Page 2 of Ruthless Dream

“This place doesn’t like O’Connell’s,” I remind my brother.

“Good thing I’m not an O’Connell.”

I don’t know why he’s got to sound so fucking proud of it.

“Look.” Ian jerks his head toward Fujimori’s.

We might be across the street, but the wide windows make us visible to the interior of the restaurant. No doubt Ren knows we’re right outside and is already studying us.

“Don’t come in if you don’t want to,” Ian says. “In fact, you really should stay outside if you’re not going to pretend like you even think I can do this.”

I stroke the thick beard over my jawline, perfectly trimmed just for this meeting. “It’s not. . .”

Ian doesn’t look hurt. Ian’s mother used to always say, ‘Life doesn’t care if you go around looking like a kicked puppy.’ Nora was right. She always is.

But he’s quiet in the night, his eyes more golden in the dim light. Most of the businesses along the street are dark. One is empty, the other a tax office already closed up for the night.

A siren cuts the air, and across the street a group of tourists with backpacks and a map on their phone agree this is where they want dinner. The university age students file in, greeted by Jane Fujimori.

Ian told me when I got off my flight that he hasn’t been to Fujimori’s. He said he knew better than just showing up. I know him, though. He’ll walk in there with the confidence of a lazy cat and not put a thought into the bigger picture.

If he’s serious about going to Callahan for work, it’s got to be for the long haul. An actual career. Not something he can get bored with a couple of months in.

“This life takes commitment,” I tell Ian. He cocks his head to the side, matching my seriousness. “I’ve spent over a decade working my arse off to make sure our bills are paid.”

He glances at the Rolex on my wrist again.

“You know we’ve got plans,” I say.

“You mean the O'Connells have plans.”

I’m an O’Connell. My brother is a Hayes. We’re connected by one man—Cain Murray.

But I’ve told Ian time and time again that he’s an O’Connell because I fucking said so. It’s him who acts like an introvert when he comes across my uncle or mam, or one of the million cousins running around.

Our last names aren’t the same, but we’re fucking brothers. He should feel more connected to the O'Connells anyway, and not the New York Irish, who he’s barely interacted with.

“Look, if you’re doing this because of Da⁠—”

“Da’s fucked shit up again.” Ian fidgets with his jacket. “Probably best not to mention him.”

Without checking to see if it’s clear, he steps into the road.

You can’t coddle him. That’s what Nora said when I told her someone had to go after him.

Ian makes a mess of things. I once thought I was willing to do anything just so long as Cain fucking Murray looked at me. I know Ian. I know our da. There’s about to be a mess.

The bell over the front door chimes, and Ian nods at Jane. “Well, if it isn’t the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. The door rebounds, hitting me in the face before I squeeze in behind Ian. His hands are on his hips as he chats to Jane, who smiles—actually smiles—like she finds Ian amusing.

He nods at a younger man, Abe Fujimori. He’s good friends with Callahan and apparently does know my brother.

“Ren!” Abe shouts, clearing off a table. “The Irish guy is here. And he brought another hot guy with him.”

Ian smirks at me, further proof he’s not taking any of this seriously.

“Hot guy?” A voice cuts through the air. Under my suit jacket, my skin flushes.