Arno wasn’t embellishing shit, for once. Espi doesn’t want to see me. He lives at Mulligans as well, from what Arno would tellme, but in twenty-four hours, I’ve had a better chance of forming a relationship with the roaches that scuttle in the corners than I do of reconnecting with my suddenly “adult” kid brother.
The brush-off leaves me antsy. Espi knows better than anyone that I hate to be ignored. I prefer a man to face me head on rather than sulk in the fucking shadows. Van Hallen. Arno. They don’t know shit. Espi is still the same punk kid I left behind, pouting in the corners.
I’ve given him long enough. Impatient and restless, I head down to the bar just after midnight, descending the single rickety staircase that separates the two levels. It opens onto a back room behind the bar counter, beside the kitchen.
On the previous night, I heard enough noise seep through the floors to know that Arno likes to keep a full house, but tonight, the pub itself is nearly deserted. Only Francisco and Arno sit at the counter. The latter rests his head in his hands, but I know enough to suspect—despite how much he likes to knock back—that the man isn’t stupid or suicidal enough to get drunk out in the open.
“What’s wrong?”
Spotting me, Francisco rises to his feet. “Arno...”
“Leave him.” Arno raises his hand, slicing the air with it.
Like a good dog, his man falls back, but not without fixing me with a hostile glare, which I graciously return.
“What the hell is going on?” It isn’t too often that a man goes from a “brother’s” welcome to spooking the puppies overnight. Typically, that kind of swift change comes on the heels of a murder or two. “Where’s Espi?”
“Espi.” Arno releases a harsh bark of laughter as he pulls himself upright. His eyes are red. Bloodshot. Even back in the day, he never sampled his own product. The only other explanation is that the bastard has been...crying. “Where’s Espi. Where’sParish?” he growls.
“Parish?” I frown. Only twelve hours ago did the man kick hissister out on the street when she tried to ask me for money. “In an alley somewhere?” I guess, taking a stab in the fucking dark. “Getting high? I don’t fucking know.”
Arno laughs again, but the sound comes out dangerously unsteady. He’s the mad dog gnawing at his leash this time. “Getting high,” he snarls. In one smooth motion, he’s on his feet, facing me with his stance open, his hands clenching into fists. “You want to take that back, Dante.”
“Arno.” Francisco, the dog, has enough sense to step back. “Arno. Try to keep a clear head. You don’t—”
“The fuck ifyouknow what I don’t want to do.” Fire gleams in the redhead’s eyes. He’s burning—itching—for a fight. To beat something or someone bloody with his fists. To bare his teeth. Growl. Bite.
Don’t I fucking know the feeling? My blood boils. My fingertips burn. They ache. I can’t stop flexing them. I’m hungry for a battle. Fuck that; Icraveit.
But I’m not an idiot.
“Listen to him, Arno.” I jerk my head in Francisco’s direction. “Sit back down.”
“I will,” Arno growls, the muscles in his arms straining. “Just as soon as you take back that shit you just said about my goddamnsister.”
I don’t hesitate. “No.”
With an unrestrained roar, Arno lunges, and I’m ready for him. My fist tightens eagerly, and I let it fly into his stomach, driving every ounce of air from his lungs. The blow lands harder than I meant it to. Harsher. He wheezes and swipes at my head with an open palm. It’s child’s play to duck it, and I land another blow on the center of his chest that sends him backward and sprawling against the counter.
“Stop!” Francisco steps in between us. His stance isn’t hostile to me as he places a restraining hand on Arno’s shoulder, but it’s almost too hard to silence the blood lust that risesup so fierce and so hard that I can feel it taking shape around me.
The buzzing begins at the back of my skull, swelling to a deafening hum that won’t be silenced until I beat Arno’s face into a pulp. Until I smash his fucking face into the counter. Until I feel his blood on my hands. They curl, hungry for that slick, intoxicating heat. And I want—need—to feed that itch.
“Dante.”
I shrug off the voice that battles with the steady pulse taking residence in my brain. It’s a chant, almost.Fight. Punch. Bleed. Kill.
“Dante.” It’s Arno calling me this time. There’s blood on his chin, but I’m not sure how or why.
My knuckles ache. I only registered two punches, but the twinge in my shoulder warns me that it was several more.
“Dante,” Arno tries again. He spits out a mouthful of blood onto the floor, which is dark enough to obscure the violent coloring. “Parish...she’s... Fuck, Dante, she’s dead. Parish is dead.”
“What?” I shake my head, desperate to clear it. It’s too confusing to jump from violence to blood and then death.
“She’s dead,” Arno says almost as if to himself. His hand fumbles along the bar until he finds a discarded glass, and he downs whatever is inside it. “How the fuck am I supposed to tell our mother? Those bastards didn’t even...”
“Who?” My voice ripples over that familiar, low tone. Clarity returns in snatches, but my fingers aren’t shaking at least. “What happened to her? Mack?”
