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Antoin rubs a hand over his sharp jaw. A girl I was fucking once said to me that you could spot a Quinn a mile away, no matter how distant they were to the main bloodline. Jet-black hair, amber eyes, and cheekbones that could slice through glass. Cut us open, we bleed green, because we’re Irish through and through.
Antoin’s my first cousin, but if he didn’t sport a menacing buzz cut and clean-shaven face, we’d pass as brothers.
I watch him as he strides up and down the length of my office. Up to the bay window and back to the bookshelf. It’s what Antoin does when he’s thinking. His Gucci loafers move as fast as his brain.
“I’d wish you’d do your pacing in the hallway,” I grumble, “these tiles are from the Palace of Versailles.”
“Okay,” he eventually says, coming to a halt. “We can fix this. You’ll reach out to Igor Bratnov. You say it was a mistake by a low-level henchman who needs his fucking eyes tested, whatever. Go see him in person—bring a few of our men, ‘cause there’s a high chance he’ll be ready to slit your throat. And we don’t take our cut for six months.” He nods, satisfied with his solution. “And the body. We’ll return it and pay for the funeral. Where is it?”
My eyes drift towards the bay window, and I stop the smirk that tugs at my lips. “Under the rose bed.”
I’m laughing into the bottom of my tumbler when Antoin snatches it from my hand and hurls it at the wall above my head. Deathly calm, I turn to access the damage. Sticky, brown liquid slides down theLes Guerres D’Independencewallpaper. A 19th Century battle scene from the War of Independence that took Zuber a year to paint. Ironic, really, that Antoin destroyed the thing I’m trying to strive for. Independence from all these fucking treaties my father signed.
“The most expensive wallpaper in the entire world,” I muse, scratching my chin. “You should learn to control your temper.”
But Antoin isn’t listening. “You and yourfuckingdrinking,” he snarls, “In the four years since you became Boss, all you’ve done is drink and ruin the Quinn family reputation. If your father could see you—”
Antoin doesn’t get to finish his sentence. I’m inches from him in a few strides, my hand around his neck, choking out the last few words. I slam him into the bookcase, not caring that my collection of first editions comes crashing to the floor around us.
“Keep my father’s name out of your mouth,” I snarl. Antoin clenches his jaw, refusing to show his struggle. But the blood is rushing to his face, and his lips are turning blue. Only when I hear the gurgle at the back of his throat do I let him go.
I can’t kill Antoin. I need him.
“Get out of my office,” I bark, turning my back on my heaving cousin. In the reflection of the window, I see him straighten his shirt collar, dust down his suit pants, and slink out of the room without another word.
Antoin Quinn. He’s thinking what everyone in the goddamn family is thinking, including me.
It should have been him that took my father’s place.
But tradition rules this family with an iron fist. There’s a strict hierarchy, spanning back over a century, and there’s no tragedy big enough to break it.
At the heart of the network is the main bloodline, direct descendants from my great, great, grandfather, Earnest Quinn. Only we can become Boss. The title is passed from father to eldest son, and so forth. First cousins are on the next rung of the ladder. They help run the business at the top, and the eldest will step in as Bossonlyif the entire main bloodline is wiped out. Antoin is my right-hand man, and his brother, Donnacha, is head of the henchmen. That’s the network of second and third cousins that are on the ground getting their hands dirty.
This was never meant to be my life. The title was meant for Eamon, my eldest brother. He was only months away from taking over from my father and had been training for that moment since he was in diapers. It was his destiny to take the title, but by some cruel twist of fate, the Quinn Claddagh ring was forced onto my finger instead.
I spent my life enjoying the perks of my last name, without undertaking any of the responsibility. Before the explosion, I spent my days traveling the world. Sourcing antiques from Europe and hookers from Brazil. Tanning on my yacht in Monaco one week, snorting lines from a stripper’s ass cheek in Paraguay the next. Only when I was burnt, broke, and bored would I come back to Boston, break a few noses and end a few lives in The Tunnels, before getting right back on my jet.
I run a hand through my hair and turn to the lone photo on my desk. It’s of my father, Eamon, and my other brother, Fergus, at some fundraiser a few years before they died. They glare back at me with those signature Quinn eyes. I raise my glass in their direction. “Cheers,” I mutter, before downing my drink.
Four years ago, I was plunged into the biggest gig of my life. And for four years, they’ve been watching me from their mahogany frame, watching me drown.
I reach for the bottle for another top-up.
Today, I’d rather drown in whiskey than responsibility.
Poppy
The sun setting is the only concept of time I have.
It was rising when Lorcan Quinn stormed out of the room, leaving me in a crying heap on the floor. It was high in the sky when I finally crawled back into the bedroom and curled up on the window seat, where I’ve remained ever since. Now, its golden rays are disappearing behind the towering hedges that block out any signs of the outside world.
There’s nothing to do but cry and think and mourn. The tears come in waves, making my eyes swollen and sore, but the questions are an ever-present feature in my mind.
How long have I been here? How much time passed between being drugged in the restaurant and waking up in this… museum? Have Sam and Nellie contacted the police?
It’s the mourning that drags me under, weighing heavy on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I’m mourning the life I carved out for myself. I workedso goddamn hardto escape the fate the Devil bestowed on me all those years ago. Every business book, every restoration piece, every eBay bid got me further and further away from that monster, but none of it was enough. I’ve landed right back in his clutches.
