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“That’s the fucking problem,” I huff, turning off the water and shoving open the glass door. As I step onto the bathmat, Finn hands me a towel while I continue to berate him. “You don’t ever fucking think. You’re so fucking reckless that you never stop to think about the consequences of what you’re doing.”
Showing his impulsivity and proving my point, he quickly rebuts as I dry myself and wrap the towel around my waist. “No one asked the lot of you to come down to Kiska?—"
“What were we supposed to do? Have them leave you a bloody mess in a back alley? Let them use you to show the whole fucking city we’re weak?”
Finn balls his hands into fists at his sides, and his nostrils flare. “I’m not fucking weak,” he snarls.
Ignoring his outburst, I push past him into the adjoining bedroom to get dressed. I’m propelled forward when Finn shoves me from behind. “I’m not fucking weak,” he shouts louder than before, his face growing redder by the second.
I catch my balance and turn to respond to him. Before I’m able to say a word, his fist connects with my jaw as he sucker-punches me. He swings again, and I sway to the left, dodging his hit. Grabbing his wrist as it passes my face, I quickly pull him into a headlock.
He struggles hard, only allowing me better access to his neck to tighten my hold. “Let fucking go of me,” he chokes with his throat thoroughly wedged in my elbow.
I don’t.
Instead, I flex my arm tighter and leave him struggling for air until he is forced to yield to me. Continuing to hold him tight, he slaps his hand against my forearm in an attempt to tap out.
“Tristan,” Declan warns from the doorway with a scowl. “Let him go.”
“Weakness doesn’t have shit to do with how strong you are, Finnigan?—”
“For fuck’s sake, Tris—” Declan shouts as he begins to cross the room to us.
Glaring at Declan, I do not relent as I continue seething at Finn. “You’re fucking weak because you need to start thinking with the fucking head on your neck instead of the one in your fucking trousers.”
Finn stumbles into Declan when I release him. His face is blood-red as he sucks in deep, heavy breaths.
“Take Liam and get the supplies we need for tonight,” I command, resecuring the towel around my waist.
“I can do it myself,” he breathlessly huffs.
My voice bellowing through the room with anger. “I didn’t ask if you could fucking do it yourself! I said to fucking take Liam!”
Finn lets out a heavy breath, shoves past Declan, and storms out of the room. Feeling Declan’s eyes on me, I shout, “What?”
“You don’t think you were a little hard on him?”
Lowering my voice and shaking my head, I rifle through the closet for new clothes. “We’re not fucking kids anymore. We can’t keep fucking babying him.”
“And choking him out is going to make him grow up?” Declan quips.
“Well, he’s my brother. Shooting him seemed rash.”
“For fuck’s sake!” Declan throws his hands in the air as he walks from the room.
The five of us—seven if you count the two dead Bratva—are parked in the alleyway behind Stanley’s sports bar. Five more minutes, and he’ll be locking the front door as he kicks out the remaining drunks and the last of his wait staff.
I know, because this is the time of night I usually visit him.
“Let’s go,” I command, prodding Liam and Declan to climb from the SUV and head inside. Pushing open my door, I turn to Conor and Finn. “You two bring in the stiffs.”
Sounds of a commotion flood the alleyway when I pull open the rear door of the bar. I race inside as I draw the knife from my waistband, only to be met with a muffled gunshot as I barrel through the kitchen. And another before I reach the door. Relief washes over me when I step from behind the bar to find Declan standing over Stanley.
“Since when does this fuck have a gun?” Declan grumbles and tosses the freshly fired Glock to the floor beside Stanley’s dead body.
Rounding the bar, I immediately drop to the floor beside Liam. “Fuck…”
“It’s fine. It’s just a fucking flesh wound,” he hisses, pushing himself off the floor. Grunting as he walks, Liam grabs a bottle from behind the bar and lifts his shirt. He pours the vodka over the small, oozing hole in his flank. Gritting his teeth, he pours more down his back. “Through and through.”
