Two weeks later…

I towel my hair hard, wringing every last drop of water from it. Even through the scent of shampoo, and the thick, wet fabric currently assaulting my hair, I recognize the smell of ma’s house. It’s one of those places I’ll never forget – ingrained deeply into my soul. I’ll keep coming back as long as I live.

I squash the towel into a thick, clumsy ball and toss it, basketball style, into a wash basket in the corner. Then I drag on a pair of jeans.

I pause for a second to take a look around. Our old bedroom has barely changed. The same posters still decorate the walls: Jurassic Park, even freaking Good Fellas! I kind of wish ma would swap out the bed: my 6-foot-two frame doesn’t fit so well in a bed made for a twelve-year-old. I roll out my neck, pausing to press my fingers into a particularly troublesome spot.

I glance at my gun. It’s lying on the same bedside table Declan and I shared as kids. I guess some people would have a problem with that, but I don’t hang around with those people. I leave it there. I’ve got two people on the door. Besides, ain’t nobody picking a fight with the Byrne family home. Not unless they want to leave in a body bag, that is.

The stairs squeak as I take them two at a time. Ma’s voice hits me the second my feet touch the wooden floor. “Kieran, you wan’ a spot of breakfast?”

Ma’s at the stove, wearing the same flower print apron she’s worn every day since I can remember. I go over to her, and encircle her with my arms. If I thought my bedroom smelled familiar, ma’s the real deal. She’s what makes this place smell like home.

“You know it, ma.”

I settle down at the dining table. Without even thinking about it, I navigate around da’s old seat at the head of the table. He might be gone, but his spirit lives on. I grab a mug and pour myself a splash of steaming coffee.

“You doing anything today, ma?” I ask. I like to keep the old lady company: especially these days; especially now she’s in this old house all alone. But Mary Byrne is a mighty strong woman. She ain’t the type to let a loss get her down. Not even when that loss is the man she spent her whole life with.

Ma speaks loud over the clatter of pots and pans. “I’m keeping by,” she says. “I’ve got bridge later, with the girls. Do you want to –?”

“No, ma’,” I grin. “Every time I come to that damn church hall with you, half a dozen old women pinch my cheeks like I’m still ten years old. Ye just imagine what would happen if people on the street saw tha’, now!”

The toaster spring flies upwards with a clatter, and bacon and eggs appear from nowhere on a plate. I stand up to get it, but ma’ shoos me back down.

“You’re a good boy, ye know that, Kieran?” Ma’ says, patting me on the head. She’s not a lady who lets her emotions show, so I know this means a heck of a lot. “You’re always coming to visit yer old mother like this.”

I speak over a huge mouthful that’s popping with salt and butter: just the way I like it. Ma’ never did subscribe to all this healthy food crap you see on the news. Carrot sticks and yogurt dip ain’t any way to start your morning, not when you’ve got heads to bash across South Boston all day.

“Ma’, I’m no fool. I know you do the best breakfast in town.”

She sits down opposite me, fixing me with a stare I remember well from my childhood. “Sore head, is it?”

I shrug nonchalantly. “Lad’s gotta have some fun.”

Ma’ shakes her head disapprovingly, but she can’t help the smile that tickles her lips. She never was very good at holding any anger: not towards us boys. Now, to anyone that tried to hurt us … that was another matter entirely. Then she could be like a bat out of hell.

“Never did Seamus no harm,” Ma’ shrugs. “Just be sure it doesn’t get in the way of business, now.”

I glance up at her. My expression is flat. I’m deadly serious. “I never have.”

Ma’ smiles at me. “Ignore me, Kieran. Ye wan’ a piece of advice, now?”

I shrug.

“Never grow old. Gives ye too much time fer worrying.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’.”

“There’s one thing ye could do to put an old woman’s mind at rest.”

I look down at my plate. I stifle a groan, and mop up the last of the egg yolk with my toast. I know exactly where this is going.

“Don’t say it, ma’…”

The problem is, nobody ever told Mary Byrne what to do and got away with it. She’s got those old lady ears where she doesn’t hear anything she doesn’t want to. How are you supposed to deal with that?

“Yer brother Declan, now, he went and found himself a nice lady. Isn’t it about time –?”

“Ma’…” I say with a tone of warning in my voice. “Leave it be, will ye?”

