“He hasn’t paid shit,” Sean interrupts. “But he will.”
Brody scoffs. “Is this how the O’Sullivans conduct their business? You come to collect and walk away with nothing but empty promises? I’ll show you how the Kinahans get shit done.”
I snort at the fact that he’s still referring to himself as Kinahan.
He definitely hears the insult, but he chooses to pretend that he doesn’t. Perhaps he’s not a total fucking idiot.
“Padraig,” he says, raising his voice, “get your old, drunken ass down here.”
I exchange a glance with Sean.
This is not our business. If Padraig has debt with the Murtagh lad, that’s his burden to bear.
But I can tell Sean isn’t willing to stand aside, either.
He acts aloof most of the time.
Deep down, though, he’s got a fucking hero complex.
“Mr. Murtagh,” Padraig stammers, “please… I don’t have your father’s money.”
“My father’s money is my fucking money,” Brody snarls, striding forward.
He grabs Padraig by the collar and drags him out of the shadows of the doorway. He pushes the stout man forward until they’re practically nose to nose.
“And I expect to be paid right fucking now. Or else I’m gonna—”
“Get your hands off my father!”
Aw, fucking hell.
I spin around as Saoirse appears from around the house. Clearly, she’s been listening in on the whole interaction. Her eyes are hard as she steps out into the front yard, gaze trained on Brody.
The Murtagh son of a bitch takes her in as though she’s a mirage.
I sincerely hope my mouth wasn’t hanging open the first time I saw her the way his is. He looks like a rabid dog.
Saoirse lunges forward and yanks her pa away from Brody. He’s so shocked by her sudden appearance that his hands drop to the side, releasing Padraig.
“You’re trespassing,” Saoirse tells him icily. “Leave now or I’ll call the police.”
I gotta hand it to her: the girl’s got balls.
She stands tall, her back straight and her gaze unflinching as she takes in all the men standing in her front yard.
All of whom are armed.
All of whom are at least a foot taller than she is.
None of whom she gives a fuck about.
She doesn’t seem to care in the least about the massive odds against her as she takes a step forward, shielding her father with her own slight frame.
“Who are you?” Brody asks.
I don’t like the expression in his eyes one bit.
There’s definitely interest.