant and unimportant. But I push it aside, focusing on the task at hand, my heart pounding in anticipation of the confrontation ahead.
We make our way through the pub, the bass of the music from the jukebox vibrating through me. It’s hard to focus on anything other than the man I’m about to confront, but the image of Summer lingers in the back of my mind.
“Boss, he’s over there,” Mark says, gesturing toward a corner booth where a middle-aged man sits nervously, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.
“Stay here,” I command my associates, my voice cold and unyielding. They nod silently, knowing better than to question me, especially when I’m in this state.
As I approach the booth, the man looks up at me with a mixture of fear and defiance. “Ciarán, I-I can explain,” he stammers, trying to hide the tremble in his voice.
“Explain? You think you can talk your way out of this?” I sneer, my anger rising with each word. “You took my money, and now you don’t have it. There’s no explanation that’ll save you.”
“Please, Ciarán, just give me a little more time. I swear I’ll get it!” he pleads, desperation etched across his face.
“Time’s up,” I growl, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him out of the booth.
With my other hand, I grab the bottle of beer he was nervously sipping and tip the remains over his head.
“Please, don’t!” he begs, but his pleas fall on deaf ears as I start to ruthlessly beat him with the bottle, each strike fueled by the alcohol, the anger and frustration festering inside me. The sound of the bottle connecting with flesh echoes throughout the pub, drowning out even the thumping music.
“Where’s my money?” I yell at him between strikes, careful not to hit him on a hard bone that will shatter the bottle. Not yet, anyway. “You think you can just take from me and walk away? I own you, you fucking cunt!”
“Stop! Please!” Ian sobs.
It grates on my last nerve. Whacking his face over and over until the bottle smashes, slicing into his skin as he howls, I eventually drop him, ignoring the silence that has descended around me. These assholes know who I am. What did they expect? A fucking tea party?
He crumples to the ground, curling into a ball in an attempt to shield himself from my relentless blows. Kicking him, the sound of my heavy boot connecting with this flesh, I grunt.
“You got til Monday, Ian. Am I making myself clear?”
He sobs what I’m going to assume is confirmation, and I step back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, swaying unsteadily under the force of the booze and adrenaline.
Suddenly, Summer’s face flashes across my mind, her tear-streaked cheeks and pain-filled eyes a stark reminder of the monstrous things I’ve done. As if waking from a trance, I make my way to the bar, my heart heavy with the weight of my actions. The music pounds through the club, but it’s nothing compared to the pounding in my head, the guilt and shame threatening to drive me mad.
The bartender slides a shot of whiskey over the counter.
“Make it a double.”
The bartender nods and pours me a generous glass, the amber liquid swirling around the ice cubes like the whirlwind of emotions inside me.
As I knock back the first drink and motion for another, my thoughts race. What can I do to make things right with Summer? Can I ever truly make amends for the pain I’ve caused her?
“Ciarán. You need to slow down,” Mark mutters, concern etched on his face. “You’ve been hitting the whiskey pretty hard lately, and you’re losing control too easily. Your brothers...”
“What the fuck about them?”
“They’ll see the weakness.”
