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“I don’t fucking know.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know who I’d replace him with.”

“So don’t replace him. Give him a good dressing-down.”

“I already did,” I snarl. I’m impatient with all of this. But Brady’s stroking his stubble beard in slow, methodical thought.

“You need to do it in front of Brioni.”

“You want me to scare her?” I flex my fingers. It’s the right move. She needs to understand what she did wrong. But my stomach tightens at the thought of intentionally scaring my Brioni. Fear is what Harrison used.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Brady says. “But if she sees you chew Gus out, she won’t risk getting him in trouble again. Empathy is one of her weaknesses.”

I side-eye my brother. I’m about to tell him that my fiancée isn’t fucking weak, when a plain sedan pulls up the drive. Its speed is reckless, its handling well-controlled. Cora must be driving. She barrels toward us, then screeches to a halt so sudden she leaves skid marks on the asphalt. Another reason for me to be fucking pissed at her.

The three guilty parties emerge from the car. Cora storms toward me, tosses the keys at my face, and continues toward Brady’s car without breaking stride. I open my mouth to curse at her, but Brady shoots me a look. I shoot him a look right back, reminding him he better get his firebrand wife under control.

Gus approaches me with even steps. His usually stern expression is apologetic, his driver cap in his hands.

I wait for him as my brother’s car races past. Brady and Cora are down the driveway and around the bend before Gus reaches me.

Brioni remains next to the sedan. She’s hunched into herself, like she’s trying to hide her tall frame behind the car. As if a flimsy metal box can protect her from the storm of my rage. I don’t make eye contact, but I make sure she’s in earshot. She needs to hear every single word.

I take a righteous inhale. Then I lay into Gus, screaming at my loyal soldier.

I’m furious about so many things. Seven and his fucking treaty that he’ll probably break. Golden boy Rabbit and his suspicious trips north. Da stepping down and putting everything on my goddamn shoulders. Brioni being too good for me and me being a despicable fuck for keeping her anyway.

I’m also furious with Gus for endangering Brioni. For putting her anywhere near harm’s way. I keep that at the forefront of my mind, but I make Gus endure the force of all my rage, channeling it into my shouting. I feel my face go red. I watch my fingers jab at him. I lace every sentence I can with all the goddamn fucks.

And I make sure Brioni’s catching every second of it.

Gus takes it like an O’Sullivan man. He’s grim, but cowed. When I’m done, my chest is heaving. Gus uses my silence to apologize and beg forgiveness. I give him a single nod. There’s another, final step to this, and Gus and I both know it.

Brioni does not.

Keeping my focus on Gus, I count on my fingers as I issue my verdict.

“You could’ve hurt not one, but two O’Sullivan women. Brioni and Cora were in danger because of your bad decision.” I hold two fingers in the air, but it’s no peace sign.

Gus clenches his jaw. He lowers his arms to his sides, bracing himself. Then I slam my fist into his gut. One. My knuckles smash through his tensed muscles. He stumbles back, and I swing again at the same spot, colliding with less resistance this time. Two. He falls to his knees, spluttering bile-yellow vomit onto the asphalt.

Brioni screams. She rushes toward Gus, but I hold up my hand.

“Stay back,” I bark at her. “It’s what he deserves.”

Her legs freeze in place. She’s several strides away, but I can see her beautiful face contorted with pain. Pity for someone else. Brady was right about her empathy.

I turn my head to the side and spit. Then I hurl the sedan’s keys at the ground beside Gus and tell him to get the fuck home. Scraping up his hat and keys, he struggles to his feet. Brioni lurches forward but stops herself. Gus doesn’t dare look at her. He clutches his stomach as he staggers to the car. But he’s not the type to go to the hospital for something as inconsequential as internal bleeding. As he backs down the drive, I spit again. Finished with him.

Then it’s just me and Brioni.

The wind whips her long hair around her face. She pushes it away in sweeping motions across her cheeks, her fingers brushing beneath her eyes. She’s crying. And she’s trying not to show it. My stomach roils, but she needs to understand what she did.

“You can’t put yourself in danger like that.” I shout it over the wind, but the wind dies. Now I’m just shouting at my precious Brioni.

She says nothing. She’s in her church clothes. A pale green dress beneath a beige sweater, neither of which looks warm. She wraps her arms around herself, pressing her knees together as the wind plasters her skirt to her body. The outline of her long legs is sexy as fuck, but they’re shaking as she shivers in the cold. I try to remember my anger.

“Get in the car,” I order.

I jerk my chin at the Nav, and she scurries into the passenger seat. When I get in, I slam my door as hard as possible. She flinches.