Page 23 of Dublin Brute

“They always do.”

True story.“And honestly, I’m a busy man, so if you tell me, it will not only save me time, it’ll be over quicker for you and with less blood loss.”

Not that less blood loss is a plus for me, but I’ll deal.

The guy glances between Drake and me like he’s weighing his options.

“I ain’t saying shit!” he spits defiantly, a spray of saliva landing on my boot.

I laugh, low and deep. The rumble reverberates through my chest like a starting bell at the beginning of the first round, ringing loud and clear. “Even better. The ‘no blood’ option was for you, not me. I’m happy for you to hold out as long as you can. I’m not called the Dublin Brute for no reason. It’s a well-earned title.”

The name seems to strike a chord with him. If he didn’t realize who I was, he knows now, and it seems being told has made him wish he wore his brown boxers today.

A familiar rush of adrenaline and power course through me. It’s the same high I get before a fight—when I know I get to inflict pain on someone who deserves it.

It’s fucking addictive.

“Let’s see how long you hold out. Frenchie, set the timer.”

Frenchie’s attention flips to his phone as he pulls up a timer app. “Ready when you are, Mr. Quinn.”

I smile at the formality in front of our guest. Sean has schooled his boys well. We might be casual at the MC clubhouse, but when eyes are on us, the five of us are Dublin fucking royalty.

I turn to the McGuire lackey and silence stretches on like an elastic band ready to snap. I clench my fists and tilt my head from side to side, stretching the tension out of my neck and shoulders. The anticipation of what’s coming is building inside me—a storm brewing just below the surface.

Tag gave this one to me because he knew I’d need an outlet after last night—knew I’d need somewhere to put my anger about innocent women being shot down and shot at right in front of me.

How convenient the McGuires sent one of their own into our territory for me to play with. It was downright neighborly of them.

Drake pulls out a chair and slams it down beside our captive while Frenchie sets his phone on the back bench next to our persuasion tools.

“You sure about this, Mr. Quinn?” Frenchie asks, adding to the foreboding of what’s coming. “The last time got bad…really bad.”

I pretend to look dire and then dip my chin. “Aye, there’s no help for it. Tag wants answers—whatever it takes. We don’t leave here until this piece of shite talks or will never talk again.”

Sweat trickles down the guy’s temple.

I grin wider. This is where I thrive: under pressure, panic swirling around like falling ash after an explosion.

“All right, lads.” I stand tall, rubbing my hands together as I get into the groove. “Let’s have us some fun.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nora

TGIF—Thank goodness it’s Friday. The shooting, the wake, the aftermath of pissing off my father, having to work at the library, and waiting to hear about the positions we interviewed for at Legend. It’s been a week from hell and I’m glad it’s over.

What if we didn’t impress the owner at Legend as much as I thought we did? Neither of us has heard a thing and I’m getting worried. We need those jobs if we hope to make enough money to change our lives.

I don’t understand. I’d swear we nailed our interviews.

So why haven’t they called us yet?

I trudge along the sidewalk, my sensible flats practically silent against the ground. Another tedious day at the library, cataloging books and helping elderly patrons figure out how to use a computer. My pencil skirt and button-up blouse feel suffocating, even in the chilly weather.

My steps falter when I spot the gleaming, metallic blue muscle car parked at the curb in front of my house. The settingsun catches the polished chrome, and I’m intrigued. I notice the man leaning against the passenger door, and my heart skips a beat.

Brendan.

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