Page 2 of Crown of Smoke

“Buy what?”

His blue eyes darken as he leans closer, dropping his voice. "You've got that look."

"What look?" My breath stills, hyperaware of how his knee brushes against mine.

"The one that says you're about to do something stupid." Flynn's fingers wrap around his whiskey. "Like poking at shadows better left alone."

I study him for a moment, wondering if he works for the Keans. He has a look about him that suggests he’s from the neighborhood and therefore could know about the family. Plus, he has to be close to the same age as Ronan Kean, heir to the Kean family business.

"Sounds like you know something about those shadows,” I say, thinking maybe I can get information from him.

"Enough to know when someone's hunting monsters." He takes a slow sip. "The thing about monsters, Lucy? They bite back."

Heat crawls up my neck at the way he says my name, but I refuse to let his warnings derail me. "Good thing I'm not afraid of getting bitten."

"You should be." His hand finds mine on the bar top, rough calluses warming my skin. "Some wounds don't heal."

I pull away, but I can’t be sure whether it’s fear of the Keans or the zap of electricity from his touch that scares me the most. “My business isn’t your concern.”

He shakes his head. "I don’t know what you’re up to, but the way you’ve been eyeing the Kean Crew, I’d be careful. As a matter of fact, walk away, Lucy. While you still can."

“As I said, it’s none of your business.” I slip my phone into my pocket and slide off the stool. “Thank you for the drink. Have a nice evening, Mr. Tine.” I straighten my shoulders and look toward the back table.

"You're insane," I whisper to myself, but my feet are already moving. The noise of the pub fades to a dull roar in my ears as I approach the Kean crew’s table. Their laughter cuts off. Four pairs of eyes lock onto me.

The closest one, a mountain of a man with a fresh cut across his knuckles, shifts in his seat. "This area's private, sweetheart."

My mouth goes dry. The research, the planning, the perfectly crafted questions, it all evaporates under their cold stares. But I've come too far to back down now.

“I don’t know, I wouldn’t mind some private time with her,” another says, his gaze blatantly raking over me, making me feel dirty.

“I was curious to learn more about this old pub and the family that owns it.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

The temperature around the table drops ten degrees. The man directly across from me sets down his whiskey with deliberate slowness. A thick scar runs from his jaw to his collar. I know his name is Connor, although I’m not sure if it’s his first name or his last. In the hierarchy of the Kean Crew, he seems to be important.

"And why would a pretty thing like you be interested in something that’s none of your business?”

My palms sweat, but I maintain eye contact. "I'm writing a piece on Boston's pub history… links to Ireland and the families who maintain the old traditions. The Keans in particular… they’ve had a meteoric rise to success.” Inside, I’m thinking they’re never going to buy that.

“What do you know about it?” Cut-Knuckles Man asks, his eyes narrowed into slits that have me swallowing hard.

“Just that the Keans were able to take over after the Ifrinns’ unfortunate demise.” I shift my attention to another man at the table, younger than the others, with an eager gleam in his eyes.

While the others maintain their stone-faced silence, he leans forward. "The Ifrinns?" He swirls his drink. "Now there's a tragic tale. Burnt to a crisp.”

Connor shoots him a sharp look, but he continues. "Left a bunch of orphans. Heard they’re on the dole in the homeland.”

My pulse quickens. It's the first lead I've had in months, although I’m not sure I can trust the information. "Really? That's fascinating. I'd love to hear more about that."

"Buy you a drink?" He stands, ignoring the tension rolling off his companions. "Got plenty of stories about the old families."

"I'd like that." I follow him to the bar, aware of the heavy stares burning into my back. Through the mirror behind the bottles, I catch Flynn watching us, his expression unreadable.

The man, who introduces himself as Danny O’Brian, orders whiskeys and launches into what sounds like carefully curated gossip about the Ifrinn brothers. Each detail seems designed to lead away from Boston, painting a picture of four men barely getting by in Ireland. I don’t buy a single word of it, although I have no evidence to the contrary.

He leans in closer. “If you want the truth about the Keans’ rise to power…” He glances toward the table we just left and then back to me. “I can tell you, but not here. Follow me.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. I follow him through the pub and out a side door into an alley. I have a moment to think this is a bad idea, but then Danny pulls out a cigarette and gives me a smile as he leans against the wall.

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