Page 59 of Brutal Power

“And I told you, we were assigned to this shithole, and that’s what we had to do.”

“Come on, Kramer,” the first one whines. “We’ve been good soldiers, right? Doing all we gotta do? You’d think Santoro would throw us a fucking bone.”

“Don’t use his name,” the other voice snaps. Then a little softer, he says, “But you’re right. He’ll do good by us soon. I know it.”

I nod at Seamus. He’s behind me, and he nods back, his gun drawn and cocked. We don’t find out what the other voice thinksabout that confidence because I come around the corner, drop to one knee, and aim my gun at the tall guy’s chest.

He comes to a scrambling halt, eyes going wide, and his hand twitches toward his waistband before Seamus comes up behind me, standing, gun aimed at the shorter gentleman.

“I’d stay very still if I were you two,” I say as smoothly as I can.

The Santoro soldiers don’t move. They exchange a look, and I know what they’re thinking. They don’t have any money on them. The drugs are all back in that old liquor store. Maybe if they’re smart and play this right, it won’t be so bad.

“Take my wallet,” the big guy says. He almost reaches for it.

“If you move again, I’ll kill you and tell your friend to deliver my message while your corpse rots,” I tell him.

That makes him stop. “Message? The fuck you talking about, message?”

I realize from the voice that it was the big guy complaining. Which means Kramer is the shorter one.

“I know you two work for Santoro.” I slowly rise to my feet. The bigger of the two has to look up at me, and I bet he’s not used to that. “I need you to tell him that Brody Quinn wants to talk. No violence, no tricks. Just a conversation.”

The big guy laughs like he doesn’t believe it. “You’re fucking with me. Brody Quinn? The Irish guy?”

“You should be careful what you say about my wonderful home country,” I say and smile at the way his face turns pale. “Tell Santoro I want to talk. He’ll know how to find me.”

“What if Santoro don’t want to?” Kramer speaks up for the first time. He’s looking around like he’s waiting for something.

“Tell him I want a deal. He’ll listen.” I step forward before the big guy can react and whack him across the face with the butt of my gun. He grunts and drops, and he’s cursing up a storm as a van comes screaming around the corner.

But we’re already running. Seamus is in the lead, weaving through the streets. Whoever’s in the van doesn’t bother following—they’re too busy making sure the big guy’s not dead back there. But he should be fine, minus a few teeth. We reach the car and get behind the wheel, and Seamus is quiet as I drive him back to his house.

“Alright, what’s your problem?” I say and park outside of a well-kept two-story, single-family home with a good front hedge and a big old oak tree in the front yard. It’s four minutes from Mom’s place, and Seamus has lived there all alone, minus his rotating cast of girlfriends.

“I don’t have a problem.” He goes to open the door.

“Just spit it the fuck out. It’s late and I don’t feel like dragging this into tomorrow.”

He pauses, not moving. Then he looks at me. “You shouldn’t be living with your wife.”

My eyebrows raise. “Pretty sure it’s normal for a married couple to shack up.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. You’re the boss of our family, Brody, and you’re staying in that Bianco stronghold. What’s it called?”

“The oasis.” I stare out the front window, gripping the steering wheel. This isn’t the conversation I expected, but it’s an argument I’ve been having inside of my own head ever since I went to stay at Elena’s house.

I know all sides and the fucked-up part is I agree with them. I agree I should be back home running the family from the neighborhood. But I also agree that it’s safer for everyone if I’m not there to draw Santoro’s hitmen and shooters.

“It’s not my choice,” I say and can’t meet his gaze.

“Mom needs you back home.”

“I’m there every day, bright and fucking early.” Which is true: I’m at Mom’s place by five, I work from there until eight, and I’m in the law offices by eight-thirty. It’s grueling, but it works.

“You know what I’m saying. People are starting to talk. They think you’re hiding.”

“I am fucking hiding.” I punch the wheel and glare at him. “It’s better this way. You remember what happened.”

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