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Brady and Finn stride into my home, nonchalant as you please. As the manager of our family’s properties, Brady has access to fucking everything.

“Knock much?” I spit.

“Nah,” Finn says. “Where’s the fun in that?” He heads for my hallway, calling over his shoulder, “You guys feel like a game of pool? Bowling? We’ve got time to kill.”

Frowning, I glance at Brady. If Finn’s the fun-lover, Brady’s the workaholic.

“We actually do have time,” he says. “The truce with Seven looks like it might actually work. For now. So we’re paused on that front.”

I raise an eyebrow, and Brady shrugs.

“We could check on the recruits if you want, but I was there yesterday. All’s going well.”

“Let’s check on the recruits.” I need to get out of here, to do something. “Finn! Get your shit, we’re leaving.”

Finn grumbles all the way to the South Side. The recruits live in the heart of our neighborhood, in an oversized brick house with Peter. Or Pete, as the women call him for some reason. The fact that he’s out for the day should make things interesting.

It’s good to drop in on new guys when they think they aren’t being watched.

I pull up to the curb a block away. The three of us walk past leaf-covered lawns, the occasional child’s bike propped against a stoop. We approach the recruits’ house silently, soft boots up the porch steps. Brady lets us in.

“Look lively, boys!” Finn shouts as we enter the living room.

The five recruits leap off the couches and stand to attention. Jesus, it’s like a frat house. A pizza box yawns open on the coffee table, congealed cheese for breakfast. Brady turns off the TV, the boys’ game unsaved. When one of them opens his mouth to protest, Brady unplugs the PlayStation. That gets everyone’s jaws to shut. Everyone except Finn.

“Do you smell that?” He sniffs the air dramatically. It wouldn’t take a bloodhound to solve this case. There may as well be an opaque cloud for how strong the room smells.

“Weed and feet,” Brady confirms.

He eyes the five boys, lingering on the last one with a frown. Connor Muloney. Cora’s little brother. Brady doesn’t get along with his wife’s family, and I don’t blame him. The Muloneys run their own Irish outfit in Boston, but they’ve always been power-hungry. Brady and Cora’s wedding sealed an alliance between our families, and although the marriage is solid, the alliance remains shaky.

I don’t like Connor. He pledged himself to us O’Sullivans because he’s not welcome back in Boston. Thanks to his asinine double-cross attempt going wrong a couple months ago, no one wants him. He’s only here because Cora and Brady vouched for him. Brady went to extreme lengths to verify Connor isn’t a traitor, but that doesn’t mean I have to trust the kid.

“Who’s taking the fall?” I ask the five recruits. Well, four. Connor’s not the type to admit guilt if he can help it.

As predicted, he says nothing. His bloodshot eyes stare straight ahead. It’s the lad next to him who steps forward.

“I will, sir.” He nods respectfully to me. Curly blond hair trimmed neat on the sides, wrinkled gray T-shirt, blue sweatpants with a Naperville High Soccer logo. He pulls back his shoulders as I evaluate him.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Rabbit, sir.”

Finn chortles. The lad himself doesn’t react, but Connor glowers at my brother. Interesting. So Connor and this Rabbit are close.

“Your real name,” I demand.

“Rabbit, sir. Rabbit Kitson. My mom was a fan of Updike.”

This makes Finn snort so loudly he starts coughing. I’d like to smack him upside the head, but we brothers need to show a united front.

“Was,” I say to Rabbit. “She no longer with us?”

“She’s no longer with me. Up and left when I was fifteen. Dunno where she is now.”

Just like Brioni’s mam, abandoning her as a teenager. There’s a weird ache in my stomach. But I can’t allow myself to feel anything as weak as sympathy toward this poorly named lad.

“Well,” I say. “You’re with us now. And thanks to your little indiscretion, you’re going to scour this entire house by yourself. Vacuuming, scrubbing, the works.”