Page 133 of Forbidden Romeo

Buzz nods at me, “You going in?”

“Got a report,” I say as I pass them, beelining for the doors. Hopefully, I can avoid any more conversations.

Unfortunately, Morris seems to have other ideas. He flings an arm carelessly around my shoulder, and I flinch.

“Hey, listen, I just wanted you to know if you were to die in the next round,” Morris sneers in my ear. “I’d personally take very good care of your missus.”

“You even look at her again,” I say calmly, “you’re a dead man. Are we clear?”

Morris laughs, “Aye, that’s fair. But if you die, who exactly is going to stop me?”

I tackle him to the ground before he can let out another wheeze of laughter. With my knee against his neck and his arms restrained by my own, he begins choking immediately.

“What did you say?” I hiss at him.

Behind me, I’m vaguely aware that Buzz is approaching. “Jack, leave it!”

“What did you say about my wife?”

Morris groans, and I ease up slightly on his neck. “She’s not your wife yet,” he wheezes.

I press back down harder. Morris begins to choke even louder.

“Jack!” Buzz yells as he strides forward to try and push me off.

But I stay put. “You’re a dead man, Morris.”

He squirms beneath my grasp, and I falter slightly. Long enough for Buzz to get a good shove in. My arms fly out to balance myself, but Buzz catches them, dragging me away from theDead Eyegrunt.

“You’re fucking dead, you hear me?!” I shout at him, despite the fact Buzz has pulled us apart.

“Jesus, Jack.” Buzz lets me go with a shove. “You’re insane, you know that?”

Trying to picture Aimee’s face, the way she looked at our picnic, in my bedsheets, I swallow the rage. It comes out in a tight grunt.

“Stay the hell away from me.” I point at Morris over Buzz’s shoulder. “Both of you.”

I storm away and push open the warehouse doors, not wholly proud of my actions but unable to regret them.

The “holding room” hasn’t changed in the decade I’ve visited it. The smell of bleach burns the inside of your nose, and the scratches that stretch the length and breadth of the walls look like scars. When I was younger, Padraic used to make me clean out the drains if I misbehaved. The things I’d find down there used to give me nightmares. But it built up my resilience.

This means when I walk into the scene before me, I don’t vomit instantly.

Padraic has hung his jacket on the back of a chair. His white shirt is still immaculate but loose around the neck and rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tattoos that snake around his arms. As I approach, he doesn’t look up from his task at hand—wiping down a ruthless-looking blade with a blood-stained rag.

“My bastard graces me with his presence.”

“Padraic,” I say calmly in greeting.

“I’m in the middle of something.”

I glance over to the other occupied chair and swallow down the bile that rises in my throat. “Dead men don’t talk.”

“Aye, but their widows do,” Padraic tosses me something.

I catch it easily and open my palm. It’s battered and splattered with blood, but there’s no doubt what it is.

“Consider it a wedding gift,” Padraic says with a dry smile. “If you’d like, I’ll find you a matching set.”

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