Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“Since when did the Lenox Hill crew start running with such jittery lads?” The guy with the glasses asks.
“I’m not with them.” I glance over my shoulder, tracking the flash of blue. “And he’ll get away if ye don’t let me sort him out. You were going to do it anyway, so this is all I ask of ye. Let me be the one to do him in.”
The desperation bleeding from my voice mixes with the alcohol in my veins, and it’s not a great combination. My words are slurred, my movements slow, and I really don’t give a feck who these pricks are. When they don’t answer me, I start scuttling backwards on my hands and knees while they watch in amusement.
The guy in the leather jacket shakes his head. “Ye have to give him credit for his determination.”
His laughter dies when I yank out my piece and swivel around on the floor, too drunk to get up. My arm nearly falters as I take aim at the blue shirt, finger twitching on the trigger. I’m a split second away from firing when the man with the glasses walks up and kicks it from my hands.
“Calm down, lad,” he tells me as I scramble for the gun again. “Don’t ye know, if ye have beef with this tool… a bullet to the head ain’t the way to sort him out.”
I pause long enough to look up at him. “Then what would you suggest?”
“That’s a fair question,” the other man answers. “One that my mate here wouldn’t mind explaining to ye. But first thing’s first, lad. What exactly did that prick over there do to get ye so jacked up?”
The whiskey in my stomach curdles and I swallow down the bitterness of the raw truth.
“That prick killed my kid brother.”
“Where in the bleeding hell have you two been?” Crow asks as Rory and I slump onto our bar stools at Sláinte.
The Irish run strip joint is still bumping with energy at this late hour, but I’m limp with exhaustion. Tonight was meant to be a simple drop, but nothing in the syndicate is ever simple. It seems like every other week some new gobshite is gumming up the works.
“Those fucking arseholes hit our shipments again,” Rory moans. “The Loco Salva-whatever-the-fuck they call themselves.”
“Again?” Crow frowns. “That’s the second time this week.”
“I doubt they’ll be going away anytime soon,” I say. “Considering we just took out five of their crew.”
Crow’s brow furrows like I just reminded him of something, but whatever it is, he doesn’t mention it. “Chrissakes, Conor, you still have blood on your face. Go clean yourself up.”
Even though I’ve been with the outfit for a couple years now, I’m still the youngest of the lads. So, when Crow tells me to do something, I do it. I take my leave and descend into the bowels of the club where the gambling and killing usually take place.
Sometimes it’s a pain in the arse being the rookie, but even if it takes a lifetime, I’m willing to prove myself to the brotherhood. Without them, I’d be six feet under, as useless as my father always told me I was. Crow might give me shite most of the time, but he’s been offloading a lot more responsibility lately too. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what he asks of me. I’d lay down my life for this crew, and anything else is just white noise.
That’s why I don’t hesitate when I finish my business and Crow gestures for me to follow him to one of the private lounges on the balcony. He’s quiet as he leans against the railing, eyes scanning the crowd below us.
“Do ye see something that doesn’t quite belong here, Conor?”
My eyes move over the sea of faces, and everything is blurry. At this hour, most of the lads are here, drinking and socializing at the end of the busy day. The dancers are the same, just another pair of tits and ass walking about. You’d think a lad would never get sick of looking at it, but you’d be wrong.
I’m tired, and I haven’t a clue what this is about, but it must be important. Crow likes to test me from time to time, to see how far I’ve come since I was just the bumbling kid who stumbled into the middle of one of his gang wars.
There are any number of things he could be talking about. A guy getting too handsy with one of the dancers. Another couple of blokes we’ve already booted out of here once for being too belligerent. Some sketchy looking customers in the pit, most likely jerking themselves off. But those aren’t what catches my eye. And I could be wrong, but it’s a gut instinct that I’m not.