Page 2 of Broken Blood Ties

“I figured I was safe here, man. The Italians usually don’t care.”

I spit, the wad landing on the man’s lap with a plop. “Aye, but we aren’t the bloody Italians, are we?”

The Italians here aren’t Cosa Nostra, not anymore. Currently, the Cosa Nostra operates out of New York City. Allied with the Bratva for several years,bothorganizations stay out of our city. That didn’t stop the few opposed to the alliance from seeking to establish here.

Marco. He was the most vocal about the alliance and has since relocated his group—tomycity. Yes, while we share the heart of Boston with some of the Japanese Yakuza, we’re the largest force established here. Their leaders know better than to mess with me.

Our numbers aren’t anywhere near the Bratva, though. Which is why Marco and his men have secured their modest slice of my city. Some disgusting practices from a secret society have infiltrated his men here, and the scum in this town gravitate toward it, feed off it.

So no, we aren’t them. We’re the bloody Irish Mob.

Funny, I knew I’d grow up to be the leader after myDa,but I’m not sure any amount of training prepares you for the calculated menace coupled with an almost business-like efficiency. Deals aren’t struck; they’re dictated. There are no bribes or suggestions; only transactions with invisible strings and arse kissing tighter than any contract. Manipulation isn’t boisterous; it’s subtle. Weaknesses, debts, dreams, money—each holds power.

I enjoyed my role until about four years ago, when it all shifted.

I raise my fist to the man and rip across his face. More blood sloshes from his nose.

This isn’t like me. Dragging out a man’s torture isn’t my style, and I rarely have cause for it. But tonight, I see red.

When I left my office to find out for myself what Finn was going on about, all I could think was,what if this was Aoife in another twelve years?There’d be no mercy.

A fist pounds the supply room door.

“What?” I call out.

“We’re down a fighter for tomorrow, Boss. Cormac told me to come tell ye.”

“I’m busy.” I let the tip of my blade hover right above the man’s crotch. His whole lap trembles, the dark wash of his jeans stained with sweat.

I’m about to tell Callum, who so rudely interrupted me, to bug off when I glance back at the man in the chair.Yes, that’s the perfect solution.

“Cal. Tell Cormac I have a stand-in for tomorrow night.”

The two taps on the door mean he’s heard me, and I move in front of the man. My shadow blocks the light from the hanging pendant overhead and it darkens the man’s face, but I don’t miss the terror in his expression when I tell him. “Aye, lad. Ye’re going to be the star of the show.”

He trembles while Callum comes in to haul him up and escort our newest guest underground while I get Finn to clean up the supply closet I ruined.

Cormac is waiting for me when I exit. “Probably not the best idea with it being a full house tonight?”

Raised voices grow louder as we move back toward the packed bar. A group of Celtics fans shout at the numerous TVs playing the basketball game. No matter where you’re seated in the bar, you can see it. Cormac made sure of that. I never cared too much for the sport myself.

Glasses clink and growlers of beer plop against the wooden tabletops—all signs the bar is packed tonight. When I finally turn the corner from the back, it’s confirmed.

Patrons have commandeered all the seating along the sprawling walnut bar while more people push into the spaces between the high-back barstools. Tufted and square, the light brown leather chairs swivel as customers slide in beckoning for Lizzy and Oliver’s attention.

They’re the full-time bartenders I keep at this location. Cormac has been on my arse to hire another part-time for the weekends, but it’s not as simple as placing an ad online. We have to vetallour employees.

Opposite the wall sporting the bar is our limited restaurant seating. O’Brien’s has the fewest booths, the pub focusing on the bar and bar food. But our cook, Maggie, makes some of the best Irish stew on the East Coast, and having a handful of booths and tables, if solely for that dish, is worth it.

The dark green benches butt against the wooden walls, and while the leather is worn, the rich shade reminds me of pine tops in a forest at twilight.

Nestled between the bar and the booths are sturdy round dining tables, bearing the marks of countless meals and the ever-common bar fight. Every table is occupied tonight, plates of food crowding the surfaces as servers parade them from the kitchen.

I spot several of my men positioned around the bar, keeping a well-trained eye on the chaos and fun. Soon the kitchen will close and leave only those content to nurse drinks at the bar. Few are stupid enough to stick around for what goes on underground.

I wave at Lizzy as she pops several tops of imports for a group of men at the bar. Her bright, vibrant copper hair bounces as she hurries to Cormac and me.

She smiles. “Isn’t past your bedtime, old man?”

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