My gut tightens.
The Krajncs are Slovenian.
Their operation is in Belfast, across the Atlantic.
They shouldn't have resources here, shouldn't have people watching the Raiders of Valhalla’s clubhouse.
So, who the fuck was that?
I file it away. Don't mention it to anyone—not yet. Could be paranoia. Could be nothing.
But my instincts have kept me alive this long, and right now they're screaming that something is very, very wrong.
Dalla emerges from the basement around nine, still soft with sleep, her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head.
She's wearing cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder, and she looks so fucking beautiful it hurts to breathe.
Her feet are bare, her face free of makeup, and there's a pillow crease still visible on her cheek.
This is what she looks like first thing in the morning.
This is what some lucky bastard will get to see every day for the rest of his life.
The thought makes my chest ache.
"Morning," she mumbles, making a beeline for the coffee pot.
"Morning."
I'm at the bar, nursing my own cup, watching the prospects set up for the day.
Bodul is wiping down glasses, Njal is stocking bottles, arranging them, and the fifth prospect—I've learned his name is Aren—is sweeping the floors, headphones in, lost in his own world.
The rhythm of the clubhouse is different from the Brotherhood house in Dublin, but there's something familiar about it too.
Men with a purpose.
A family built on loyalty and blood.
The Norse imagery on the walls—the ravens, the wolves, the runic symbols—reminds me that this club has built its identity around something larger than themselves.
Vikings. Warriors.
The promise of Valhalla for those who die with honor.
Different gods than the ones I was raised with.
Same devotion.
Dalla pours herself a cup and slides onto the stool beside me.
Her bare knee brushes against my thigh.
I don't move away and neither does she.
"Sleep well?" she asks innocently.
"Like the dead."
