Packie's was a small Irish-American 'restaurant' on the Irish waterfront. The small dining room -- consisting of between 20-30 four-seat tables carefully arranged. It was a pretty good money-spinner, thanks mostly to the heavy 'investments' that the Paragons plied the owner, Patrick 'Packie' O'Leary with.

I sat in one of the corner tables, with my back to the wall next to the kitchen and working my way through a particularly scrumptious shepard's pie. One of my bodyguards sat across from me, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray as he picked at a serving of black pudding -- known more commonly as blood sausage.

"Making sausage from blood is just a bad idea," he said miserably, staring at the jet black wheel of sliced sausage on the end of his fork.

I smiled in spite of myself. "You didn't have to order it, you know."

"I know," he said. He sat his fork back down for the umpteenth time and took a swallow from a glass filled with water; he didn't drink alcohol on the job.

A trio of suits walked in; they caught my attention because of how finely they were dressed. This wasn't a couple of New York workers trying to earn a dime to feed their families. I caught a flash of light off one of the suit's hands. It was a set of knuckles gripped tightly in his palm. I lightly tapped my plate with my fork -- a sign between us -- and very gently inclined my head towards the newcomers.

My bodyguard didn't have time to react before one of the suits was hauling Packie across the bar by his collar.

"You don't seem to get it," the suit barked. I could see the spittle landing on Packie's face. "You don't work for them anymore, you work for Tyler!"

One of the muscles, the one with the brass knuckles, started walking towards us.

"Hey, clear out," the man ordered. "You don't need to see this."

"I could've told you the same thing," my bodyguard murmured, just loud enough to be heard.

The suit glared down at him. If that pissed him off, what I did must've made him furious. In a smooth motion, I picked up the ash tray and brought it up, bringing the bottom hard across his jaw. I felt bones crunch under the makeshift bludgeon. As he fell, my bodyguard was up. In half a second he had a lupara aimed at the other suits.

"Drop him or die," I ordered. If I told him to, the bodyguard would've done it, too.

There was a brief moment where the suits looked like they were going to draw on us. If they even moved, things were going to go to hell in a hand basket really quick. But the let Packie go and started to make their way to the door. The guy who came for us? Out cold on the ground.

"Keep an eye on him," I told my bodyguard. "I need to make a phone call."