Page 199 of Filthy Hot (Five Points' Mob Collection 5)

Conor hummed. "First line of defense tripped. If they have a second wave, then they’ll reach the next part."

Why did he sound like he was enjoying this?

Someone dropped beside me, making me jump because I thought they were hurt. Then, a laptop screen lit up, and I saw Conor’s face glowing in the blue light.

He cast me a glance before his fingers started flying across the keyboard. "Having fun, Savannah?"

"Had better times," I countered.

"Aidan’ll kill you for being out here and not in the safe room. You’re his penguin."

"His, what now?" Then, deciding I didn't have time to learn exactly what he meant by that, I muttered, "He can’t kill me if they kill me first."

Conor scoffed. "As if I’d let that happen." His brow furrowed. "Don’t let the elevator thing make you think I’m not damn good at what I do."

I blinked. "I didn’t think that." I was now, though. Shit. The unmistakable sound of guns cocking ricocheted around the room, and I muttered, "Can I have one?"

"What so you can shoot us in the foot?"

Brennan.

I narrowed my eyes at nothing, because I didn’t know where the hell he was, but I sniped, "Sexist, much? My dad’s a hunter. He made me learn when I bitched at him for the senseless killing of animals."

"What a weird way to get you to shut the hell up," Declan mumbled. "He made you learn to shoot as, what? Retaliation?"

Conor, as he tapped away, said, "You should tell them what he shoots instead now."

"Shut up," I hissed at him.

"It makes a difference," he retorted.

"What does he shoot?" Eoghan asked, and I felt him approach the window too.

"Paintball pellets."

The guys cackled and I elbowed Conor in the side. "Shut the fuck up. I bet I’m a better shot than you."

"Probably," he confirmed. "I don’t like guns. Never have."

Of course, he didn’t."What kind of mobster doesn’t like guns?" I complained.

"This kind of mobster?" He grinned at me. "Give her a gun. She might let me concentrate then."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Too kind." But a weapon was shoved at me, and I took it with a muttered, "Thank you."

"You’re welcome," Declan retorted.

"Where did you even get the guns from? Aren’t you supposed to store them in a safe?"

Before I recognized the ridiculousness of my question—but they had kids wandering around, surely they locked them up?—Conor murmured, "Hidden in plain sight."

"Where?"

He groused, "You’re supposed to be letting me concentrate."

"Sorry."

"Grandfather clock," Declan explained. "I don’t see anything, do you guys?"

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