Page 22 of Dublin Brute

And it stuck.

Drake is a squat brawler with a buzz cut from Liverpool. We inherited him from the Watson family who run London. A job went sideways, and they needed Drake out of the spotlight and out of their territory.

He’s been with us ever since.

As I approach, Frenchie extends a hand, and I meet him palm-to-palm. “Afternoon, boss. Have you been sent to have some fun with our new friend?”

“Aye, Tag considers it a warm-up match before Sunday night.”

Frenchie grunts. “Paddy the Predator is a tough one. Are you worried?”

I scoff. “Have you ever known me to be worried about stepping into the cage with anyone, Frenchie?”

“No, sir. I have not.”

“Damn straight.” I meet Drake’s gaze where the weathered biker is standing there hauling on his smoke. “So, where’s our guest?”

Drake gestures with a tilt of his chin. “Tied down in the dungeon. He’s sweating like a virgin on prom night but clammed up tighter than a duck’s ass.”

They always do. If they didn’t, I’d be out of a job.

I stroll past the two Devils and head straight into the darkened depths of the warehouse. The lights are off and that’s good—they know I don’t like the brightness of fluorescent lights when I work. I prefer the lights to be out and the shadows to stretch and twist and play with the mind of my prey.

The dungeon is what the boys call our room of bloody horrors. We let the deep, oxblood stains soak into the concrete and have our tools of torture laid out on the back table, so that while our guests sit and wait for their punishment, their imaginations can run wild.

Much of what Bryan and I do is psychological—with our reputations preceding us, our guests know what they’re in for. Of course, it’s no fun if they break too soon. That would deprive us of our favorite part of the job.

Getting bloody.

Blood isn’t for everyone. I think it’s rather beautiful. Bryan and I both get off on blood—maybe it’s a twin thing, and it’s in our DNA. Or maybe we were conditioned for it because of our upbringing. Either way, for us, the smell, sight, and texture of blood releases something euphoric in our system.

A fetish? That’s possible.

Fists, knives, piercings? All good.

Is it sexual? Sometimes, but certainly not always. I mean…I might beat someone to a bloody pulp and have no sexual connection with them, but will take that drive and put it to good use with someone else.

Our little deviance isn’t public knowledge by any means, but I’m sure Sean and Tag suspect. Doesn’t matter. They’ve got their own deviant traits to contend with and our thing with blood suits us well, being the enforcers of the family.

I unhook the padlock on the door to the dungeon and step inside. The room’s lighting is on a dimmer and set low, but is still bright enough to illuminate the skinny guy with dark hair sticking to his forehead and panic flashing in his eyes.

He knows he’s in deep trouble.

“Welcome to the Northside. I’m Brendan Quinn and you are…?”

They never answer, but it’s an easy way to get the dialogue started. Of course, I don’t need him to answer because we’ve got his wallet. He’s Malcom Myers, and he’s one of Niall McGuire’s men.

“Why am I here? What do you want?” His voice shakes slightly, but he’s doing his best to front and sound tough.

I lean in close enough to catch a whiff of his cheap cologne mixed with adrenaline. “I want you to tell me why you were snooping around our production warehouse. You had nothing on you, so either you were doing recon or were caught before you got to it. Either way, you fucked up.”

His jaw clenches. Does he think that makes him brave?

“Come on, Malcom. You’ll tell me sooner or later. You don’t want to drag this out, do you?”

Drake joins us, the Devil cracking his knuckles loudly before letting a smirk creep across his scarred lip. “He likely thinks it’ll be better if he stays quiet.”

I peg the guy with a smile. “That’s fine. It’ll be more fun if youdon’ttell me…but in the end, you’ll be spilling your guts.”

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