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My gaze drifts lazily across the room. This bar is well into Westies territory. I know it's dangerous for me to be here. The Irish and the Italians are pretty much at war now. Me crucifying two men in one of their cathedrals probably didn't help smooth relations, but what else are you going to do on a Tuesday evening?
It's in this moment that the door swings open, allowing a gust of cold air to invade the warmth of the bar. A man saunters in, his eyes scanning the room before landing on me. He's tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a scuffed leather jacket over an equally worn-out t-shirt. His sandy hair is slicked back, revealing a face with sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline,marred only by a hint of stubble. It's obvious he knows me, but I'm struggling to place him.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath, taking another sip of my whiskey.
He makes his way toward me with purpose, his two equally large goons flanking him like a pair of menacing shadows. I can't shake the feeling that things are about to go sideways, but I've never been one to back down from a challenge.
"Are you Tino?" he asks, his voice dripping with contempt. That's the name I give to people when I don't want them knowing who I really am.
"Who's asking?" I reply, trying to buy time as I rack my brain for any hint of recognition.
"Did you defile my sister?" he snaps, his face reddening with anger.
And then it clicks—a family photo of the last girl I'd bedded.
"Defile is a strong word," I retort, smirking despite the danger. "If you mean 'did you fuck my sister because she was begging for your cock?' then my answer would have to be 'yes.'"
"You piece of shit," he snarls, lunging forward to grab my shirt.
My instincts kick in and I dodge his grasp. "Come on then," I taunt him, my voice low and dangerous. "Let's see what you've got."
With a smirk, I dodge his second clumsy attempt at grabbing me, spinning to the side and laughing in his face. "That all? No wonder your sister was so desperate for something better."
"Shut up!" he roars, his face crimson with rage as his two goons step forward, fists clenched.
"Aw, did I hurt your feelings?" I taunt, weaving between their lumbering swings and landing quick jabs on each of them. As they stumble back, I continue to mock the main guy. "You know, she was pretty forgettable in bed. Barely worth the effort, really."
"Enough!" the main guy shouts, his voice cracking under the strain of his fury. The tension in the bar crescendos as other patrons begin to notice the brewing fight and edge away from the confrontation.
I can feel my heart racing, the thrill of danger coursing through my veins. My thoughts are a whirlwind, but beneath it all, there's a quiet voice that wonders if maybe I've taken this too far. But I shove that thought aside, focusing instead on the fight and the adrenaline fueling me.
"Come on," I challenge him, watching as he grits his teeth and lunges at me again. This time, however, I don't dodge. Instead, I catch his fist, twisting his arm behind his back and forcing him to his knees. I lean in close and whisper, "You should be thanking me. Not many men would fuck something so ugly. I showed her the best time she's ever going to have. But, then again, I was really drunk."
"Get off me!" he snarls, struggling against my grip. But before I can reply, one of his goons catches me off guard, landing a heavy blow to my side.
"Shit," I mutter through gritted teeth, releasing the main guy and stepping back to reassess the situation. They're angry and sloppy, but their sheer size and strength make them dangerous opponents.
"Enough!" the main guy bellows, clambering to his feet and pulling a gun from his waistband. He aims it directly at me. The room falls deathly silent, all eyes on us as my heart skips a beat. Shit just got real.
Which is perfect.
A normal person who valued their life would try and deescalate the situation. Maybe put their hands up in surrender and apologize. But, I'm not that guy, and I couldn't give two shits about my life these days.
So, I let out a booming laugh and say, "Don't tempt me with a good time."
"Should've known when to quit, Maldonado," he sneers, his finger tightening on the trigger. It should bother me that he knows who I am, but I'm too far gone at this point. Wrapped up in the scent of violence, the feel of adrenaline coursing through my veins, and the pounding of my heart against my chest.
I have such a hard on right now. Too bad his sister isn't here.
"Seems like we both should have," I reply, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.
As if on cue, the sound of gunfire erupts, sending everyone in the bar scrambling for cover. Patrons move for the door in a surprisingly leisurely pace, as if this kind of scene is all too familiar.
The bullet tears into my left shoulder. Pain explodes through my body like wildfire, and I can't help but let out a guttural cry.
The room starts to swim before my eyes as blood pours from the wound, the edges of my vision darkening.
Police sirens wail in the distance, growing closer by the second. The main guy and his goons exchange nervous glances, realizing their time is up. They make a run for it, slipping out the back door just as the police burst through the front.
