The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Lorcan
“What the hell have you done?”
I don’t have to break my staring contest with the museum exterior to know that Orna has burst into my office.
“Get out of here, Orna,” I growl, swigging the last drop of whiskey in my tumbler. It burns my throat in that familiar wave of pleasure and pain. “Mind your fucking business.”
In the reflection of the window, I see two more figures darken my doorway. A growl rumbles somewhere deep in my chest. I don’t need to see anyone right now, not Orna, not Donnacha, and especially not Antoin. All I need to do is drown my problems in whiskey and wish I wasn’t fucking alive.
“What happened?” Antoin says tightly.
News spreads like wildfire in this goddamn family.
“I shot Mickey,” I say, turning to pin him with a glare that says: and don’t you fucking question it.
Donnacha lets out a low whistle, followed by a chuckle. He flops down into an armchair and thumps his heavy legs on the side of my desk. Typical Don. So laid back.
Antoin, on the other hand, his jaw starts ticking. Tick, tick, tick in time with the English grandfather clock above my fireplace. His fists clench and unclench. Then, he rolls his shoulders back, cricks his neck and returns to cool.
He has the restraint of my father. A Quinn trait that I was never dealt.
“Why?” he asks calmly.
“Because the money he tried to give us was faker than your favorite hooker’s tits.”
Donnacha roars with laughter, slapping his thigh. Then he grabs the whiskey from my desk and swigs straight from the bottle. “I knew he was a slimy cunt. I woulda popped him years ago if you’d let me.”
Antoin swallows, ignoring his brother, and turns his attention to Orna. “Could you leave us for a moment, sis?”
Orna’s scowl burns into the side of my head. “With pleasure,” she drawls, making sure her exit is known with the heavy slam of my door.
“Well, then. You did the right thing.”
I throw him a warning look over my freshly filled glass. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”
He clasps his hands together and says, “next, we need to figure out whether this was a one-off, perhaps in revenge for leaving his joint dry all weekend, or if he’s been doing this shit for a while. I’ll check the cash and have a word with Conor.”
“Yeah,” Donnacha says, rising to his feet and slamming the bottle back on the desk. I’m in no mood to give him a history lesson about its precious origins. And even if I was, Donnacha wouldn’t give a flying fuck. “And I’ll get my men on the clean-up.”
I nod. There’s no denying they are good right-hand men. They’ll both get their hands dirty in different ways when all I want to do is wallow in my own shit. “And let all the other businesses know what happened. I want to send a message that even though my father is no longer with us, the Quinns are not to be fucked with. You can go now.”
I turn away from them both, staring back at the museum through the window.
I don’t give a fuck about Mickey. I did what needed to be done, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
But something is stirring in my chest, interfering with the cocktail of numbness and anger that I’ve been drowning in for the last four years.
Guilt.
I down the rest of my drink. I must be fucking drunk.
But every time I blink I see Poppy’s face behind my goddamn eyelids. The sheer terror in those big emerald eyes, the quiver on her plump lips. How her soft body trembled in my arms.
I don’t even realize Antoin’s still here until his shoulder brushes mine as he joins me at the window.
“Was she there?”
I offer nothing but a curt nod. It’s enough.
“Don’t do it.”
“Do what?”
My cousin turns to face me, eyes boring into mine. “Fall for her,” he says carefully, taking the tumbler from my fist. “Because falling in love with Marcus Murphy’s daughter is nothing but bad news.”