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“We’re not,” Finn responds, continuing the conversation in Irish. “Pretty sure they’re the ones who offed the old man. Not going down that road again.”
Thomas laughs. “You made them enough money when you fought at The Cage. You went undefeated, didn’t you?”
Finn leans back in his chair while his soup is placed in front of him. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“What was the name of that hot-shot fighter?” Connor raises his eyebrows. “Catchy nickname?”
He frowns and picks up his spoon. “You expect me to remember that?”
Coming to life, Jack snaps his fingers. “Wicked something, wasn’t it?”
Gus swallows his soup and says, “Wickie, I think. Wicked Wickie.”
My heart thumps, and I’m afraid it’ll jump right out of my chest. My brother. They’re talking about Chad.
Lorcan and Finn exchange a glance across the table. “Hell of a fighter.” Lorcan sips his beer.
He knew my brother. Very carefully, I sit back in my chair and pick up my glass. My hand isn’t shaking, but my insides are in turmoil.
Across from me, Carys is downing her drink and signaling for another. I’m longing to ask if they know what happened to Chad, and if they know who might have done it. Lorcan knows I speak Irish, but their conversation has been complex. Revealing I’m fluent is different from admitting I speak and understand a few words.
Instead, I lean into him and whisper, “Can you switch to English? Poor Carys must be bored out of her mind.”
He notices Carys who is stirring her martini and checking her phone. A half smile touches his lips and then, in Irish, he tells the rest of them it’ll have to be English only, so the ladies aren’t excluded.
Thomas looks back and forth between me and Lorcan before nodding and picking up his spoon. “English, it is.” He shoots a meaningful look at the rest of his brothers.
The night continues with a lot of banal conversations surrounding things I can’t bring myself to care about, so I spend most of it drinking and chatting to Carys about her family and her business. It’s late when the brothers finish off their drinks and organize security to their hotel.
We trail them out to the front foyer, Carys and I chatting, when I catch Thomas saying, “Next time, you’ll have to come to Ireland.”
Finn chuckles. His voice is low as he says, “It’ll have to be Lorcan that does that.”
“You still haven’t been back?”
“No, too risky. I didn’t know what I was doing then. A punk full of rage.”
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Thomas indicates Carys.
I have an ear tuned to Carys and another to Finn’s conversation.
His gaze strays to her, and he gives Thomas a curt nod.
“What happened?” I call out to Thomas, curiosity getting the best of me. Carys stops speaking beside me and focuses on the men’s discussion.
Lorcan comes to my side and frowns. “An old story.”
“About Carys?” I scan Finn and her.
Thomas chuckles. “Indeed. That lass there caused a whole ruckus in Ireland when she got herself stabbed in a bar brawl.”
She raises her eyebrows, her voice steely when she says, “Gotmyselfstabbed?”
Finn holds up a hand. “It’s in the past. No point digging it up. Thomas—I can’t come to Ireland.”
“Why not?” Carys steps toward him. “It wasn’tyouwho was stabbed.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t focus on her.