Raucous laughter fills The Black Rose, a crowd of men in patriot uniforms howling with delight in the corner, not caring who they might disturb. Like the lone figure sitting at the end of the bar nursing a pint, Ciarán Quinn. They've been annoying him all night — bragging about who was more Irish than the other. He doubts any of them had even set foot out of the Americas, let alone on the shore of Ireland itself, considering their flat American accents. He thinks, in particular, that the Boston subtype might be even more grating than the Brooklyn affectation of his criminal associates in the Big Apple.

It's not like he should even be here. Seán had explicitly told him not to get into trouble while he attempted to track down whatever those slimy Belmonts were up to now. They'd gone disturbingly quiet — and Moretti intelligence suggested they were plotting something, laying down new roots in the United States to take on the European Underworld. Which means someone needed to go ferret out their activities, and why not send the very best?

Because despite the prison sentence — which he maintains was a fucking set up— No one was better at recon work than Ciarán. His pretty-boy good looks and gift of gab make him a natural at it. So here he was, in Boston, having tracked some Belmont thugs to the harbor — how very quaintly American of them. Clearly they were moving something through the port — Ciarán just needed to find out what.

And he would —

But he'd also run up a tab or two and bill it to his bastard older brother instead. Then he'd relish watching Seán have an aneurysm when he gets them. It's what he deserved after abandoning him like that — leaving his brother to rot in a cell like a common thug. He always knew Seán could be ruthless, but that? That was fucked. Ciarán will never forgive him for that, fully — always wary of his brother's next move — quietly supporting Ronan in his place to become the next boss. One day, he'd get his revenge, and he'd savor it just the same.

"I'm far more Irish than you bro —"

One of the drunk frat boys declares over the music, causing Ciarán to roll his eyes. "Oh, for Fuck's sake.." He slams his empty pint glass down, tossing a few American bills on the counter. "Pardon for th’ mess," he tells the bartender with a charming grin. The bartender blinks, a confused look on her face. She looks over to his former spot — only the glass and cash are left behind, and back towards the handsome stranger. "What mess?"

Ciarán chuckles, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turns, "The one I'm about to cause."

He appears behind the group of men, a large hand clasping the shoulder of the loudest one just shy of painful. "I hate to break it to you, lads. But none of you are Irish." He levels, his charming grin taking on an edge of condescension. The men bristle, their gazes narrowing. "What do you mean, pretty boy? My family —"

Ciarán gives a short nod, "Right, your ancestry is Irish, but you are not. You're American, an' that only carries a bit o' shame n' all. Can't hold that against you, but — there's more to being Irish than drinking your green beer and eatin' corned beef once a year."

They were fighting words — he knows it. But damn if he wasn't itching to cause some pain, and he did so love riling up the sensitive eejits. Besides, working things out with his fists was always the best way to resolve issues in his book. The men are on their feet in an instant, swearing and being hurled as they all turn towards Ciarán.

Over the restaurant speakers a familiar melody begins to play — the opening notes to Flogging Molly's Drunken Lullabies. A dangerous smirk crosses Ciarán's lips as he hears it. "Now we're ready for a fight! Let's dance, gentlemen!" His fist raised, Ciarán moves with a grace that belies his broad figure. He'd been formidable before his jail time, but now-- his broad form was mostly muscles.

He dips when one of the Patriots fans lunges towards him, the man going headfirst into a table, enjoying their meal. Chaos erupts in the bar as Ciarán knocks another man to the floor. Two grab him from behind, but already drunk, they’re unsteady on their feet, allowing Ciarán to use their bodyweight against them, sending the duo crashing into each other. "Come now! That can't be all you've got? I'm only getting started."

The biggest of the group manages to land a punch on Ciarán while he taunts — Ciarán's vision goes white for a moment as he tastes blood. He rolls his jaw, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he turns to face his attacker. "You hit like my sister," he mocks, making the football fan charge at him in a blind rage. He plans to take Ciarán down and pummel that pretty boy face to a pulp, but instead, Ciarán's knee connects with his stomach, causing the man to double over in pain.

He's just about to strike again when two burly bouncers seize him from behind, Ciarán stiffening just so. "Alright, Alright — looks like the fun is over, lads. He's dragged towards the front — several people are filming the event for social media. He's certain his brother will love to see that. But hey, at least they hadn't called the cops.

"And stay out!" The larger bouncer hollers as they toss Ciarán out into the snowy Boston winter without his jacket. He stumbles on the icy ground, colliding with the figure of someone.

"Shite!" He grabs the person's shoulder — doing his best to steady them both on the frozen sidewalk. "Sorry — didn't mean t' run you over like that."