It takes a few deep breaths to see through the pain. “What the fuck are you doing, bringing him in here? You know there are always eyes on this place,” I hiss.

“They can’t prove anything.”

“And if they do? What’s Jimmy gonna do? He doesn’t want to go back to jail.”

“None of us do.” Wild eyes that remind me of the color of pond scum right now bore into mine. “I didn’t tell him you were there. All he thinks is that it was some muppet who knows better than to get involved with the gardai.”

After a lengthy, wordless showdown, Aengus’s arm finally relaxes. I let my head fall back against the nearby wall as a sharp ache throbs in my lower back.

When he speaks again, the fire in his voice is gone. He sounds tired. “I didn’t know he’d show up here. Honest.”

I don’t believe him. Aengus lies so much, I don’t think even he remembers what the truth is anymore. “What’d he want?”

Aengus releases a mouthful of booze-scented air and begins pacing. “Beznick’s sister and her kids have gone to ground. Probably back to Romania.”

And they’re surprised? I could have told them that was going to happen. “So he got the message, I gather.”

“He did.” He pauses, twisting his mouth in disdain. “And just threatened retaliation on whoever was responsible. Tit-for-tat.”

“What the fuck does that even mean . . .” I tug at the hem of my T-shirt until I can see the dark spot forming on the material. I must have torn a bloody stitch. “If anyone wants a tit, it should be me,” I mutter.

“That Gypsy bastard thinks he can threaten us!” Aengus bellows. Now I know why he was pacing the room when I came in. He’s spitting mad.

“And so you thought it’d be a good idea to meet with Jimmy here and talk about it?”

“Like I said, I didn’t—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” I cut him off, yanking my T-shirt over my head, and reach for the medic kit. Being the pub that we are, it’s well stocked. I dig out the roll of tape quickly. “How bad is it?”

“Two stitches. Here . . .You can’t reach that.” Aengus grabs the roll out of my hand and rips off a strip with his teeth. He’s always been good at quick bandaging. He’s had a lot of experience. I clench my jaw against the sting as he pulls the skin back together. “Pansy.” In another second and with some gauze in his hand, he adds, “That should hold, if you stay out of any more fights tonight.”

I toss the soiled and torn T-shirt into the rubbish can and rifle through the box of spare work shirts we have in the office. “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me . . .” The largest one I can find is medium. And women’s. “Shite,” I mutter, pulling out my old one to check over it again. There’s no hiding that that’s blood. And the tear . . . I can’t be behind the bar with that, especially after a dozen witnesses watched Jimmy and Aengus come back here. That’ll spark questions.

I have no choice. “For fuck sakes.” I ease the new one on, tugging it over my torso.

Aengus doubles over in loud, raucous laughter. I haven’t heard him laugh like that in years, and it releases some of the tension in the air.

“What’s going on in here?” Rowen sticks his head in. His brow spikes with surprise. “You don’t wear that as well as Nuala.”

I jab a thumb toward the box. Rowen’s the one who takes care of T-shirt inventory. “Are those the only shirts we have?”

His lips sit pressed together tightly, twitching. He’s trying not to laugh. “They are. Told you to stop giving T-shirts away to customers because we were running low.”

Fuck.

“We’re getting slammed out front. I need you,” he adds in a serious tone.

“And I need to get home before some arse reports me to the gardai for being seen with Jimmy,” Aengus says through lingering chuckles, though the glint in his eye tells me he hasn’t forgiven me for that one.

Shaking my head, I trail Rowen out.

Preparing my healthy male ego for the bashing that’s about to come.

TWELVE

Amber

I spot Ivy’s slender figure leaning against the old stone wall of Delaney’s as soon as the cab turns the corner. Those high lace-up boots crossed at the ankles are impossible to miss. She’s exchanged her earlier Diva shirt and jeans for an asymmetrical gothic outfit, complete with black lace and burgundy satin. Her hair hangs smooth and shiny, framing a face that’s been painted with a heavy hand of makeup.

I’d look trashy in that getup, but somehow Ivy can pull it off.

The customers passing her on their way into the raucous bar take a second look, not that she notices, her face glued to her phone.

In my short white shorts, flowing bubblegum-pink blouse—the single long sleeve ideal to cover the bruising on my right side—and silver jeweled sandals, we couldn’t be more ill-suited to each other.

“Hey, Ivy.”

Her inky-eyed once-over of me says she’s thinking the same thing. “Are you really sure this is the kind of place you were looking for?”

“A local Irish pub? Of course. Why wouldn’t I want to come here?”

Three middle-aged men stumble out the front door, laughing and slapping each other on the back as they pull cigarettes out of their pockets. Blithering drunken idiots by nine.

“Meet the locals,” she murmurs, leading the way through the propped-open door and into a crowded, rowdy scene. The same guy who played yesterday plays again, only now he has a companion on a second guitar and they seem to be dueling. I shrink into myself as we move farther in. From what I can see, every last table is taken and the bar lineup is two deep. Whatever the fire code is in this country, I’m guessing this place isn’t adhering to it.

“Wow. I didn’t expect it to be so packed this early.” It’s just another pub, and if I’ve learned anything about Dublin in my wanderings, it’s that they have a lot of pubs to choose from. “We’re not going to find anywhere to sit, are we?”

“No one’s leaving this place until the music stops playing and the beer stops pouring. Or they get kicked out.”

I feel eyes on us as we carve our way through hot, sweaty bodies, avoiding the sloshing drinks. Having learned my lesson, I keep my small purse zipped up and tucked under my arm as we make our way to the far side to cram into an empty nook next to a bronze statue of a man.

“Are we allowed to just stand here?” I ask.

“Where else are we going to stand?” She shoots me a perturbed look, like this is my fault.

“Well . . .” I glance behind me. We’re practically hovering over someone’s table. I’ll be getting a perturbed glare from them soon, too.

“I’ve had a long day, Welles.” I bristle a little at the way she uses my last name, but I don’t say anything. “There are plenty of places like this around Dublin. It’s really nothing special. Or, worst case, we can go to Temple Bar. If you like loud drunks, you’ll love it there.”

She’s wrong about Delaney’s not being special. And I don’t want to go anywhere else. Not if River is here. I stretch onto my tiptoes and search the horseshoe-shaped bar through the crowd, but can only make out the short, curvy blonde manning the taps. River said he’d be here tonight, didn’t he? Unless that was just an excuse to get away from me? No, I have to stop thinking like that. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have left things as he did. “Can we just wait a bit, to see if something frees up?”