Page 54 of Chains of Recompense
And I wouldn’t risk word getting out that might come back to hurt Aisling’s reputation, even if I trust my brothers with my life.
But now they’re looking at me like I’ve completely lost my mind.
Rather than offering an explanation, I fix my gaze on the oldest Murray brother.
Ryan’s mouth curves, not friendly but at least respectful, and the Irish brothers exchange a look.
There’s a silent but unmistakable agreement in it.
Ryan nods, slow and serious now. “Alright. You took what we owed you.” Then his tone hardens. “But hear this, if you ever hurt our sister…”
Is it just me, or does he pause long enough for an unspoken “again”?
“The next time, we won’t stop until your brains are on the sidewalk. You understand?”
I don’t flinch. “I understand.”
Patrick claps once, big and theatrical. “Well! Since we have an understanding, we owe you a drink. Irish tradition. Man takes his punches like a champ, you toast him before moving on to business.”
I would much rather we get to our plans for revenge, but after finally earning a modicum of respect from the brothers I’ll be working with closely, I’m not about to spit on theirtraditions.
Miko seems far less willing as he throws up his hand. “We’re not drinking with them?—”
But I elbow him to shut him up. “How can we pass up a toast to our… newfound understanding?” I quip.
My brothers just scowl at the Murrays as the Irishmen grin with satisfaction.
An hour later, we’re back in the newly renovated cigar room of the Chiaroscuro house, the Murray brothers toting a bottle of Irish Redbreast that looks older than anyone in the room.
Ryan slaps it down on the wet bar like he’s presenting a newborn. “Imported. Contraband. Don’t tell customs.”
Patrick winks. “We bribed them.”
Miko rolls his eyes as Cillian hunts for glasses, humming like this is the best night of his life.
Then the brothers join us on the Chesterfields placed spaciously around the room.
“To new understandings,” Ryan says, lifting his glass once we all have one, and we mirror his toast. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte,” I echo, my brothers notably silent as we all tip our glasses back and swallow the generous shot.
The whiskey hits hard and clean.
It’s the kind of drink that punches back, and even as they pour another round, I can feel the simmering frustration in my chest starting to cool, my muscles unwinding in a way that only alcohol can manage anymore.
We don’t stop at two drinks, either, and though I know we should be using this time for something more productive, I can’t help relishing the sweet relief that comes with the numbing effects of hard liquor.
The Murray brothers get louder as my brothers start to loosen up, and suddenly, it feels like a boxing ring disguised as a family get-together—the familiar cheeky banter reminding me of all the nights that Sandro and I snuck out as teenagers to slum it in the Murray fighting pits without our father’s knowledge.
Ryan raises a glass at me as he makes yet another toast, his eyes starting to glaze under the influence of alcohol. “To the man who let us rearrange his face. For closure.”
“And for not crying about it,” Cillian adds, his grin wicked.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I say, though I’m fairly certain I could have a mild concussion from it.
Patrick gestures to my cheek. “Mate. Your face looks like it’s about to give birth to a potato.”
Sandro roars with laughter. Miko snorts whiskey up his nose and chokes.
