“Hey, boys,” I greet, smiling down the line at the gobsmacked security, all of whom look like they’re still trying to get their bearings after our admittedly aggressive entrance.
I glance back at the fallen gate. “Heard there was a wedding today,” I continue. “So I thought we’d gate-crash.”
I’m not expecting a laugh, so I’m not disappointed. But I do make a mental note to tell Cillian about my punchline later. It’s the kind of stupid humor he lives for.
“Hands up, stronzo! Don’t fucking move,” the soldier in charge says gruffly. He’s already got a sheen of sweat on his brow.
I raise my eyebrows. “My hands are already up,” I point out. “I’m unarmed. Like I said, I just came to give my congratulations to the groom.”
“You’re that Irish motherfucker, aren’t you?” he snarls. His dark eyes are growing more and more confident as he counts the number of men behind me. Dumb bastard really thinks the odds are in his favor.
“Kian O’Sullivan,” I confirm. “That’s a name you should already be familiar with.”
“Why would we care about some jumped-up brat from a backwater shithole?”
My eyes go wide. The smile drops from my face instantly. “Excuse me?” I ask dangerously.
“I said, some jumped-up—”
“The other part,” I snarl. “You mentioned my country.”
His eyes glisten with bloodlust. He realizes he’s stumbled on the one insult that’s really gonna get a rise out of me. Unfortunately for this poor son of a bitch, getting a rise out of me is only going to end badly for him.
To be fair, today was going to end badly for him no matter what he said.
But this certainly didn’t help matters.
“Ah. Yes. I called it an illiterate, potato-eating boondocks filled with drunk sheep fuckers and red-headed whores.”
He’s probably so focused on my reactions that he’s barely even concentrating on the men at my rear. All those proud Irishmen he’s just insulted right along with me.
I shake my head. “You fucking idiot,” I sigh. “You had the option of a quick and painless death. I hope that pitiful cliché was worth it.”
He looks at me in surprise. His men laugh as though I’m high on something.
“You decided to crash the Lombardi compound with eleven fucking men?” he demands. “None of you are even armed.”
“No,” I admit with a shrug. Then I gesture behind him. “But they are.”
The collective click of fifty different guns being cocked at the same time has the exact effect I’m looking for.
While this fucking moron was busy throwing around the least inspired insults of my countrymen I’ve ever heard, three teams of O’Sullivan men were creeping around his flanks. And now that he realizes the mistake he’s made, it’s far too late to do anything about it.
His eyes dart from side to side. He’s too scared to turn around. There’s a mouthful of hot lead waiting for him in every direction.
“Drop your fucking weapons,” my lieutenant Conor barks.
A few Lombardi men do it immediately. Others are more reluctant.
“If you won’t listen to my man, maybe you’ll listen to your don,” I say. I nod towards Conor.
My men part and Oisin pushes out none other than Giorgio Lombardi, don of this rebellious fucking collective of too-big-for-their-britches Italians.
He’s been beaten, gagged, and bound. The coat of his tux is torn to tatters and gobs of his own blood stain the lapels of his crisp white shirt. Both eyes are blackened. Splits litter his forehead, each weeping more crimson blood.
He looks like utter dogshit.
I give Oisin a nod and he rips the gag free.