Page 13 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

The betting shop sat between a liquor store and a boarded-up laundromat, its windows covered in old flyers, the sign outside flickering weakly, one letter already dead. It was the kind of place men ended up in when they wanted to make bad decisions. I saw Patrick with three men around him—one close enough to invade his space, one hanging back near the alley entrance, one watching the street. Patrick stood with his shoulders drawn tighter than I remembered, older in a way that had less to do with years and more to do with pressure, his hands buried in his jacket pockets, unsteady even from here.

I killed the engine and watched for thirty seconds. The tallest man stepped closer to Patrick, and I couldn’t hear everything through the glass, but I didn’t need to. I caught fragments about patience running out and time being called. Patrick snapped something back, defensive, and the man grabbed his coat like he couldn’t do anything about being held in place. I opened the door, cold air hitting first, then silence.

One of them noticed me, then the second. Patrick looked up, the color draining from his face like my presence made things worse rather than better. The tall man released him slowly.

“You got business here?” he asked me.

I stopped a few feet away, hands loose to show I wasn’t carrying anything. “Are you collecting debts that belong to me now?”

No one answered immediately. The man near the alley straightened, calculating my every move.

“Who gave you permission to collect Callahan’s debt?” I asked, still calm.

The tall man cleared his throat. “This doesn’t concern you.”

I looked at him properly. “When you touched him, it became my concern.” The words landed heavier than if I’d shouted.

He swallowed, Patrick looked at the ground, and I recognized the shape of it immediately—shame, fear, history refusing to stay buried.

“We’re handling outstanding accounts,” the man said.

I almost smiled. “You misunderstand something.” My gaze moved between all three. “Outstanding accounts tied to Patrick Callahan pass through me.” Silence, wind dragging litter across the pavement, the message settling without needing repetition. Not mercy, ownership.

The tall man nodded once, reluctant. “We’ll revisit this another time.”

I stepped aside without speaking, and that was permission enough. They left quickly, engines starting, doors shutting, then gone.

The lot went quiet again. Patrick exhaled like he’d forgotten how. I stayed facing the empty street, waiting, because this part mattered more than them. Behind me, he finally spoke.

“Should’ve known you’d hear about this eventually.”

I turned slowly and looked at him properly—a graying beard, a worn coat, exhaustion sitting deep enough to feel permanent.

Time hadn’t been kind to him. Good. Some debts deserved that.

“I’m not here because of them.”

He went still, not from fear of collectors or debts, but something older and heavier…fear of me. And the space between us changed before either of us moved, because we both understood that what came next had been waiting a long time. Patrick reached into his coat pocket with fingers that looked stiff and pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes, staring at it for a moment before putting it back. Same habit, old nerves, I noticed.

The silence between us stretched long enough for traffic noise to creep in from the street—a siren somewhere in the distance, a car door slamming, life continuing like nothing had shifted.

Patrick rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I heard your business was doing well.”

I looked at the betting shop sign flickering above us. “One of them is.”

A weak sound left him, not quite a laugh, more recognition than humour. Years ago he would’ve said something sharper, would’ve tried to stand taller inside a moment like this, but he didn’t now.

“You built something strong,” he said carefully.

I looked at him. “I rebuilt it.”

His eyes dropped immediately, because there it was, and he understood enough to know what it meant without me explaining it. Wind moved through the lot, cold.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “I stayed away,” he muttered. “Thought that was best.”

“For who?” The question didn’t need force, but it landed anyway.

His throat moved. “No point dragging old things back up.”