Page 71 of Dangerous Deception

“Will be taken care of,” Vito interrupts quickly. “We’ve covered the funeral costs and once his wife is ready to speak to us, we’ll make sure they’re taken care of for life.”

“Good.”

It pains me that we lost one of our own. It’s always expected in this line of work, but I’ve trained my men to exceptional levels which makes it hurt a little more when we actually lose one. Part of my manor is shrouded in darkness from where the firefighttook place the other night. One casualty is not bad for a surprise attack based on a gut feeling.

“The three you captured,” I say as we close in on the garage where they’re being held. “What can you tell me about them?”

“They’re Irish,” Vito says with a growl of disgust.

“Irish. Again?” The Irish attacked my brothel but went strangely quiet when I tried to confront anyone involved. I’d entertained the idea that it was just some bad luck on their part that they’d wandered into the wrong brothel, but twice? That’s more than a coincidence.

“Same clan too,” Vito says, passing me a photograph of their tattoos. “O’Brien. We’ve been letting them stew in the dark for a few days.”

“The fuck did I do to piss the Irish off?”

Vito smirks darkly. “Exist?”

“Maybe.” I pass the photo back as we reach the door to the garage where one of my guards hauls it open.

Inside, three men sit bound, gagged, and blindfolded to chairs. They show visible signs of a heavy beating, likely at Vito’s hands, and one’s head is sagging lower than the others’. Vito remains in the doorway while I walk in and unholster my gun.

I shoot the first through the skull, making the other two jump and flinch at the sound. His body falls limply to the side and then topples the chair to the floor with a loud clatter. I shoot the second in the same place. He slumps backward with his head hanging awkwardly off the chair.

The third growls behind his gag and shakes his head back and forth. I press the hot barrel of my gun to his forehead, and he tries to flinch away from the pain, but I don’t let him. The blindfold unfurls under my second hand, and I toss it aside, coming face to face with a pair of furious green eyes.

“You’re from the O’Brien clan. Funny how we keep running into one another. First you attack one of my places of work, andI’m kind enough to send a warning. Now, your filthy paws are all over my home. That’s a bold fucking move, isn’t it?”

“An act ofwar,” says Vito from behind me.

“An act of war,” I repeat.

The Irishman doesn’t make a sound, merely glaring up at me with hatred in his eyes. Hatred that I’m not sure I even deserve.

I lower the gun, and the Irishman’s shoulders sag slightly. “Hold him down.”

His eyes widen as Vito and the other guard move around him and grip him tightly in their arms, holding him still on the chair. With a nod, Vito and the guard force the man to double over which puts painful strain on the bindings attaching his wrists to the chair.

“I’m not a forgiving man,” I say as I holster my weapon and pull a switchblade from my pocket. “This is my home. I could have been here. My girl could have been here. Considering you chose that night to attack, the very same night I returned to the States, well… Some might say that’s one hell of a coincidence. Or a well thought out plan.”

The man grunts and struggles briefly against his forced position, but Vito is relentless in pinning him down.

The Irishman has a tattoo on his back, a fancy hat bearing a four-leaf clover insignia with a ribbon of striped tartan over two crossed blades. The mark of Clan O’Brien.

He screams through his gag as I stab my knife into his back just to the side of his tattoo. “One of my men died. Did you know? I don’t care if you killed him or one of your Irish cronies killed him. The point is, he’s dead. You’ve taken something from me. So I’m taking something from you.”

The man screams himself hoarse as I saw the blade through the thick, muscular flesh of his back, following a rough outline of the tattoo. Blood pours like a river down his back and a copperystink fills the air. Each time he struggles against the agony, my blade slips and my attempts at a smooth outline are hindered.

I swiftly carve along the outline of his tattoo and when the lines meet, I tilt my knife horizontally and start splitting skin from muscle. The Irishman’s screams turn from agony to terror as I skin his back, cutting his precious tattoo from his body. I’m aware of how symbolic these tattoos are for the Irish, and I’m glad it hurts.

This fucker could have hurt Adelina if I hadn’t made the snap decision to stay at a hotel that night.

Whatever the reason for the O’Briens to make a move like this, it no longer matters.

I’m going to kill them all.

Skin separates from flesh with a wetschlucksound, leaving the Irishman sobbing and trembling in his chair. It hangs like soaked leather in my hand, and I walk around to the front of him as Vito and the guard haul him upright.

He can’t hold my gaze this time.

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