Page 50 of Chains of Recompense
But Sandro sits on a crate, his legs outstretched—his back’s still not fully healed, but he’s ignoring every doctor’s order because that’s who he is. All engine, no brakes. “You’re pissed off,” he says, not asking, just reading me the way only my twin can. “And you’re not sleeping.”
“None of us are sleeping,” I growl.
“True,” Miko says. “But we’re not sleeping next to someone who’s?—”
“Finish that sentence, and I’ll throw you through the wall.”
My older brother holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m not judging. Just saying. To me, it seems like you’ve jumped into a new marriage too soon after Genevieve’s death. It’s screwing with your head, and we need your head screwed on straight today.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re angry,” Sandro says, voice low. “And you feel guilty.”
The word lands like a hammer. “Knock it off,” I mutter.
But they’re not wrong.
Every time I want Aisling, it feels like I’m cheating on my dead wife.
Not just betraying Genevieve’s memory—but betraying the rage that keeps me alive.
And the worst part is, they don’t even know I’m supposed to befakingthese feelings.
I have every reason to make a show of feeling the way I do, and yet my nerves are twice as raw, my guilt twice as heavy—because as much as I want to deny it, Idowant Aisling.
Even if I haven’t so much as kissed her since our wedding day.
The door rolls open, metal screeching, letting in daylight that slices across the shadows.
The Murray brothers—Ryan, Cillian, and Patrick—walk in like they own the place, tall, dressed in their dark cable-knit sweaters and tweed Irish caps, shoulders squared with that typical arrogance that comes with old-world entitlement.
Their eyes sweep over us—calculating, hostile, and unimpressed.
Patrick snorts when he catches my gaze, like even looking at me is offensive, and Cillian’s mouth twitches, somewhere between a smile and a sneer.
Ryan, the oldest, just stares like he’s doing the math on exactly how much blood my death would save the world.
Sandro stands up beside me, calm, steady, lethal, and Miko straightens, his hands in his pockets, all silent predator as he eyes the Murray brothers with unbridled suspicion.
But this is my meeting, my alliance, my war to command. And everyone damn well knows it.
Ryan speaks first. “So. Did you ladies drag us out here to actually talk strategy, or are you just desperate for some real leadership?” He has the same deep brogue as his father, the lilting edge to his accent making it impossible to tell if the jab is genuine or just banter.
Sandro steps forward, but I put a hand out, blocking him.
“Easy,” I say, eyes still on Ryan. “They’re Irish. They don’t know how to communicate without insulting someone.”
Cillian barks a laugh.
Patrick doesn’t. “We’re still waiting for proof you lads know what the hell you’re doing,” he says.
“You’re standing in a warehouse with three men who lost everything and are still standing, stronger than ever,” Miko replies, voice flat. “That’s proof enough.”
Ryan waves him off. “Sure. And now you want to drag our family into the mess you created.”
“The messwecreated?” Sandro snarls. “Forgive me if I’ve confused my facts, but I’m pretty sure it wasyourmen that came toourhome without provocation and decided to light it on fire. All for an empty promise of some territory you weren’t strong enough to claim on your own.”
“Well, we can’t all be blessed with a secret Bratva inheritance that will allow us to weasel our way into claiming territory we didn’t take for our own,” Ryan snaps, his eyes casting toward Miko.
