Page 49 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
I rise from my seat, stretching my arms overhead. Dec picks up Clawzilla as he moseys on by and hugs him close. “Clawzie, you love me, don’t you? I know Arnie does, but you do, too, right?”
And then he kisses the cat who hisses but doesn’t move from his superior position on Declan’s lap.
Arnold’s in his corner of the room, close to the fire that isn’t lit. I can’t help but feel like the dog’s letting us know he’d like a fire, just to warm his nose and paws.
“And why aren’t you fucking your bride, Tor?” Declan asks. “She isn’t half-bad in a nice dress. Not the horrible fucking thing she wore at the wedding. The one she wore afterward.”
Dec, who’s clearly high and drunk, snickers, continuing to throw digs. “Is your new wife that bad?”
I ball my fingers into a fist as I try not to rearrange my brother’s pretty face.
“Declan,” Seamus mutters. “Did you find fucking religion at church? Because Torin will send you to meet your Maker.”
“I’ve already met Mam.”
“I’m talking about the other Maker. Long beard? Overachiever? Has a thing for smiting?” Seamus says, trying to distract him.
“Did you see her wedding dress? What a frump.” Again, Declan chuckles and my chest grows tight as blood thrums hard in my temples. “I’d love to know how he wrangled her into the other one with sparkles. At least it made her look half-decent.”
He’s eyeing me, each word designed to goad me into areaction.
It shouldn’t bother me. This is something he’ll regret tomorrow, along with his drugs and drinking. Dec’s a good kid at heart. A shit stirrer for sure, but good.
So why do I want to beat him to a pulp and teach him some manners right this second?
“Did you see those pumps? Patent leather, red, and hot as fuck. I think she was taking the piss with the wedding shroud, though.” Seamus cocks a brow at me. “And the other dress looked good. So leave it alone, Dec.”
His dark blue-green eyes, similar to Declan’s, are filled with the concern that I might decide to hit him instead of Dec.
I won’t, but only because he never once asked why I parked the pissed-off bride in my room on the ground floor, above the basement that’s also mine. I have an office I work from, too, here in our brownstone, but I’m more at ease tinkering in the basement, where I do most of the illegal shit.
Well, I do it there or on my rust bucket of a boat, an old light ship I bought that’s barely seaworthy.
“Pour some coffee laced with rat poison down thegobshite’sthroat,” I say as the door opens and Cal appears, shirt open, fresh scratches over his ink, making it known just what he and Lucie were doing.
“My office. Now,” he mutters.
I sigh, taking the bottle of Redbreast. Squaring my shoulders, I follow him.
He stands with his back to me, facing the bookshelf. “Y’know, Torin, I never exactly asked what you were up to all those times you took off and came back with boatloads of cash.”
“Robbing the rich and keeping their money,” I say, leaning against the door. I raise the bottle to my lips and take a long gulp.
He turns and scrubs a hand down his face. Then he reachesfor his pack of Carrolls on the desk and pulls one out. He pauses, then offers the pack to me.
“I don’t smoke.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“Much. Not like I did.” But after a beat, I take one and slide it behind my ear as Cal lights up.
“You were a hitman.” He takes a long drag and blows out a thin stream of smoke. “I know you killed Desmond Kelly, which was a stupid thing to fucking do.”
“He was a thug, ran half the gangsters in Dublin and beyond, and he liked to bully old ladies. Forgive me if I put him six feet under.” I don’t acknowledge the hitman comment. I don’t need to.
Cal stalks up to me and grabs the bottle from my hand. I take his cigarette and pull the smoke into my lungs before handing it back to him. “I should be with my woman.”
“So go.”
