The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Lorcan

Why is your light still on, China Doll?

I stare out of my office window, at the soft glow washing over the leaves of the old oak tree. It comes from the side of the Museum, where Poppy’s bedroom is located. A glance down at my Audemars Piguet and I realize it’s almost midnight. Why is she still awake? I wonder what she’s doing. If she’s thinking about me. If she’s replaying me touching her—

“Lorcan?” A sharp voice comes from over my shoulder. “Are you listening to me?”

Antoin’s annoyed tone pulls me back from my thoughts and into the darkness of the study. He appears by my shoulder, following my gaze out of the window, a frown denting his brow. “Pussy that good, huh?”

“Shut up,” I hiss with more venom than I intend. Antoin, not wanting another repeat of last week, shoots his hands up along with his eyebrows. “It was a joke, Lorcan. Chill.” His eyes drop to my half-full glass of The Smugglers Club in my hand. They narrow. “I drove past my penthouse downtown to come to the estate tonight, and it wasn’t to watch you drink,” he says sourly. “We need to talk business.”

I turn with him, watching him sink into the chair across from my desk. He runs a large hand over his face, and it’s only then I realize that he’s looking tired. Real tired.

“Then talk.”

“I just landed. Colombia didn’t go too hot.”

Fuck.In the midst of lust and rage, all directed at Poppy Murphy, I’d forgotten that I’d ordered Antoin to get on the next private jet to Bogota. Get serious, Lorcan. I scold myself. I pour the rest of my whiskey into the nearest plant pot and slide into my Herman Miller. Back straight and ready for business. “Why?” I demand.

“The Vargas family won’t even consider supplying us directly. Turns out they are ridiculously loyal to the Bratnovs. Something about one of the oldest sons courting one of their daughters. Some Romeo and Juliet shit. Whatever. Anyway, they told me flat-out that the Bratnovs are the only family they will supply on the East Coast.”

“And?”

“And,” Antoin continues, rubbing a hand over his sharp nose. “The Vargas family has the monopoly over the East Coast. No other dealers will touch us.”

The anger beats inside my chest and I slam my fist against the table. Antoin doesn’t even flinch. “Do they not know who we are?” I growl. “We’re the fucking Quinns. Kill them all,” I announce. “We rule these fucking streets. They aren’t even in the goddamn country.”

Antoin closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Lorcan… please,” he hisses, “please. I’m truly begging you. Think like your father—even for one second.”

It’s instinctive to want to lunge over my desk and wrap my hands around his throat. But I’m done with thinking irrationally today. I have to be. Instead, I swallow the fury and settle against the back of my chair. It’s also instinctive for my fingers to twitch towards my crystal tumbler. I’m mildly disappointed when I remember I chucked its contents into the nearest vegetation moments earlier.

Think like my father. What would Donal Quinn do?

I turn my attention to the photo of him and my brothers on my desk and think. Everyone respected my father, not solely because of his last name. They respected him. Restaurants would close for the evening if he had a reservation, bars would always have his favorite champagne on ice, just in case he decided to swing by. They gave him his cut of their business willingly, not because he didn’t give them any other choice.

Why?

Because they were giving the money to him, not to the Quinn dynasty. They trusted him to protect them. My father wasn’t a name, he was a face.

I clear my throat and say, “I’ll collect payment this week. All the clubs and bars have been dry all weekend, they’ll be pissed. I’ll show up—” I raise my hands as Antoin opens his mouth to protest “—not to throw my weight around, but to apologize. Maybe it’ll help to see my face.”

Antoin watches as I crack my knuckles. “Your face or your fist?”

A grin tugs at the corners of my lips. “Depends on how forgiving they are.”

Antoin lets out a laugh, and I can tell by the glint in his eye he’s impressed. Something tugs at my cold, dead heart—satisfaction. It’s the first time my cousin has sat in that seat opposite me and not scowled the whole time. “I like it,” he considers, reaching for the whiskey bottle and topping up both our glasses. He raises his to mine and chinks. “‘Cause all it takes is for a few of the business owners to get their heads together and revolt. Decide to go to Bratnov directly.” He takes a swig of The Smugglers Club and eyeballs the contents of his glass with an approving nod. “Shit’s good.”

You’re telling me.

“All right then,” I say, clapping my hands together. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

Antoin cocks his head in the direction of the window. “Murphy’s daughter. She hot?”

My teeth clench together instinctively. I soothe down the prickle of jealousy with another swig of whiskey.

He still gets the side-eye from me. “Why?”

“Bring her,” he says, setting down his glass and rising to his feet.

A snort escapes my lips.

“I’m serious.”

Seeing I’m not convinced, he leans against my desk, weight on his palms and sighs. “You know I won’t sugarcoat it for you, Lorc. Even if that means I end up pinned to that bookcase again,” he jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “You know what they’re saying in the streets? You’re a one-man band now. What you say, goes.”

I grunt. “But it does.”

He offers a tight smile. “I know, but there’s no respect for that totalitarian image, anymore. Your father was so respected ‘cause he was a family man. Loyal to your mama long after she passed. He was relatable. So much so, that everyone could overlook the fact he’d pop a cap in your ass if you gave him the side-eye.” I smile at the memory of my father. “Bring the chick, give the impression of a family business.”

“Women don’t get involved in business.”

“But a woman’s touch softens everything. Maybe even you.”

He raps his ring against my desk and gives a curt nod. His leaving signal.

When the door clicks shut behind him, I spin my chair around to face the window. The glow is still radiating from the side of the museum and Antoin’s parting words are ringing around my ears.

Maybe even you.

I let out something between a grunt and a laugh into the silence. Hell will freeze over before Marcus Murphy’s daughter softens me.