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Up ahead, the mouth of an alleyway looms. I try to steel myself, but I feel no courage. As I pass the alley, I can’t help it, I turn my head to look. There. Behind the dumpster. A slim man in dark clothing. My scalp prickles, but the next second, I see only shadows. Doubt creeps over me, my reason trying to fight my instincts.

But I don’t think. I run.

With the cold air burning my lungs, I realize how out of practice I am. I’m sluggish, like I’m trying to sprint through syrup. Running’s the only time I ever feel coordinated in my body, but not tonight. My feet, although heavy and clumsy, know where I’m going before I do.

The place where I feel safest.

It only takes me a few minutes to get to the O’Sullivans’ pub, and I never stop running. When I’m finally in sight of the multipaned windows, with the cheery light spilling out of them a stone’s throw away, I slow down to check the street behind me. Empty. My chest heaves painfully, and I stop to catch my breath.

I don’t want them to see me like this.

Clutching the post of a stop sign, I steady myself as I breathe through the stitch in my side. I gulp cold air and grip colder metal, letting the night soothe my overheated face. Though I keep aware of my surroundings, I know I’m safe when I’m this close to the O’Sullivans’ headquarters.

Through the windows, I see scattered groups of customers, but I can’t see the wooden bar itself. I hope at least one O’Sullivan brother is here, willing to help me shake off my worries and drown my sorrows. In my heart, I hope it’s Liam.

I smooth my tangled hair as best I can, straighten my coat, and step inside.

The comforting smell of the pub’s oak interior envelops me. It’s a double-height space, but the stamped copper ceiling gives the room a warm, cozy feel. A couple of patrons turn to watch me walk in, but I keep my eyes straight ahead, searching.

At the far end of the bar, Finn sits by himself. The third O’Sullivan brother rests his bulky arms on the polished wood as he speaks with Erin, the bartender. Erin is everyone’s friend. Despite her take-no-prisoners exterior and badass leather jacket, she’s warm and inviting, beloved by the pub’s regulars.

Finn spots me first, greeting me with a wave. He’s always been like a little brother to me, even though these days he’s far from little. Beneath his tight black T-shirt, his arms are like pythons. Paired with his roguishly broken nose, his hulking muscles announce to the world that he’s ready for a fight.

But for me, he’s all smiles.

Erin turns to me, and she’s gorgeous as ever with her smoky eyeshadow. Even though it’s near closing, after what must’ve been a long shift, she has hardly a raven hair out of place.

“The usual?” she asks, ready to pull me a Magners and Guinness.

“Something stronger, please.” I need something to soothe my nerves.

Both Finn’s and Erin’s eyebrows go up, but neither comment as she preps us three shots of Jameson. We lift our glasses, but there’s a pause, with no one quite sure what we’re cheers-ing to. The other two look to me, since I was the one who asked for something stronger.

To drowning my worries with the closest thing I’ll ever have to family.

“Happy Friday!” I say with forced cheer.

Finn and Erin echo me, and we down our shots quickly, before Erin excuses herself to cash out a customer.

“You got my text, then?” Finn asks, and I feel a twinge of guilt.

“Um, no.” After I got rid of Harrison’s message, I didn’t want to look at my phone anymore. It felt tainted. I reach for it, but Finn gestures for me not to bother.

“Just seeing who all wanted to drink tonight,” he says. “Brady should be here soon.”

Brady, the second O’Sullivan brother, is the public face of the family’s legitimate business. He got married a few weeks ago, and I adore his wife.

“Is Cora coming?” I ask Finn, and he wrinkles his crooked nose.

“Yes,” he says tersely. He’s not a fan of his new sister-in-law. The only reason I can fathom is that they’re both strong personalities.

When Brady and Cora stride in a few minutes later, Erin pours us all another round of shots, and the whiskey warms me from the inside out.

Cora raises a suspicious eyebrow, but she waits until Erin’s at the far end of the bar and the brothers are in their own conversation. Then she leans close to me.

“Are you okay, babe?” she asks in an undertone. Cora’s good at reading people. Too good.

“I’m fine,” I say, but she purses her red lips to tell me she’s not buying it.