Page 48 of Black Sheep

He fingers the cuffs of his dress shirt with almost bored strokes. But although he seems well put together, there’s a bagginess to his clothes that suggests he’s lost weight. Or lost the patronage of his favorite bespoke suit maker. The millions he spent trying to keep himself out of jail have taken a toll on his bank account. I know that for a fact.

“You’re still throwing those feeble fists like you used to do when you were a baby, and your ma, God rest her soul, tried to give you a bath. It does the heart good to see some things never change.”

I let loose a smile of my own as the familiar promise of combat oils my limbs. “You know what does my heart good? You. Thinking everything that has led to this has been a tantrum. I implore you to keep thinking that way. Believe that there’s even a single scenario where you triumph.”

“I don’t need to. You will do all of the heavy lifting for me. Same as you’ve always done.” His gaze flicks to Cleo, and I hear her sharp inhalation. Whatever passes between them ends when his eyes return to me.

I barely manage to keep my fists from tightening. “Sure. I’m happy to do one last act of heavy lifting for you. Just call the undertaker and pick a box.”

Behind me, Cleo makes another sound. A twisted projectile of noise. Broken, yet powerful in grabbing my attention. The urge to turn around blasts through me. But that is not an option, not when my horns are locked in battle. I keep my attention on Finnan.

Your move.

“You must get this wild death wish from your mother’s side of the family. If memory serves, her brother, your uncle Paddy, was also one to run his mouth off without forethought. Right until someone put a gun in it.” His eyes gleam with a sinister light that makes me think that someone was him.

“Is that someone still around? I’d love to teach him a neat little trick that I learned in Manila.”

“Axel.” Cleo’s voice quivers, her warning getting lost in the maelstrom of emotions coiling through the room.

Finnan’s eyes shift to her again. I have to lock my knees not to step in front of her and block his view. Blot out every image of the two of them together that has attached itself to my psyche.

All traces of mirth are now drained from his face. “We’ll continue this conversation in my den. Alone.”

Ronan steps forward, affront bristling. “Pa—”

I make one last-ditch attempt to save my brother. For what reason, I don’t know. “Listen to the man, Ronan. And if you feel like making drinks, I’ll take a whisky, neat.”

His jaw juts out. “I’m not your damn waiter.”

I shrug. “Fair enough.” I turn back to Finnan. “Lead the way.”

I don’t look at Cleo simply because I don’t want Finnan’s eyes on her. I don’t want to dwell on the bruises hugging her ribs. Not right now. Not if I want to stop myself from driving my fist into Finnan’s face until he stops breathing.

What I do savor is the fact that she’s naked beneath that dress. That when I’m done here, she’ll be readily accessible for the taking. And I intend to take her for as long as this insanity rides me.

Finnan heads for his office. I follow. I hear her footsteps retreat, and I detest that I already miss her presence.

Unlike the other parts of the house, Finnan’s den has undergone a change since I was last here. An elaborate bar now resides opposite the huge desk and chair from where he rules what’s left of his corrupt empire. He doesn’t cross to it or offer me a drink. Despite what I said to Ronan, I don’t need one. I’m dealing with Finnan stone-cold sober.

He steps behind his desk and sits on his throne. “This ends now. I know you’ve been running around with the Armenians and those other Eastern European assholes. I’ve even allowed you to run your little nightclubbing circus for long enough. It’s time to come home.”

“That ‘little circus’ was valued at eleven figures at my last audit. I’m sure one of your minions can verify that for you if you don’t believe me. But let’s not dwell on that for now. Or even on the fact that you believe you can order me around. This ‘home’ you wish me to return to, what do you foresee my purpose here being? Exactly?” I snap my fingers a second later. “Oh wait, could it be some hare-brained idea that I might help you with…something?”

“Watch yourself, boy. Need I remind you about that little video I have on you?” His voice has dropped to a pitch that terrified me a lifetime ago.

Now the urge to laugh is only halted by the permafrost weaving through my core. “I wondered when you would play that card. Is that supposed to terrify me?” I taunt.

“It’s supposed to bring you clarity. Remind you that I’ve dealt worse a hand for lesser insults. I’m giving you the chance to focus your mind on what’s important.”

“Believe me, I’m focused. Are you though? Because I could’ve sworn this whole tiresome song and dance these past weeks has been to get me here to talk about a different subject entirely.”

His shrug attempts a nonchalance that doesn’t quite hit the mark. “Sure. Let’s discuss that small business at Taranahar,” he says.

I take a slow, steady breath. “You mean the one where your merry band of brainless thugs slaughtered over a hundred people?”

“There was never a definitive count.”

“That’s the thing with dropping half a dozen bombs on a village the size of three city blocks, Pa. After a while, they stopped counting body parts.”

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