And I can’t stand the bastard. He had the nerve to come into Delaney’s about three years ago, order a Guinness, and tell me that he was proud of my brother. How he had proved he was strong for “the cause.”

Jimmy isn’t fighting for “the cause.”

I thought I was going to crack my teeth that day, wrestling down the urge to label Jimmy for what he really is out loud—a lowlife racketeer, twisting what my family—my da, my granddad, and many generations before him—fought for. But I kept my mouth shut because you don’t go up against a guy like Jimmy—a convicted felon himself and a snake if I ever saw one—and come out without a bullet in the back of the head.

I suck back the rest of my beer, the alcohol helping to numb my pain. “You could have blown yourself up, Aengus.” The walk from our house in Crumlin to the Green is a good forty minutes.

He shakes his head decisively. “It was solid.”

I roll my eyes. If my parents were ever asked to put their three sons into boxes based on characteristics, I’d bet my life that Aengus would fit neatly into the one marked “loyal, volatile idiot.” He’s not smart enough to question what really matters, and Jimmy feeds off of that. He’s just using him for his dirty work.