Page 29 of Sinner's Fury

The grumpy bastard didn’t reply as he shrugged his shoulders.

Ignoring the fucker, I turned back around and added, “Plus, then there is Linsey.”

“What’s she got to do with this?” Payne asked.

“She’s got the whole day planned, and my girls are all she has left of her sister. Plus, she’s pregnant again and I don’t want to upset her.”

“Gonna piss off one of them, brother.” Mercy snickered.

“That’s why I’m ignoring my phone,” I grumbled as the door opened and Illyria walked in, looking flustered.

“Your guests are here,” she snipped.

Sitting up straighter, I didn’t get the chance to ask as Montana beat me to it. “Everything okay, beautiful?”

“I hate out-of-towners,” was all she said when Braesal O’Malley, the head of the Irish Mafia of Massachusetts, walked in as if he owned the place, along with four of his brethren. The man was not what I expected. Standing close to six and a half feet tall with broad shoulders, Braesal O’Malley exuded a dominant presence, with a hint of superiority. However, it was the telltale smirk that alluded to a penchant for deviance and mayhem as he surveyed the room.

“Do I need to be in here?” Illyria huffed.

“No. I’ve got this,” Montana growled, never taking his eyes off the Irish fucker, whose eyes wandered to Illyria’s backside when she exited the room.

“You keep looking at her like that and her husband will remove your eyes before he guts you,” Prez stated, getting the man’s attention.

“She’s a beautiful woman.”

“She’s untouchable.”

Unbuttoning his black wool coat, the head of the Irish Mob took a seat, taking his damn time as he removed his leather gloves.

I wasn’t sure what his play was, but if O’Malley was testing the fucking waters, I was about to drown the fucker myself. I absolutely fucking hated games, and this fucker looked like that was all he cared about. Scanning the room, his cold, dead eyes stopped at me.

He frowned.

“Have we met before?”

Refusing to move an inch, I politely replied, “Not that I am aware of.”

“You look familiar to me,” Braesal simply said, cocking his head a fraction of an inch before adding, “Doesn’t he, Tyran?”

The man standing directly behind O’Malley grinned. “Oh yeah, boss. He’s definitely got some fuckin’ Irish in him.”

“What is your name?”

“None of your fucking business,” Montana clipped. “You asked for this meeting. Now, why am I here?”

O’Malley said nothing as the man sitting next to him slid a folder across the table toward us.

None of us moved.

“What’s that?”

“Received that shit last month. Word on the street is, everyone is receiving those. I don’t like threats.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Montana grinned.

O’Malley sighed. “Fucking bikers. Not happy unless you’re threatening people.”

“Haven’t threatened shit yet. So, get to the fucking point, and fast.”

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