Page 3 of Savage Promises (Quinlan Empire #2)

Lennox - Six Years Later

“ B oss lady. I need a signature,” Mara my bar manager and long-time best friend hollers to me from the stockroom accepting a delivery.

I close my laptop, my mind disconnecting from the email by an influencer who wants to showcase my nightclub next week.

Smiling at every filled cocktail table, every stool occupied, and every customer with a drink in their hand, I saunter through the bar area to find the delivery guy flirting with Mara.

I hide my anger about this jerk’s timing.

We’re already open. I want my customers to think it takes no effort to look perfect.

The delivery guy stacks cases of rare Irish whiskey, premium vodka, imported tequila, and cases of Dom Pérignon for VIPs.

I sign for the delivery, my eyes narrowed on him. “Deliver this late again, and it will be the last time.”

When he leaves, I question Mara, “Did he ask you out again?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “He wanted to buy me a drink. Here . Dumbass. I’m the bartender!” She’s come a long way from that horrible punch she concocted the night of my eighteenth birthday.

I wish that was the worst memory I had from that night.

Not letting old and useless thoughts of Shane Quinlan fester, I make my rounds to all corners of the club.

My father’s dive bar, the old Astoria Tavern, with its outdated décor, chipped floors, and peeling walls was poorly managed and bleeding money before I took over.

It was a deep stain on the Donnelly name that my father had a hard time owning up to.

Of all the people to step into my corner, Garrett convinced Dad to give me a shot at running it. I hated needing a man to be a mouthpiece, but I got what I wanted. I realized my dream.

For now.

Club Echelon is currently the hottest spot in Astoria. It took a couple of years, but I turned my father’s dive into a flashy nightclub with no rivals in this small city across the river from Manhattan. We’re killing it. I’m killing it.

I’m the boss. Every bartender, server, and bouncer here answers to me. Every dollar flowing through the bar tonight is because of me.

This is my kingdom, and I, its queen.

Only, this place isn’t legally mine. The club is my success, but Richard Donnelly’s name is still stamped on the lease, licenses, and certificates of occupancy. My father gets a huge cut every month.

He made it clear he won’t sell it to me, and that’s fine. I already have my mast pointing toward opening my own club. In Manhattan. Take the meticulous blueprint I used to build up this place and apply it somewhere else. With tweaks of course. Manhattan is not Astoria.

All that fades into the background as I focus on the here and now.

The DJ’s bass thrums with a low pulse that matches the confident rhythm I’m trying to pull off.

The packed dance floor with strobe lights flashing overhead washes the crowd in quick bursts of white and blue.

A design idea of mine brought to fruition by an expensive lighting director I hired.

It’s all looking perfect until I spot a figure in a dirty gray hoodie near the bar. Garrett. He looks rough, worn down, and strung out.

Drugs again? I thought he kicked that shit.

His head hangs low, the weight of his poor choices like a giant hand pressing on his shoulders. Calloused fingers brush the sides of his free drink in angry strokes. He doesn’t resemble anything like the cocky, older brother I remember.

Garrett and Shane’s friendship blew up spectacularly days after my eighteenth birthday. My father’s reprimand from Griffin that night no doubt lit the fuse. I never found out what the issue was and Garrett never mentioned Shane’s name again.

Over the last two years, the Quinlans’ rise to power in Lower Manhattan has been the talk of Astoria. Griffin runs Quinlan Empire and gave my father a squad of his own to run the streets with Garrett as his second.

Only, my brother doesn’t appear all too interested in the work. Or anything for that matter.

At the bar, I perch next to Garrett and signal Mara to cut him off.

“Don’t you look like shit,” I say to my brother, folding my arms. It tickled me that I had the money and power to cover his bar tabs, but that only melted into resentment. “A little early for you to be pissed, aye?”

“Don’t talk like that,” he bites out, his red-eyed stare drilling into me. “You think slipping in an ‘aye’ makes you one of them?” His bitterness sets me back. “ You weren’t born in Ireland like them. You’ll never be one of them .”

I was speaking casually, but saying ‘aye’ with a fake lilt like the Quinlans wasn’t supposed to illicit a rude response.

“I’m not trying to be one of them.” And I never will be just as Shane said six years ago.

Fine by me. I’m technically engaged to Rafael Marchant, heir to the powerful Marchant Vineyards dynasty.

