Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

TRISTAN

Taking care of my big brother tonight was not on my extensive list of things to do. But when Quinn called from the pub to let me know the shape he was in, I dropped everything.

Rud ar bith do mo deartháir.

For any of my brothers.

After taking him home and wrangling his sloppy ass into bed, I spent a few minutes convincing his nanny to spend the night for Fiona's sake. She begrudgingly agreed, staying for the bonus she was promised, not my niece's well-being.

While it's now too late to run most of the errands on my list, there is still plenty of time to visit the welch downtown. His bar won't be closing for at least an hour.

You available to go somewhere?

CONOR

I can be ready in 5.

I'll be there in 10.

While Declan had moved out of our family's estate years before the rest of us, we all found our own homes within minutes of each other as we joined him in the city. It provides us the space to have some semblance of a private life yet ensures we're all always readily available when needed.

I make it to Conor's place in eight minutes, finding him waiting out front having a quick smoke. Seeing me approach, he takes a long drag before flicking the cigarette to the ground. He exhales the smoke and grinds his toe over the butt as he makes his way to my car.

"We've talked about this," I scold him as he slides into the passenger seat.

I pull into traffic, and he huffs. "I'm not smoking in your car."

"No. You just fucking reek of it." I shake my head, detesting the lingering burnt smell currently polluting the air of my car. "And you know that shit will kill you."

"Of all the things in this world that might kill me in our line of work, that shit doesn't even make the Top Ten."

That's not a sentiment I can argue with. We have a better chance of winding up six feet under or sitting on death row than we do of living long enough for booze or cigarettes to take us out.

"How's Dec?" Conor asks.

"Not as broken as he was a year ago," I somberly admit .

Conor shakes his head. "Fuck falling in love."

"A-fucking-men."

"Considering the number of women you've been seen with this year, I don't think you have much to be concerned with," he jests with a hint of sincerity.

"Fuck you," I spit, though he isn't entirely wrong. Since taking over for Declan, only a handful of women have been in my bed. Nothing in comparison to the barrage of women that used to rotate through it.

"Where the fuck are we going at two in the morning, anyway?"

"To see the welch that blew Finn off this morning." I pull to a stop outside of a sports bar that has clearly closed for the night.

Letting ourselves inside, we're met with a deep masculine voice. "Sorry, we're closed. The doors should've been locked."

"They were, Stanley," I reply as Conor and I walk the bar, utilizing the bit of light from the televisions still playing various sporting events or recaps. Crossing the room and rounding tables, we make our way toward the frumpy, middle-aged man standing behind the otherwise empty bar.

"Listen." He fidgets nervously, repeatedly wringing the dry bar towel in his hands. "I told the kid this morning I'd have it by the end of the week."

"That kid ," I over-emphasize the word, "is my baby brother. "

"I…I'm sorry," he stammers. "I didn't know."

I stalk closer toward Stanley as Conor slinks behind the bar. Lifting his hand, his fingers dance along the glass bottles along the length of the bar. When he reaches the end, he turns and violently swipes all of the bottles to the floor. The bottles shatter, and the shards crunch under the soles of his shoes, the sounds of both nearly drowned out by Stanley, "Come on. You don't have to?—"

"You disrespected Finn." Taking a seat on the stool across the bar from Stanley, I continue, "And that means you disrespected me."

"I—" Stanley abruptly stops talking when I press my finger to my lips.

"You owe us a hundred large, Stanley. You disrespected me and my family." I shake my head as Conor walks behind him. "We won't be leaving empty-handed this time.

Conor tosses a knife in my direction. It hits the bar and slides across the wood, coming to a stop before me. As I reach for the blade, Conor wraps his arms aggressively around Stanley from behind, caging him in. With him firmly pinned between the bar and Conor, I grab his wrist and slam his hand onto the well-polished wood between us.

Standing from the stool, I press my weight against his fist, forcing him to splay his fingers across the bar. I drag the knife Conor provided over Stanley's knuckles, tormenting him as I speak, "Welches pay one way or another. Ten fingers, Stanley. That's one for every ten grand you owe us. "

He snivels as I align the blade with the knuckle of his pinky. Without hesitation, I press down firmly. It crunches through the tendons as it separates the joint, leaving his finger lying on the bar beside his hand in a pool of blood and Stanley howling in pain.

I slide the knife along Stanley's sleeve to clean the blade and lift his finger from the bar as Conor releases him. Done with him for the night, we both head to the door, shouting, "I'll be back for my hundred grand or another finger tomorrow night, Stanley."

Stepping onto the street, I toss the useless finger into the nearest drainage grate and hand the knife back to Conor. "This is nice. I might need to get one of these." Carefully, I pull the handkerchief from my pocket and quickly wipe my hands before climbing back into my cherry-red Vantage; I'd hate to soil her with his blood.

After dropping Conor at his place, I head home and straight to my ensuite. While I wait for my shower to get to temperature, I empty my pockets. I briefly check my phone and notice a notification for a dating app. One used so infrequently—and mostly for research—that I had nearly forgotten it was still installed on my phone. When I open it, I am pleasantly surprised to find the pretty brunette in gold from the bar earlier tonight.

Swiping to match her, I send her a quick message before climbing into bed in an attempt to get a few hours of sleep.