Page 14 of Brutal Power

“Elena, it’s going to be fine,” Brody says, leaning toward me. He puts a hand on top of mine. I stare at his long fingers, callused at the ends, like he works outside all day long chopping wood. I glance up at him. “It’s a bullshit misdemeanor. Your family lawyers will tear this to pieces.”

“I know,” I say and feel myself slump back into the chair. “But it’s going to keep happening. The cops have it out for us right now.”

Brody tightens his grip on my hand. “That’s why I’m here,” he says very softly, leaning closer. I stare at his lips, at his mouth, and down at his fingers again, and I wonder what this man could do to me if I let him.

A part of me wants to find out—and another part knows that it would be a massive mistake.

Like he seems so fond of reminding me, our relationship is a business transaction, and while it’s fun to flirt and tease with the big, grumpy asshole, he’s right that I shouldn’t get too attached.

Not that I would. He’s extremely not my type. But he isveryattractive, and that’s a problem.

“Are you trying to say that I owe you another favor?” I ask, my stomach doing little twists and turns.

“I think we’re up to three now.”

“Unless I take off my panties. Think the cops would mind?”

His eyes widen a fraction and he pulls his hand back, and I’m pretty sure he’d let me do it if I really wanted.

“Indecent exposure,” he murmurs.

“Barely even a crime.”

“I’d rather not get my fiancée arrested.”

“Too bad. You should’ve just said yes.” I get to my feet and make a show of adjusting the skirt of my dress. “Walk me back to the waiting room?”

He stares at me, eyes roaming down my body, and another thrill runs into my stomach. This man wants me so badly and there’s a kind of power in that, but it’s tempered by the fact that I want him too.

“Right this way,” he murmurs and leads me back into the hallway.

Chapter 8

Brody

The house is packed on a Sunday afternoon. Seamus and Declan are in the living room watching football, drinking beer, and gambling on just about every single play they can. Hundreds get tossed around like candy. Caitlin’s watching, the youngest of the Quinn clan, rolling her eyes at everything, while my oldest sister, Molly, works in the kitchen with Mom and Nolan. I go between the groups, keeping the peace, making conversations, and answering the door whenever a random neighbor, cousin, uncle, or some other obscure members of our enormous extended family decides to show up.

That’s my main job. I listen to their problems and promise to help. Mom’s got the front room converted into a simple study for the purpose since it’s Sunday dinner when most of the neighborhood can show up and take some of my time. I wish I was in front of the TV or even in the back doing dishes, but instead I listen to old Mrs. Ryan complain about her neighbor’s dog again.

“You’re a good boy, you are, Brody Quinn,” she says, patting my cheek as I walk her to the door. “Good as your father was. I reallymean that. He was a great man and you will be too, just you wait.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ryan. I’ll see what I can do about the dog.” She disappears down the driveway, teetering off into the Mt. Greenwood section of the South Side. This place is basically Irish heaven. I can’t throw a damn potato without hitting someone with ancestry stretching back to the island.

“How many does that make?” Declan asks, leaning up against the wall as I come back inside. He takes a slug of beer and grins. Thirty years old and still acts like a kid sometimes.

“Too many,” I grunt at him. Although I know the number. That’s the thirteenth petition I’ve heard in the last hour alone.

“You’d think they’d leave you alone, seeing as it’s Sunday dinner and all.” He follows me back into the study. I sit behind the desk, just wanting a second to gather myself, but he plops in the chair opposite where Mrs. Ryan sat a minute ago. “None of them would approach me out in the street to ask some little bullshit favor. It’s like they think you’re the Don fromThe Godfatherand it’s your daughter’s wedding day or some shit.”

I sigh and rub my face. “Dad used to do this,” I say and glance over at a picture of him from when he was young. Big and strong, my old man, with black hair and a broad smile. Everyone loved old Boss Quinn, and even though I’ve worked my ass off to fill his shoes, sometimes it doesn’t feel like I’m enough.

“You don’t have to keep all his routines, you know,” Declan says and his face goes serious. “You’re the head of the Quinns now. You can make those calls.”

“Give it some time. People need to get used to me, and if I start making changes all of a sudden, they’ll find more reasons to complain. I’ll ease into it.”

He shrugs and looks over his shoulder as Seamus cheers about something in the living room. “Fucker probably just won money off me,” he grumbles and gets to his feet. “By the way, Father Michaels wanted you to fix some shit at the church. I forget what it was, but he said to call him.”

“Yeah, okay.” I make a note of it in my little book of shit that has to get done. “Anything else?”

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