Patrick

“Are we really going to do this?” Declan asked.

I looked at him like he was insane.

“What the fuck do you think?”

“I think you’re about to kill someone, and I think you’re going to enjoy it. I also know that we made a promise,” he said.

I couldn’t argue with his words, knew they were true. None of us wanted to be like Aengus and we’d all shunned his mindless lust for death, destruction. We’d all killed, but never for the personal satisfaction.

I considered this an exception.

They’d come after me, which was something I could deal with, but coming after Nya was something I could not.

“Just trust me, Declan,” I said.

My brother’s expression told me he didn’t, but I ignored it, went inside.

The house was lovely, exactly the kind of place I expected someone like Rockwell to live in. Wood-paneled, expensive, screaming of old money.

I didn’t delay to look at the interior and instead went toward the study he had bragged about. His little man cave, which was a ridiculous concept for a person who could afford a house of this size. He’d said he needed space to get away from his mother and wife, who drove him crazy.

I always found that ironic, thought you were supposed to want to spend time with your family, love them. But then I stopped that train of thought, knowing that Bronson loved no one but himself and not willing to invest another moment of my time on Bronson.

When I walked into the room he dropped the crystal cut glass he had been holding and stared up at me.

“What the hell?”

He looked genuinely surprised, and my anger and disgust only magnified.

“What the hell is right, Bronson. You have been a very, very bad businessman,” I said.

He stood, pulling himself to his full height, trying to project as intimidating as he could manage.

“This may be how they do things where you come from, Murphy, but in the real world, with real businessmen, we don’t invade each other’s homes uninvited. Leave this moment or I’m going to call the police,” he said.

Were it not for the anger raging through me, I would’ve been impressed at Bronson managing to sound both superior and annoyed.

But I couldn’t, not when I was so mad I thought my head would explode.

“I wouldn’t suggest that if I were you,” I said.

I spoke calmly, had meant to keep myself nice and rational, but he was testing that resolve.

“And why the hell not! You’ve invaded my home,” he said.

“We have things to talk about. Thought that we should get them over with,” I said, walking farther into the study.

He seemed surprised by the move, so surprised that it seemed to take the wind out of the sails.

“What could you and I possibly have to discuss?” he said.

I smiled grimly. “We have history. I thought we were friends. Competitors and colleagues, right?” I asked, tossing his words back at him.

“Well that’s all well and good, but you’re here in my house. Why?”

“Well, Bronson, I figured I owed you a visit.”

There must have been something in my tone that got his attention. He blanched slightly, then tried to cover with bluster.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Murphy, but you need to leave,” he said.

“No, I don’t, old friend.”

I glared at him then, then gestured toward the leather office chair that sat behind his desk.

“Have a seat, Bronson,” I said.

He moved without protest.

“I don’t understand. What makes you think you can just—”

I lifted my hand to silence him. “Bronson, stop it. It’s over,” I said.

“Over? I don’t know what you’re talking about… What is the meaning of all this?” he sputtered.

Oddly, the more he talked, the more my anger lessened.

This pathetic creature had no idea what he was doing.

“You’ve been playing games that you don’t understand. Did you think you’d get away with that?”

“Murphy, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Bronson, this is over. At least have some dignity,” I said.

“Over?” he repeated. His eyes widened as he stared at me, and as he took in my expression, something in him seemed to break.

“No! No!”

“Yes, Bronson,” I said calmly. “You brought this on yourself. I thought we had an understanding. What were you thinking?”

He looked at me, his eyes boring into mine. Then something seemed to snap.

“You think you can just come out of nowhere, take something that rightfully belongs to me?” he asked.

“The hotel?” I said.

“The hotel,” he replied, his face twisted with disgust. “What the fuck do you know about the hotel? What do you know about anything?”

“I knew enough to save your ass with my money. And I knew enough to win the bid,” I said.

“Yeah, I’m sure that was on the up and up. You probably threatened to break that nice old lady’s legs to get it,” he spat, venom spewing from him. Had I really been so blind to his hatred? I hadn’t, but I’d never thought it would come to this, was somewhat saddened that it had.

“Unlike you, Bronson, I don’t involve innocent people in my business. But no, I didn’t threaten to break her legs. I made a better offer. I won. You should have let it go,” I said.

“Let it go? Like I could just walk away from something my family has coveted for nearly fifty years. Like I could just accept some lowlife like you taking it,” he said.

I smiled. “We’re finally getting somewhere. It’s been a couple of years since you lost the bid. Have you been sitting on this the whole time? Offering me deals, trying to get me to partner with you even though you despise me?”

“What, do you think you criminal types are the only ones who can hold a grudge? Of course I’ve been sitting on it. Your money still spends no matter how scummy you are. And there was a side benefit. I got to watch you rise bit by bit, get higher and higher so I could really enjoy watching you come crashing down, and then make a nice profit once your hotel was worth next to nothing,” he said.

“So that’s why you planned the shooting?”

“Yeah, people want a luxury experience, not a bunch of fucking hoodlums blowing each other away in the halls,” he said.

“And then after? Why did you keep going?” I asked, curious now.

“Lost sight of the goal and just wanted you dead because I fucking hate you,” he said.

I shrugged. “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” I said, but Bronson didn’t seem to be hearing me. Instead, he muttered to himself.

“You just come in, take what doesn’t belong to you, think that it’s gonna be okay.”

“Bronson,” I said, my voice brimming with false sincerity, “I’m very sorry you thought you had to go to these lengths. Open your bottom drawer and get your gun,” I said.

He looked at me, eyes wide. “How do you know about that?” he asked.

“Get it,” I said, not bothering to respond.

He reached down, pulled the gun up slowly.

“What makes you think I won’t shoot you where you stand?” he said.

“You won’t shoot me because I took the bullets out of your gun. Now you’re going to put one of them back in,” I said.

He froze for a moment, then looked at me.

“You invaded my home?”

“The bullet, Bronson,” I said, growing more impatient.

“What kind of scumbag kills a man with his own gun?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know. Because I’m not going to kill you.”

“You’re not?” he asked, his eyes widening, a little ray of hope growing in them.

Hope I was happy to extinguish.

“No, Bronson. You’re going to kill yourself.”