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“You got eyes out looking for signs of him?” I asked.
“Yeah. But I’m coming to you because—“
“Judge,” I cut him off.
He’d have been green in the organization when Erion went away, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know a lot about him.
“Yeah,” Cillian said. “Anything he can give us will help us prepare. Family that might still be around. A girl who maybe waited for him. That kinda shit.”
“I will talk to him tonight,” I assured him. “He will probably be up with that shrieking nephew of yours,” I said, watching as Cillian’s worry fell away at the mention of his sister’s kid.
The Murphy brothers, somewhat predictably, were all about family.
So when their little sister told them she was having a baby, her five big brothers had doubled down on their overprotectiveness.
Then, when the baby came, they’d been fucking obsessed with him.
I could see in Cillian’s almost translucent blue eyes that he had been having that fucking ‘baby fever’ shit that I heard people talking about, but hadn’t experienced myself.
I couldn’t say I was exactly eager to pass on my shitty genes to the next generation.
But, yeah, the kid was kind of interesting.
His lungs were impressive.
“How’s Delaney doing?” he asked.
“Since you saw her eight hours ago? Fine,” I said, smirking at the somewhat bashful look he gave me. “Judge takes the night shift so she can get a full night. And Morgaine likes to lend a hand too. She’s got that itch,” I added.
“How can you not when you’re around him?” Cillian asked. “But anyway,” he said, shaking away the uncle-love and slipping back into professional mode. “That is even more reason we need to get and stay ahead of this shit. We have ourselves and that baby to protect now.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, nodding.
I mean, did I feel the same connection that Cillian did to the kid?
No.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t family.
I would kill for him.
I’d die for him too if I had to.
That was what family did.
“I will talk to Judge and get back to you when you open up tomorrow night,” I told him, nodding back to the bar.
“Appreciate it,” he said. “We’re better off working together as much as possible on this one.”
With that, Cillian turned and made his way back toward the bar while I stayed on the street, glancing around like I might see the elusive Erion Kadare sneaking around in the shadows.
I didn’t see him.
But I did see someone else.
Just the shadowy outline of Mikhail Novikoff near his pool hall.
How long had he been there?
