Page 37 of Forbidden Romeo

“Sure you do; you’re not Padraic’s left hand anymore.”

“Padraic’s left hand” had always been a backhanded compliment, even when I had that seat on the table. Graham was always his right hand from the moment he could hold a gun and count higher than ten. But the seat at Padraic’s side was something a bastard like me had toearn.I jumped through every hoop he sent my way, making myself invaluable to the family.

But even if Graham was half the man he was, I couldn’t have resented him for it. Leadership came so naturally to him, and he helped me more than anyone to get to my position. A position I apparently just lost.

“He assigned you tome,” Morris continues, leaning up against the doorframe as we wait.“So, if I say hit that guy in there, you hit that guy.”

Over my dead body.

“If I say wipe my arse, you wipe my arse.”

I move without thinking. Morris is a head shorter than me, so pinning him to the wall is child’s play.

The slimy little man grunts in surprise, clawing desperately at the arm I’m resting firmly against his neck.

“You keep pushing this, Morris, and next time you get your ass beaten to a pulp, I’ll be there to deliver the final blow. Are we clear?”

He gasps for breath. “Yes, sir.”

“Now act like a goddamn professional,” I spit before releasing him.

Just as the door opens.

The kid standing there must be fresh out of high school. Behind him, the apartment is dirty in the way people who have no clue how to look after themselves tend to leave their homes. Take-out boxes litter the floor. A pile of dishes spills out of the sink, ready to be washed.

“You know who we are?” I ask calmly, taking little satisfaction at how pale he suddenly becomes.

“Y-yes.”

“Can we come in?”

He nods, moving to the side and gesturing for us to enter.

I stride in, Morris close on my heels. “Let’s make this quick.”

He closes the door behind us and shuffles closer. “Listen… I-I–”

Morris strides forward and strikes the kid across the face. “He said, make it quick.”

My jaw tightens; this is not how it’s supposed to go.

Nonetheless, the kid scrambles away from Morris and into a nearby room, reappearing a moment later with a plastic bag filled with cash. He empties it onto the coffee table in front of us, brushing the garbage and litter away first.

He looks up at us expectantly.

“Count it,” I say, already bored.

The kid nods and begins his task, shuffling the notes into piles of ten. “One… Two… Three…”

Morris groans. “Hurry up.”

“Four… Five…”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Morris whines again. “We’ll be here forever.”

“Six—”

Morris slams his fist on the table, and I restrain myself from putting my head in my hands. The kid practically jumps out of his skin.

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