I chew my lip. The truth is – not like I would ever tell ma’ this – I haven’t been with a woman in two weeks. Not since Declan's wedding. Not since Sofia Morello. It’s not like I haven’t had chances. Every bar I walk into, some girl tries throwing herself at me. Any other time, I would have let them.

But right now?

“How’s about I ask the ladies,” Ma says with a wicked grin on her face. She knows exactly what game she’s playing. “Find ye a nice young woman: a nice Irish girl.”

I tip my head back and groan out loud. Behind my closed eyes, all I can see is Sofia’s fierce, hard glare staring back at me. I don’t know what it is about the Morello girl, but she’s burrowed her way under my skin.

It’s something about the way Sofia acted around me: cool, like she wasn’t falling for my charms. It felt like she was using me the way I usually use women. I don’t know whether I love it, or hate it.

“I told ye, ma’: yer not to talk about me at yer bridge nights. I got enough trouble as it is, without running into old women try’ina set me up with their granddaughters at the store.”

Ma spreads her hands wide. “I’m gettin’ old, Kieran. Maybe I’m wantin’ to see grandkids before it is too late, now.”

I bellow a laugh. “You’re going to be waiting a long time then, ma’. Less Declan’s old lady pops a few more out now he’s hitched, that is. Don’t ye try anything funny, now – ye hear? I tell ye: if old Elizabeth O’Hanrahan corners me about that daughter of hers again, this’ll be the last time I’m coming over for breakfast…”

“Come now, Kieran,” Ma’ says, with a face of stone. “Rosa’s a nice young lady, so she is.”

“Nice young lady, maybe,” I allow, “but she’s got a face like an iron skillet. Do ye really want your first gran’baby looking like that, now?”

Ma’s face relents. I know she’ll never admit it, but she’s got pride in our family. Byrne blood is strong blood. I’m going to make sure it stays that way: even if, right now, that’s not an entirely selfless decision. I mean, Rosa O’Hanrahan might be a nice lady, but she sure as shit ain’t gonna stir my blood. I like my women curvy, and she’s flat as a board.

Hell, there ain’t no ladies stirring my blood at all these days; not since Sofia. I’m burning up inside.

A rap on the front door knocks me back to my senses. It’s a good thing, too. I can’t be having these thoughts: not in this house; not around me Ma. I grab the table to stand up, but Ma’ shoos me down. “Be still, won’t ye. I’ll get it. Seamus always used to make his men come to him. It makes a leader more powerful, that way.”

“Da’ was a smart man,” I say, my face wrinkling with a sad smile. “But I’m no leader. This is Declan’s chair, and it’s goddamn heavy. I’m counting down the hours till he gets back from this honeymoon, so I am.”

The old lady fixes me with a glare. “Don’ talk yourself down so, Kieran. You’re stronger than you think.”

I let Ma think what she wants. I know that when Declan’s back from Thailand, or Cambodia, or wherever the heck he got to with Casey, I’m going to throw this job back into his capable hands, and run as fast as I can to the nearest bar. I never knew that being the head of the family was so much work. I don’t know why the hell anyone would want it.

“Boss,” a deep voice grunts. I push my empty plate aside, and Ma whisks it away. I give her a smile of thanks.

“I’ll leave ye boys to talk, now,” she smiles, and walks out into the hallway, closing the wooden door behind her. Ma’s old-fashioned like that. She thinks that business is a man’s game. I’m not so sure. The way Sofia acts, I figure she’s the rightful power behind the Morello family. She’s a cold lady, that’s for damn sure. I bet ice runs in her veins. I saw the way her bodyguard jumped when she clicked her fingers. She’s the one the Morello soldiers respect – at least, the smart ones.

I stand up and shake Pat’s hand. “Sorry, Pat. I was lost in my head. You’re looking ten years younger.”

Pat’s handshake could kill an ox. He’s a brute of a man – well into his sixties, with long white hair that might tumble down to his shoulders if he let it, instead tucked into a tight knot. Pat wore a man bun long before the hairstyle had a name.

Pat’s still wearing a long gray overcoat. He’s got a collection of them – all different colors, all a size too big. I know better than to relieve da’s old right-hand man of his coat. He’s got a sawn-off shotgun hooked to either breast.

Like I said, he’s a brute. But he’s our brute.

He thumps his chest and laughs out loud. The metal shotguns clink together. “Yer a terrible liar, anyone ever tell you that, Kieran my boy?”

