Page 6 of The Brat: Prequel

I guess it’s nice to have parents who give a shit about their kid, and it extends further than who they’ll be marrying the second they’re of legal age. Although, with the O’Donnellys, who knows? Aidan O’Donnelly Sr. didn’t force Eoghan, his youngest, to marry Inessa until he was thirty.

Clearly, the Irish Mob gives more of a damn about its heirs than the Bratva.

“What about the world then, Mr. Philosopher?”

“Just how big it is.”

I pull a face. “How big it is? That’s it? Why are men so obsessed with size?”

His eyes widen in mortification as he holds the cup against his chest like that’ll save him from my derision. “I meant how it’s so big and we’re so little.”

I’d laugh at his squeak but I’m not that heartless.

“What are you talking about?” I tap my toe on the floor. “If you’re not going to make sense, I’ll head to the library and do my homework by myself. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt today, but if your conversational high point is ‘wow, the world is big,’ then I’m out of here.”

“Victoria!”

“What? You’re supposed to be smart. In fact, I am going to the library because you’re boring me, Shay.”

“Fine, I’ll come with you so I can get smarter,” he grumbles, handing me his drink so that he can toss the sugar packets into the trash.

“As smart as I am?” I retort, tongue-in-cheek. “Never.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

As we allow an influx of customers to enter the coffee shop, I muse, “You know what I think about? How places like this function in NYC. The taxes alone must be crippling. Throw in protection money and⁠—”

“You think they pay protection money?”

“Of course they do.” Doesn’t this kid know what his dad and uncles are up to?! “What do you think? There’s some kind of waiver on coffee shops?”

“There should be. America functions on coffee.”

“Because the population is criminally exhausted and there aren’t enough trade unions.”

He taps his chin. “Okay, I agree.”

“So, you have some sense.”

I guess I’m being harsh on this kid who’s been nothing but kind to me in the aftermath of that whole kidnapping situation two weeks ago, but Seamus is an idealist. I have no room in my day to pussyfoot around dreamers. When he gets like this, it’s exhausting.

As we step onto the sidewalk, I smile when a ladybug lands on my arm. He peeps at it. “Why do you attract so many ladybirds?”

“I dunno. Why do they call them that in Ireland anyway?”

“Why do you call them ladybugs?” He shrugs. “It’s just how it goes.”

Accepting that with a hum, I help the little critter off my arm and onto a nearby bush. Because that encounter cheered me up, I don’t bite off his head, simply explain, “When you’re thinking about how big the world is, I’m thinking about the small things that make up a day.”

“Like what?” he scoffs. “You turning psychic on me?”

“No. I think about how easy it is to cripple a district by targeting the busiest coffee shop and introducing some element of food poisoning.”

His lips part. “That’s what you think about? Terrorism?”

I smirk—back to squeaking. Victoria 1, Shay 0. “One person’s terrorist is another’s freedom fighter.”

“What kind of food poisoning? How?”