Page 3 of The Irish Reaper

“Wow,” Enzo muses, giving the man an unpressed once-over. “Two Irish in one night. Are you offering yourself to me, too? I’m in the market for a wife, but I would have use for you.”

The man doesn’t say a word, and Enzo doesn’t seem to care either way. He doesn’t seem scared or upset, either.

“Does your father know you’re out? I thought he kept the dog inside.”

Silence.

And it begins to tick at Enzo’s nerves.

“What the fuck do you want, boy?” But the man doesn’t look much younger than him. They even look as though they could be of the same age. “You’re a long way from home, O’Clery.”

I repeat the name twice in my head before it sinks in.

The O’Clerys are the ever-standing and oldest Irish family in Philadelphia—the bane of my father’s entire existence.

They’re ruthless and cruel. Stories of their tales instill fear into other organizations to think twice before tangoing with them.

I’m told you don’t want to be caught by an O’Clery. You steer clear. You don’t even look them in the eye.

“Do you want me to fuck you next?” Enzo provokes, running his two fingers along his jawline. “I could set you up right next to my future wife here and bend you over.”

I expect the man to glance over at me, but he doesn’t break eye contact with Enzo. He just stands there aimlessly, staring as if he’s a real-life statue.

“Or maybe you wanted me to fuckyoursister.”

The man doesn’t blink or bat an eyelash as he fires a shot into Enzo’s leg, causing him to crumble to his knees with a holler against the hard cement of the semi-circular driveway we’re in.

Then he lifts his weapon up again behind his brawny arm, aims for Enzo’s forehead, and yanks on the trigger.

2

HAVEN

“Well,what the fuck did he look like? How big was he? Was he tall, short, or fat?” My brother’s tone is so unconcerned about my mental state that I literally can’t stand him right now.

I can barely breathe, let alone speak, and all he cares about is who killed Enzo and what that means for us.

Not that he’s cruel and despicable. A waste of a man and a leader, but my brother’s prospects of forming an alliance with him is dead and gone.

“I don’t know,” I mutter for the hundredth time since sitting down in Papa’s study. Cillian paces the floor like a lion waiting for his prey to pop out from the ground while my focus remains on my lap.

“How the hell don’t you know?” he angrily clips back. “Think about it, Haven.”

I remember my blood-curdling scream.

I recallhim.

Tall. Large. Tatted. Silent.

O’Clery.

The way he inched forward after Enzo’s lifeless body fell to the grassy knoll. The broadness of his chest. The way his black shirt stretched over his biceps with the promise of murder.

I couldn’t move.

And he couldn’t care less that he had just assassinated someone in cold blood as if he did it for a living.

Immediate fear sprung its way into my entire frame as he towered over me, stopping when he was only within inches and keeping his stoic features locked in place.

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