I sit back down. “It’s been said. So, Pat, how can I help you?” I ask.

When it’s clear that Pat isn’t going to sit, I gesture at one of the chairs on the other side of the table. “Sit, will ye? Yer making me nervous.”

“I’m fine standing, Kieran,” Pat bellows. His voice would make a serviceable foghorn. I have to resist clapping my palms to my ears.

“Sit, Pat,” I say. This time, Pat does as I ask without questioning. In this house, spoken by a family member, our word is law. It doesn’t matter the size of the task. If we say jump, our men ask how high. It’s kind of like how I acted around Sofia…

Get that girl out of your head, Kieran, I will myself. It’s easier said than done. Two weeks of longing, of desire building, of seeing her every time I close my eyes.

“How’s business?” I ask, sinking a mouthful of coffee. It’s cold, but I swallow it anyway.

“Nothing I can’t handle. We caught some Templars down by Moakley Park: taught ‘em a lesson they won’t be forgetting no time soon. Oh, and one of the boys got ‘is head cracked in outside –.”

“Where? Who is it?” I ask. If there’s one thing da’ always taught us, it was to look after our men first and foremost. Without them, we are nothing.

“Like I said, Kieran, it ain’t nothing ye need trouble yerself over.” Pat replies, resting his hands on his belly. I look at him side-eyed. I wonder if he still sees me as the little kid who tripped over his toes. Times change: people grow up.

“Try me,” I say. He straightens up. Pat’s old-school: he knows what that tone means. He nods, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining things, but I reckon I see a flash of recognition in his eyes. Like maybe he’s seeing a bit of Seamus in me.

“T’was Danny Murphy: down at the arse end of Dorchester Street. He was jumped coming out of a bar last night – three sheets te th’wind. Never saw who did it.”

“How is he?” I ask.

“He’ll have a sore head this morning, tha’s fer damn sure,” Patrick laughs. “…but nothing serious. He’ll survive. Maybe he’ll learn to look both goddamn ways.”

“Who did it, Pat?” I ask, massaging my temples.

I don’t know why, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this. People don’t jump Byrne soldiers – not in South Boston. They know what happens when people fuck with the family. You’d have to be a brave man, looking to make his mark – or hungry, very, very hungry.

Pat shrugs.

“Did they take his wallet?” I ask, chewing my lip. It’s probably nothing, but I’m not willing to take that chance. Not while Declan’s left the family under my care.

Pat’s forehead wrinkles. “Ye know, I never did ask.”

“Then find out.” I say. My tone isn’t one that leaves anything to the imagination. It’s hard, and cold – and dangerous. Pat’s acting like a completely different man than the one who strolled into this kitchen. He’s going to find out that Kieran Byrne isn’t just the family joker: I’ve also got a spine made of steel.

“Yes boss.”

“Now,” I growl.

Pat hurriedly gets to his feet and slips his hand into his pocket. He begs my permission to step outside for a second with his eyes, and I grunt it. My fingers drum against the wooden table as he makes a phone call outside. He hangs up without saying thanks.

Better, I think. This business is dangerous. I don’t want people in it who are happy to take chances, not when it’s our soldier’s lives on the line.

When Pat returns to the kitchen, he’s acting different: standing up straighter. His eyes aren’t exactly worried, but there’s a hint of intrigue in them now.

“So?” I ask.

“Good catch, boss,” Pat replies apologetically. “They didn’t touch him once he was on the ground. Left his phone, wallet, keys – everything. I should’ve caught it –.”

I wave my hand, cutting him off. “You should,” I say curtly. Pat flinches with embarrassment. “But I’ll let you off – this time. Don’t do it again.”

“What do you want me to do, boss?” Patrick asks. His tone is far more respectful now. It should have been from the start, but I’ll cut him some slack – this time. Still – I can’t help but wonder if Pat’s time in the business is up. The mob can tend to be a young man’s game. You need the hunger in you to drive you on.

“Find out what happened, Pat,” I growl, “and do it quickly.”

I slump back into my chair. I don’t bother looking up as Pat takes his leave. Declan’s job is a heavy one, and I can’t wait for him to get back. I don’t like having people’s lives relying on my decisions. It’s a burden I never wanted. Pat’s look of newfound respect tells me I’m better at it than he thought…

I might even be better at it than I thought.

But I’d still rather get back to what I’m good at: fucking and fighting.