“Maybe yer date stood ye up.” I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair when the bartender brought me my drink. Smirking at her, I tickled my fingers down her arm, and she giggled, fluttering those long eyelashes at me. Her tits were right in my face and it was hard to see anything else. They were ready to burst from her bra. “Thankye, beautiful. What’s yer name?”
“You can call me whatever you want in that accent.” She swiped at her blonde locks and leaned down slightly so her bust settled on my shoulder while she whispered in my ear, “My number’s on the back of the napkin. Call me.” Winking, she turned and sauntered off, her shorts barely hiding the cheeks of her arse.
Mm. Yum.
I turned my attention back on Rowen and his annoying huffing as he continued to stare out the window. Sighing, I took a big swallow of my whiskey. “How long are we gonna wait for him? He’s obviously not interested in giving ye a private lecture—or blowjob.”
Aspen, who sat beside me in all his quiet grandness, snorted. He tugged at the brim of his cap and took a sip of his pint before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was the only guy in the Company I considered a friend, and the great thing about Aspen was that he didn’t talk to fill in the silence like our newbie. But when push came to shove, Aspen was a brutal monster—an expert with knives.
He glanced at me, liquid brown eyes intrigued and sharp. His umber skin glowed under the harsh lights, and his wide mouth twisted. He didn’t have to say a thing for me to know what he was thinking.
I sighed, cursing Rowen, and stood. I walked over to him and nudged him on the shoulder. “Ach. Why are ye so interested in him anyway? Because he knows about a few dead Irish mobsters?”
Rowen’s attention focused on me, and he ran a hand through the long strands of red hair that sat on the very top of his head. The muppet was all dejected. “He’s hot and I want to fuck him.”
I snorted out a laugh. Pulling punches wasn’t a Shaughnessy trait, born or adopted, but he usually spoke in a kinder way than me. “There’s other fine arses in New York City. What about that sexy baseball player ye were fucking last month?”
He rolled his eyes and gave me a smile that would’ve charmed the pants off any man. “He’s a switch, wanted to fuck me. Dat’s not me thing.”
I shrugged. “Sure, look, all I’m saying is we went to that lecture because it had interesting info, and we never miss a chance to hear about a leprechaun taking down an Italian. We don’t have to wait around for this bloke. Let’s finish our drinks and go.”
He shook his head. Theeejit. “Naw. There’s something about this bloke, Cillian.”
I raised my brows. “Ye do my head in. Why do ye want to be courtin’ this guy? There’s thousands of arses in this bleedin’ city. More than there was in the whole of fecking Ireland.” I smacked the back of his head. “Stop faffin’ and finish yer drink, ye wanker.”
He glared at me and opened his mouth, but screams of horror had us focusing out the front window of the bar again. The professor Rowen had been waiting on was on the sidewalk, his back planted on the ground with that mouthy Italian bastard who’d been run off earlier on top of him. The Italian had his fist curled into the professor’s nice shirt, and he had his other hand raised as though he was going to punch him. The professor’s face was already bleeding, and the crowd around them didn’t move to help, rather watched in terror and shrieked, as though that would do any good.
I reacted recklessly. A surge of fury and protectiveness rebounded inside me and I ran toward the door, adrenaline pumping. People moved out of my way as I raced outside. That man laid out on the ground wasn’t a fighter. I pulled out my brass knuckles from the pocket of my suit pants and flew at the Italian wanker, grabbing him by the back of the neck and yanking him off the professor. He didn’t have time to react before it wasmeon top ofhim, my fists making mincemeat out of his face. The crunching sound of his nose echoed through the suddenly still air of the street, and soon his cheekbones were making the same noise. Blood splattered around us, decorating the sidewalk like finger paints. I was a fucking artist, like Nano Reid or some shite.
“Cillian. Enough.” Fallon’s voice was a distant echo in my head. Once I got some blood on my hands, I couldn’t stop. The chase for violence was second nature and I was thirsty for it.
Hands grabbed me and wrenched me off the Italian, and I struggled, throwing a glare at Aspen over my shoulder. He smirked, the freckles on his face more vibrant as the streetlights popped on. It was already nearly dark out, and I hadn’t noticed because my mind screamed for blood.
“Enough,” Aspen said gruffly. He was the only one of us not wearing a suit, mainly because it didn’t go with his Mets cap and he refused to take it off most days. He’d stopped on the way to the pub to change out of his suit because he hated it so much. But there wasn’t a time when he didn’t look like a bad-arse in his fancy jeans and Ferragamo shirts. A meeting we’d had in the city earlier today was the only reason he’d been dressed up at the lecture.
I glanced toward the professor and Rowen, and relaxed when I saw Rowen had already begun cleaning up the injuries on the professor’s face, or at least, he’d tugged the tail of his shirt free of his suit pants and was dabbing at blood. The crowd had backed away from us. Some people had scampered off in fear, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out which ones were on their phones to the cops. “We need to get out of here. Now. The boss doesn’t want to be pulling our arses from jail. Let’s go.”
For once, Rowen didn’t argue. I heard him whisper, “Can we take ye to our home to clean up yer wounds?”
The answer he got was a small whimper and a nod. Rowen hooked the professor’s arm over his shoulders and nodded at me to lead the way. I kicked the Italian curled up on the ground for good measure and squeezed my hand with my brass knuckles into a fist. I hoped he didn’t belong to the Folliero family because right now they were the Killough Company’s allies, and Sloan wouldn’t want to deal with this shite, even if this wanker started it. Still, in my heart I didn’t care if he was.
Leading the blokes to my black Ford Expedition, I stared down at the blood speckled across my pale skin and brass knuckles before I slipped the weapon off my fingers and slid it back into my pocket.
Aspen smirked at me, and I returned the sentiment as we finally arrived at the SUV. The professor stumbled slightly, and I turned to help Rowen get him into the front seat. I hadn’t even noticed what Fallon was up to until he grabbed the professor’s book and slid it between his legs and onto the floor. The boys got into the back, and I ran around to the driver’s side and stepped up into the beast of a vehicle.
When I was inside, I glanced at the professor. He whimpered, leaning forward as though curling in on himself to hide, and his shoulders trembled. Nonetheless he gave me a brave smile that made my gut curdle. The desire to go back to that Italian and smash his face in even more was like a heavy rock in my chest, pressing down on my lungs, and the only thing that stopped me was more sniffles from the man beside me. We needed to get him home and patched up.
I pulled out of the parking space and headed toward the house Rowen owned with me. We didn’t live far from the boss, in a less fancy place. Our home was three stories and built for a single family, with shingle-style architecture, and even though it was only a four-bedroom, it still cost us nearly two million. It was all aboutlocation,location,location—especially in NYC, and we lived in Westhampton Beach, a short walk away from the shore. We weren’t directly on the beach like the boss was in Southampton, but we were close.
That also meant the drive home was nearly two hours in this traffic, and judging from the professor’s injuries, he didn’t need a doctor. If he did later, though, we could always call Rory, the Company’s personal doc.
“Ye need medical attention?” I asked roughly.
He glanced at me with a pained wince and shook his head. The blood under his nose was already drying, even though Rowen had cleaned up most of it. His attractive narrow face was marred with scratches and broken skin, and rage swelled inside me like fire on a hot, dry day. That Italian fucker was lucky Aspen had been there, or he wouldn’t be walking this earth anymore.
“I don’t think so. I’m only sore. Maybe you should take me to my apartment?”
“No,” Rowen said sharply from where he sat in the back seat. “Ye’re coming home with us. We’re cleaning ye up.”
