Page 48 of Lucky Strike

“So soon, eh? Such a pussy,” Ivan roars, spitting on the ground.

Now Tristan’s the one laughing. “You wanna fight so bad, come down to Callaghan’s so I can wipe the floor with ya ugly fuckin’ face.”

As a practice, I don’t fuck around like this. You don’t pull a gun unless you’re ready to use it, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “I just wanted to talk, Ivan. Not all of us talk with our fists,” I say, taking a couple of steps back.

“No, apparently some of us talk with our guns!” Ivan snaps his fingers, sending his men back to the Sprinter. Only his brother lingers, bloodthirsty avarice burning in his eyes. “The next time you aim a gun at me or one of mine, you’d better just shoot it. Because I never, ever forget. You better watch yourself, Lucky.”

“You watch yourself,” I snap, my heart still pounding from the fight. “And get the fuck outta here. I don’t care if you have a fuckin’ office.”

We back away from one another, the distance growing between us until I’m back at my vehicle and he’s at his. We might hate each other’sguts, but we both know that if anything happens to me or any of my men, it’ll be war. Yanking the Range Rover into drive, Tristan peels out. My heart pounds brutally, crawling up my throat like it’s going to choke me. Dad’s going to hear about this, no doubt, and he’s not going to like it.

Bria staresat me like she doesn’t even know who I am. I’ve seen some semblance of this ever since she started looking after Liam, but never quite as clearly as right now.

I leave the kitchen before she can argue with me, returning to the TV room where Liam’s sprawled out on the couch, already sleeping again, his pajamas bunched up around his belly. Picking him up carefully, I carry him upstairs to his room, calmed by his even breathing, the metronome of his heartbeat. He barely stirs as I tuck him in. I crack a smile, despite my foul mood. This kid sleeps like the dead.

After a long, hot shower, I go back to the kitchen for a snack. Thanks to the chaos of the day, I haven’t eaten since breakfast. But to my surprise, there’s a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese sandwich on the counter with a note from Bria.

Please eat.

I pick up the note, feeling a pang of guilt. Bria feels like shit, but she still made sure I had something to eat. Why do I even have her here? I live a dangerous life, and the people closest to me are the ones most at risk. But I can’t let her go. Liam’s already so attached to her, and knowing that she’s by his side makes it easier to focus on work. I trust her.

Then I see her tea. Guess she forgot it. I give it a minute in the microwave and carry it up to her, then head back down to the kitchen, my stomach growling.

I take a bite of soup, my eyes practically rolling back in my head.Fuck, that’s good. Who knew Bria could cook like that? I see why my kid’s obsessed with her grilled cheese, too. I polish it all off, then grab mykeys and make a quick trip to the twenty-four-hour pharmacy a couple blocks away.

Back at home, I lock up and go to Bria. She’s covered by all of her blankets, even an extra one from the hall closest. Venturing closer, I put my hand to her forehead.Fuck. She’s burning up. I don’t want to wake her, but she needs some of this cold medicine. Dampening a washcloth in the bathroom, I fold it and lay it on her forehead. “Bria.”

“Hm.” Her eyes flutter open, a little glassy. Frowning, she touches the washcloth, then smiles, her eyes fluttering shut. “Thanks, Grandma.”

I smile at that, glad she’s joking around at least. “I got you something.”

“Aw, you didn’t have to do that,” she mumbles.

“Yeah, I think I did. You don’t look so hot.”

“Contrarily, I feel very hot.”

“Okay, wise guy. Come on, sit up so you can take this.” Wedging my hand behind her back, I ease her into a sitting position and give her the dosage cup. Once she drinks it, I give her the glass of water. “Call me if you need me.”

She looks at me, finally focusing, and gives me a tiny nod. “I will.”

Making sure her phone is within reach, I leave her to get some rest. Downstairs, I grab a beer and take it out to the patio. It's getting late, but my mind is too restless for sleep. I keep thinking about the fight earlier, about how differently it might have gone down had I not pulled my gun. Going down there was probably reckless, but I wanted to look Ivan in the eye and let him knowI knew.

My phone vibrates with an incoming call. Dad. He and Mom are in Cleveland, staying in an Airbnb while he gets all sorts of tests and EKGs done, but he might as well be right around the corner. It’s like he senses when bullshit is afoot.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, Con. I was hoping you’d be awake.”

“I am. The question is, why are you?” I put my feet up on the chair across from me. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” he quips.

I grimace. “That’s what we’re trying to avoid.”

He chuckles. “Lighten up, kid. I’ll be fine.”

My father,who’d always been a healthy, active man, started feeling off a few years back, when I was finishing up college. He’d get really short of breath during his morning jog, and then even when he was resting at home. He felt progressively fatigued and dizzy, nearly fainting one night in the kitchen. Mom freaked out, understandably, but he’s always been stubborn, and he insisted he was fine.

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