Page 4 of Dublin Beast
My server comes to gather his empty glass. She’s a no-nonsense woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and a Liverpool accent thick enough to cut marble.
She gathers the empty pint glass, then turns those eyes on me. “Saw you talkin’ to that lad. Jamie Rowan. He botherin’ you, lass?”
I shake my head. “He offered to show me around.”
“Did he now?” Her lips press into a thin line. “Look, love, I’ve been working in this pub longer than you’ve been drinking, and I’ve seen a lot of things. My unsolicited advice is that ye stay away from that one.”
I tilt my head. “Why? Is he some kind of local heartbreaker?”
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “The lad’s got friends in low places and I’d hate to see you caught up in somethin’ you can’t come back from.”
Bingo.
I nod, as if I’m tucking the information away. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be careful.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press, either. When she walks off, I upend my drink. The slow burn of confirmation warms my insides.
Jamie is exactly what I thought he was. And tomorrow, I’ll walk straight into his trap.
CHAPTERTWO
Bryan
The sterile air of Gatwick Airport is a sharp contrast to the thick, whiskey-drenched atmosphere of the Quinn family war room. Everything here is polished, orderly. Deceptively civilized.
I roll my shoulders, fighting the restless energy that always builds when I’m forced into waiting. Patience isn’t my strong suit. I prefer problems I can hit—solve with my fists—but for now, this mission requires precision.
A slow, strategic hunt.
Beside me, Kieran stretches with an easy sigh, arms over his head like he just woke from a nap instead of stepping into enemy territory. The bastard always looks relaxed, even when he’s walking into trouble.
Maybe it’s his gift of the gab—the guycouldtalk his way out of a grave.
Or maybe it’s because he enjoys stirring the pot just as much as I enjoy breaking bones.
The two of us make our way toward the exit where our contact from the Watson crime family is waiting. The moment we step through the glass doors, our greeter peels away from a black SUV, watching us approach with a calm, assessing gaze.
He’s tall, broad, and well put together in a tailored gray overcoat that speaks of old money and silent power.
A man accustomed to control.
A Londoner through and through.
“You must be the Quinn boys,” he says, his voice smooth as a poured pint. “I was told to expect muscle, but Christ, they didn’t mention you’d be fresh off a cage fight.” His eyes flick to me, landing on the bruises along my knuckles.
I lift a brow. “And you are?”
“Logan Fletcher.” He extends a hand. “I’m your guide, your handler, and the unfortunate bastard assigned to keep you from making a mess of London business while you chase your vendetta.”
Kieran snorts, clapping Logan’s outstretched hand with a firm shake. “Vendettas are a Quinn family business, mate. It’s what we do best.”
Logan’s lips twitch. “Right, so I’ve heard.” His gaze shifts to me. “Bryan Quinn.” He says my name like it carries weight, like he’s heard the stories. Most men have. “I assume you know the rules?”
“We stay out of your business, you stay out of ours,” I say flatly.
“Smart lad.” Logan nods toward the SUV. “Come on, let’s get moving. You’re attracting attention.”
We pile into the vehicle, Logan sliding into the driver’s seat while Kieran and I take the back. The leather is soft beneath me, but I can already feel the itch of impatience working its way under my skin.
