“Buy you a pint, Con?” Seamus asked in his rugged brogue.

Though Ireland was still thick in his father’s voice, little of the Quinn brothers’ birthplace remained in their memories. Yet, every now and then, Conor could still hear traces of the old country in his own voice, traces that he sometimes caught in Dylan and Brendan, too. But they were Americans through and through, all of the brothers had become naturalized citizens-save Liam, who’d been born in America-the day their parents took the oath.

Conor shook his head. “I’m on duty in a half hour, Da. Danny’s picking me up here.”

Seamus gave him a shrewd look, then set a club soda in front of Conor, before serving the next patron. Conor watched as his da expertly pulled the Guinness, tipping the glass at the perfect angle and choosing the exact moment to turn off the tap. He set the tall glass on the bar and the pale creamy foam rose to the top, leaving the nut brown brew beneath.

His father didn’t bother asking. Though the rest of the patrons profited from Seamus’s sage advice, over the years the Quinn boys had learned to handle their own problems without parental involvement. In truth, Conor had been the one to dispense advice and discipline to his younger brothers. He still did. Nearly his entire life, from the time he was seven, had been consumed with keeping his family intact at all costs and keeping his brothers on the straight and narrow. Making life safe had been his job, then and now. Now, he was just watching out for a city of a half million instead of five rowdy boys from Southie.

He glanced around the bar, searching for a diversion, anything to get his mind off the events of the day. Seamus Quinn’s pub was known for three things-an authentic Irish atmosphere, the best Irish stew in Boston and rousing Irish music played live every night. It was also known for the six bachelor brothers who hung out at the bar.

Dylan was playing pool with some of his firefighter buddies, all dressed alike in the navy T-shirts of the Boston Fire Department.