Page 1 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

CHAPTERONE

JESSIE

The Hudson Dusters’ HQ, Manhattan, New York

Blah.Blah. Blah.

I roll my eyes as I silently mouth the words behind Eoin O’Connell’s back. Have I got a death wish? No siree. Only Dylan and Paddy saw me. Cill’s face is buried in his phone. I’d yawn exaggeratedly too, but that might be taking things too far. They know I’m only messing, but he’s still their big brother.

The future Da Duster.

He who must be obeyed. And listened to, obviously, even if somewhat reluctantly at times. At least by me.

Is blood thicker than water? Not always. At least not in this life. I’ve got an older brother of my own, and as much as I love Tadgh, I’d have been tempted to kneecap him right about now.

I switched off from the conversation a full ten minutes ago. If you can call it that. See, to me, conversing means holding a meaningful discussion where one or more other receptive parties are allowed to participate.

Eoin talks rather than listens. He doesn’t like to be interrupted either. The Irishman loves the sound of his own voice.

If he were chocolate, he’d eat himself.

I’m not saying he’s not making complete sense. He is. He’s articulate. Intelligent and then some. But dear Lordy Lou, does he go on. I blame economics. It’s when he’s allowed to go off on a tangent on matters relating to that particular subject. It’s the equivalent of me boring people to death talking about balance sheets. I bet he jerks off in the shower every morning while daydreaming about the laws of supply and demand.

He walks to the end of the room and then turns around and stares straight at me. I immediately switch to my poker face. Is he expecting me to look impressed? I smile and nod, trying to appear just that—anything for a quiet life.

Well, he is my boss, sort of, as he is paying handsomely for the privilege of me undertaking contracted work for The Hudson Dusters here in New York City via my company, Jones and Associates Accountancy. Or JAA for short.

For the record, I’m theAssociatesin that title.

Also, for the record, I’m worth every dime.

Eoin is tall, dark, and looks menacingly handsome in his ten-thousand-dollar business suit. And he wears that autocratic leadership style of his pinned to his lapel like a badge of honor.

He’s the eldest son at thirty-seven. The heir to this whole shebang. Rumor has it he’s under pressure to find himself a suitable mobster wife. That the stopwatch to his nuptials is now silently counting down whether he likes it or not.

It’s never been mentioned aloud, but until recently, he had his sights set firmly on my business partner, Jaine Jones.

Unfortunately for Eoin, Jaine recently got married. Fortunately for the rest of us, she kept her own name.

Not that Jaine being wed is any deterrent for him. Eoin won’t simply take no for an answer. That word doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.

Jaine recently stood him and his parentals up at the ‘potential future ma Duster’ altar. Why? Because she’s not interested in the man, the role, or the title. Brave girl. Not many would dare insult one Duster, let alone three, including the matriarch and patriarch.

No longer under the scrutiny of the eldest brother, I turn my attention to the youngest.

Padraig O’Connell.

At twenty-nine, Paddy is deemed the most handsome of the siblings, with his inky black hair and sparkling blue eyes on a face as perfect as the rest of him. Charm oozes out of every pore, as does cheek. He’s the life and soul wherever he goes.

Paddy handles the legal side of things for the Dusters. Internally only. He’s the sociable sort, so there’s always the risk he may share too much confidential information with someone on the outside. Of course, he’d then have to kill them.

Then again, maybe that’s intentional on his part. That it’s the method in that madness of his. Rumor has it Paddy likes to purge, and he does so by gutting his victims before carving them into visual works of art Hannibal Lecter-style.

Paddy’s been entered into an arranged marriage with Sophia Ruocco. Sophia’s a high-ranker in the Sicilian mafia, or at least her brother, Luc, is. In our world, theirs is deemed a good match.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. You can’t get much closer than taking the vows with them then sleeping in the same bed every night.

I switch my attention to Cillian, the second eldest at thirty-five. Cill’s handsome, if angular-featured, short-tempered redheads do it for you. There’s always something going down in Dusterland that requires his attention hence why he’s always got his face in his phone. No rest for the wicked, and he’s definitely that.

---