He travels a lot for his family, renowned owners of vineyards in Spain.

I don’t see him very much. He came on strong to win my heart and a deal with my club to sell his wine, but he grew emotionally and physically distant right after he got both.

But I’m not ready to get married, and Rafael is waiting for his trust fund.

Garrett lifts his nearly empty tumbler. “I’m just checking on you, little sister. Making sure you’re not letting this place go soft.” He splatters the rest of his drink on the bar. “This is watered down.”

Mara knows to make his drinks weak.

I tug his shoulder. “What do you want besides a stronger drink?”

Garrett’s hollowed cheeks startle me. He leans in close, his voice low. “I need cash, Lennox. Badly.”

My stomach twists, not wanting to have this argument about his drug habit again. “I don’t have money to spare. You know Dad demands a big payout each month.”

“You don’t even know how much I need!” Garrett scoffs.

“I could tell the amount is huge. If you needed money to buy a Big Mac, you’d say so right off the top.” Which makes me even more worried about his messy finances.

When mob dudes run into financial trouble, they make poor choices trying to fix them. Choices and actions that will likely get them killed.

“You have a full house here. You did all these fancy renovations.” Garrett faces me, and I see my father’s dull, murky brown eyes. “You’re skimming, aren’t you? Give me a cut and I won’t tell Dad.”

“How dare you! I would never steal. And I don’t have stacks of cash hidden in a safe.”

Yet.

Garrett scowls, gripping his glass tighter. “Cut the crap. I’m being real here. I’m in deep shit, Lenny. Otherwise, I have to go back to the Albanians. ”

I stiffen, hearing him mention the new crime syndicate that has moved into New York like a plague of locusts. The Albanians are angling for a complete takeover of all five boroughs. It will be a bloodbath.

Shane...

Something Garrett said hits me. “What do you mean, back to the Albanians?”

“I tested the waters.” Garrett sniffs. “Fed them intel.”

“Against the Irish?” I practically screech.

“No. Some Russian asshole I met in another bar got drunk and started spewing shipment routes of ammunition. I took that info and fed it to the Albanians. Once they had the Bratva’s ammo, they paid me. But they want more.”

I stare at my brother, horrified. Garrett is my blood, I can’t rid him from my life. But I’m on a strict budget. I have upgraded glassware on order, and I’ve signed a contract for a jazz band to play once a week for the next few months.

“Gar,” I whisper. “Find another job. A real one. Get away from Dad and the mob. You’re not cut out for it. Starting over isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

“You don’t get it.” He pushes his glass off the bar. “You got your dream. And because I backed you . Now pay up!”

I dig my sharp fingernails into his arm. “Yeah, I needed you because Dad puts me last. He only cares about you, his precious heir, and Neve, his princess. You will both be compensated handily one day.”

“Fine, you’ve left me no choice.” Garrett stands up. “The Albanians will pay me serious money for the weapons I’m moving for the Quinlans tomorrow night. One score like this and I’m out of the hole with my dealer.”

“Jesus, Garrett.” I stare at him, my throat tight and dry. “You think the Quinlans won’t find out?” I know Shane leads their spying team and planted cameras all over the city. “They’re stronger than ever now. They’ll crush you.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. “I can handle it. I have it figured out. They already got a visit from ATF. That’s my alibi.”

“You’re fooling yourself, living in some fantasy world if you think you’re smarter than...”

“Don’t you fucking say his name.” Garrett’s death stare has me stepping back.

He taps the surface of the bar with a shaking hand. And before I can argue further, my gaze shifts over his shoulder. A man at the far end of the bar watches me with steady scrutiny. His dark wool jacket, unshaven face, and amber eyes set off alarm bells.

Albanian.

I know the look and the warning signs. Their torture methods are nothing short of gore.

Garrett notices, too, and curses under his breath. “See, I’ve stalled. They tracked me down. I have to act. Right now. Tonight.” Garrett takes out a few singles and tosses the pathetic tip on the bar. “I gotta go.”

“Garrett, wait!”

“I’m handling it, Lennox. You had your chance to help. Stay out of my life.” The echo of those harsh words crushes my heart as he strides toward the Albanian.

Garrett and his new business partner disappear out the front door before I can stop him.

Damn it.