Page 31 of Lawless Sinners

“Right.”

Recently, the Crowes have become brave. The two brothers from the north are pressing south by inches, buying men but not loyalty, pushing against routes that don’t belong to them, and getting in our fucking way.

I slip Graves’s next punch and catch him under the ribs.

“Are they moving product through the docks?”

“Can’t confirm that.” Graves resets his mouthguard with his tongue. “Your father gave the order to warn them off. That’s what we did.”

“My father likes warnings because they sound powerful at dinner.”

“He is powerful.”

“True,” I say, blocking a jab that comes too close to my cheek. “But he’s not always right.”

Graves laughs, rough and short, then hits me harder for it.

My father sits at the head of the table, signs the orders, instills fear, speaks of legacy while other men bury the cost of it in ditches, warehouses, and missing police reports.

Whereas I’m his son, his counsel, his heir, his alibi in court, and his weapon when he wants violence to arrive wearing manners.

His next shot rams into my shoulder. I answer with my right, hard enough to make him give a fraction of ground.

“Send word to Mullan,” I say. “Quietly. If Crowe runners cross into our territory again, I want addresses, plates, and who they spoke to before anyone lifts a gun.”

Graves circles left. “You want Mullan answering to you on this?”

“He already is.”

“That official?”

“He didn’t have the balls to ask.”

Graves’s eyes narrow with old amusement. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, boy.”

I step inside his reach and put a glove against his chest, reminding him I’m no longer twelve with blood in my mouth and his boss watching from the doorway.

“Don’t call me that.”

He holds my stare for a second, then nods and taps my glove away. “Then make sure your ole man knows the plan too.”

“He’ll know when there’s something worth telling.”

Graves comes at me again.

The next exchange drives us across the mats toward the far wall, where an old iron ring juts from stone at shoulder height. My father used it once for a man who stole from us and lied about it.

I was fifteen when he made me watch the man cry before he shot him. That was then. Since Crowley senior retired and his son took over as the head of the local Gardaí, my father prefers to keep business off site.

We work another round before he brings up the one name I’d rather he didn’t. He does it with a left hook, because Graves has always understood timing.

“Is Saint Tallon still a problem?”

My glove snaps up. “He’s fucking my sister––of course he is.”

“She lives there now, Fionn. We can’t hit their yard without putting her at risk.”

“I don’t need to burn down their yard to hurt them.”