Page 49 of Bad Bishop

“Do you have to bleed all over my 993 Turbo, Tierney boy?” Fin flicked his green eyes to me. I knew he was only half joking. He loved that bleeding car.

“Drop me off and I’ll walk home.”

“Home!” he roared. “I’m taking you straight to the hospital, little brother.” His breath reeked of whiskey.

“I’ll wrap it up when I get back.” I removed my hand from the stab wound, peering at it through my black dress shirt. Blood gushed out in a thick river. I groaned, pushing the base of my palm back onto it.

“You sure?” Fintan had one arm slung against the open window.

“Positive. I’m not going to Barnabas at two in the morning unless I need my head stitched back to my body. Even then, I’d probably cab it to Presbyterian.”

“Why not?” Fintan pushed, scowling at the road ahead. “Natalie works there. She’s always happy to see you.”

“I bet she is. I put her through med school.”

Natalie was a poor girl from the neighborhood who needed a leg up. She also happened to prefer anal, so we’d had an agreement of sorts, where I paid for her school and, in return, she was my fuck buddy. I hadn’t seen her in almost a year, though. Not since she started her residency.

“Drop me at Fermanagh’s,” I said. “And for shit’s sake, go over the books again and tell Da to send someone to pick up the supplies in the port.”

“Whatever you say, lad.”

“You’ve enough alcohol in your system to drown a mermaid.”

“I only had a couple pints,” he mumbled defensively. “I can hold a drink, ya know.”

“The problem is you usually hold eight or nine. Per night.”

He sulked. “I said it’s under control.”

“Tell that to your 200K debt in your own bleeding casino.” I rarely broached this subject, but I rode a criminal high whenever I was in pain. It got my dick hard and I tended to look either for a fight or a fuck. And since fucking wasn’t in my near future, I chose a fight.

“I’ve made progress, mate. I did.” His fingers danced around the steering wheel, knuckles paling in anger. “I’m going to therapy now. Putting in the work.”

“How long since you hit the blackjack table?”

“Over three weeks. I swear on my life.”

I narrowed my good eye at him.

He laughed nervously. “I mean it! Ask my therapist.”

There was no need. I had eyes in every underground casino the Callaghans and Ferrantes owned.

I nodded. “Keep that shit up, Fin. Once we go after the Bratva, all of us become targets. You need to stay sharp.”

“I am, brother.Mionnaím ar uaigh ár máthar.”

My jaw clenched. Tierney and I knew very little Gaeilge. Not for lack of desire on our part.

I’d never set foot in my own motherland. Neither did she.

Everything I was—the accent, the tradition, the pride, the flag—was a sham. Da was an Irishman. So was Fintan. Not us. Tierney and I had always been a separate unit from them. Only difference was, I loved Tyrone and Fintan ferociously, never held what happened to us against them. Tierney never forgot and never forgave.

“How’s Maggie doing?” I changed the subject.

“Riding my ass about proposing, now that my wee brother is married. Gave me a deadline until Christmas. And Becky?”

“Why would you ask me about a slag I see every other month when I have a wife?”