Page 82 of Dublin Brute

“You’re a saint, Cora.” I head straight for the coffeepot while Bryan pulls out plates.

“Rough night?” She watches us move around her kitchen with the familiarity of men who grew up stealing cookies from her cooling racks.

“Long night.” Bryan pulls the warming tray from the oven. “Tag has us visiting every pub and club in our territory.”

I pour two mugs of coffee, doctoring Bryan’s with enough sugar to make my teeth hurt. “We’re making sure everyone knows about the McGuires’ latest bullshit.”

Cora’s expression softens as she looks at me. “And how are you holding up, love? Still thinking about your girl?”

My chest tightens at the mention of Nora. “I’m fine.”

“He’s not fine,” Bryan rats me out, sliding a loaded plate in front of me. “He checks his phone every five minutes.”

“Fuck off.” I shove him, but there’s no heat in it.

“Language,” Cora scolds, but she reaches over to pat my hand. “The right things have a way of working themselves out.”

The kitchen door swings open and Piper bounces in, already dressed in workout clothes. “There you are! You guys didn’t forget about the self-defense class this afternoon, right?”

Shit. I totally forgot.I paste a smile on my face. “Course not, P. We’ve been looking forward to it.”

Bryan snorts into his coffee, and I kick him under the table.

“Perfect!” Piper beams. “The girls are really excited. See you at two!”

She disappears as quickly as she arrived, leaving me to wonder how the hell I’m going to teach self-defense with three hours of sleep.

Nora

I check the time as I head downstairs, my anger at my father still simmering, but no longer at a full boil. I shouldn’t have said what I did about Mum. My father isn’t perfect—far from it—but he coped with being a single father the best he could. It was unkind to tear him down for that.

I’ve got just under an hour before I’m supposed to meet Kate and sign the lease for Mr. Pearsall’s flat. That’s plenty of time tocalm the waters with my dad about the things I said and catch my bus.

“Listen, Da. I don’t want to fight—” I stop talking when I round the corner and realize the dining room is empty.

The muffled rumble of his voice drifts from his office, the tone clipped as he talks on the phone.

I’m turning to leave when a photo catches my eye from a stack of files spread out on the dining room table. Brendan’s stupidly handsome face stares up at me, his expression hard in the surveillance shot.

My feet carry me around the table before I can stop myself.

I glance toward the doorway, my father’s conversation still in progress down the hall.

My heart pounds as I flip the front cover of the top file open. There’s a notepad on top, filled with my father’s cramped handwriting, notes about Quinn family movements and suspected criminal activities.

Every observation drips with prejudice, painting them as violent thugs without a shred of humanity.

Brendan Quinn. The Dublin Brute. Known enforcer. Mindless thug / narcissistic vigilante?

Charity boxing event. Money laundering operation? Cross-reference attendees.

I bite back a snort. The event raised tens of thousands for the children’s hospital and after-school recreation programs.

Which one killed the father? Tag is the most likely.

Motive - Inheriting the business, power, money, control.

My blood runs cold. Wait. Brendan told me his father died of a heart attack. What makes him think Cormack Quinn was murdered? From what Brendan said, Tag was devastated and couldn’t even sit in his father’s seat for six months.

---