Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (12)

This time, Robbie has no choice but to swallow. Not all of the liquid makes it down his throat, of course. But Leander doesn’t stop, not until the pint glass is empty. And even then, he keeps his unwavering stare on me.

When he’s satisfied, Leander gives a single nod.

I release Robbie from my grip, whip my gun from its holster, and shoot Robbie in the head.

The pressure and pain behind my eyes subsides now that Robbie’s gurgles and sobs and pleas no longer drone on around us. It’s just the music, and now the steady drip, drip, drip of blood that falls to the floor.

I slide my gun back into its holster. There can be no threat when I let my next words loose between us. “I want to retire.”

A slow, predatory grin creeps across Leander’s face. “You don’t say,” he says, turning his back to me. “I’m totally shocked.”

“Leander, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me and the boys. Covering our asses back in Sligo. Bringing us here, setting us up. You know how much I appreciate it. I’ve put in the years to pay it back, you know I have. But this …” I say, trailing off as I cast a glance down to the slumped body next to me. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Leander lets out a deep sigh as he sets the glass and funnel next to the sink and turns to face me. “I’m going to be straight with you, kid. I always am.”

I nod when he raises a single brow.

“When you pissed off Damian Covaci last year, that didn’t just kill our contract with him. It had ripple effects on other contracts as well when gossip spread in certain circles. And you know what, kid? That pissed me off.”

Blush crawls into my cheeks. “So I acted like a feckin’ eejit one time. This seems extreme.”

“You put a Covaci in a fucking trunk, Lachlan.”

Shit. I really did.

Leander leans against the counter and folds his arms across his chest. He might be closing in on sixty, but he’s still built like a brute, and his thick biceps strain against the confines of his black sweater. “We talked about this. Like it or not, we’re in the customer service business. You should know what that means, you do it every single day at your studio. If some client comes into Kane Atelier to buy leather saddlebags for their motorcycle or some shit and they piss you off, are you gonna lock them in the fucking closet? Chrissakes, I hope not. Because that would be terrible customer service.”

“So, what, I’ve gotta keep doing this indefinitely?”

Leander shrugs. “Unless you magically find a way to fix the damage you caused, yeah. I guess so.”

A suspended moment lingers between us. Leander might feign disappointment in me, but sometimes I wonder if this mistake of mine worked out to his benefit, even if the jobs tapered off like he claims. As though he can see these thoughts turning over in my mind, Leander pivots away before I can read too much into his expression.

“Go on, get out of here,” he says as he cracks open a fresh beer. “Say hi to the boys for me.”

I wait for him to meet my eyes, but he doesn’t.

Without another word, I stride away. The steel door slams shut behind me with a reverberant thud.

I leave Leander behind.

But I know I’ll never really get away.





GUILLOTINE




Lachlan


I buzz the intercom for my brother Rowan’s apartment for the second time and take a step back from the panel to stare up at the brick building toward the third floor. My grip is tight around the bottle of Athrú Keshcorran whiskey as I tamp down the urge to hurtle it at the window. With a curse, I surge forward to jam my finger down on the little black button when a voice crackles over the speaker.

“If you’re selling farts in a jar, I don’t want them.”

My eyes narrow. Fionn. I love our younger brother dearly, but he’s a right little shit.

“You and I both know you order them on the internet in bulk. Let me up, ya gobshite,” I say, pulling the neck of the bottle free of the brown paper bag as I hold it toward the camera above the door. “Unless you don’t want any of this.”

The door buzzes and I step inside.

When I arrive at the third-floor landing, Fionn is there with a devious grin, leaning against the threshold of the open door as he picks at a bag of trail mix. I can hear music, bits of conversation, and laughter trickling out of the apartment.

“Good to see you, ya little shit,” I say as I wrap my arms around him. He’s an inch taller than me, built of lean, powerful muscle that’s solid beneath my arms. He claps me hard twice on the back as though proving his strength. “How long will you be gracing us with your presence in Boston?”

“Just until Monday.”

“Or you could just stay permanently.”

“Hard pass.”

We part enough to press our foreheads together, something we’ve done since the very first moment I held him in my arms in the hospital room back in Sligo the day he was born. When he takes a step back, Fionn scrutinizes the details of my face with clinical intensity. “You look miserable.”

“And you look like a dickhead with your feckin’ bag of birdseed.”

“Omega fatty acids decrease inflammation and LDL cholesterol,” he says as I pass by to enter Rowan’s apartment, a space that takes up the entirety of the third floor in the narrow building.