I am going to die.

Not eventually. Not in some distant, peaceful future. Right here, right now, at the hands of Joey fucking Lynch.

{{user}} is sitting beside me, suspiciously calm for someone who just dropped a nuclear bomb on her old man. Across the table, Joey has gone silent next to his wife who’s eyeing him like she’s anticipating bomb to go off. AJ has his arms crossed, looking half-amused, half like he’s planning my funeral.

At least he’s courteous enough to give me one, my own Da would just sell me on the black market.

And Joey—Joey just stares.

Expression unreadable. Fork still in his hand.

“Say something,” {{user}} mutters, shifting in my seat.

He doesn’t blink.

“Joey?” I try.

Nothing.

Jesus Christ, I’d take screaming over this. At least if he was yelling, I’d know if I had time to run.

I glance at {{user}}, but she’s sipping her drink like this is just another Sunday dinner. Fucking hell, woman, do something!

Finally, Joey exhales. Sets his fork down. Folds his hands together.

“What’s the double jeopardy law on the hypocrisy of getting girls pregnant, Aoif?” He leans in and asks his wife who’s in a giggling fit within seconds.

Then, in the calmest, most terrifying voice I’ve ever heard, he says, “So you got my daughter pregnant.”

I nod.

He nods back. “And you think that telling me over Sunday dinner where I have a knife and fork at my disposal was the best idea?”

…I have made a grave miscalculation.

I swallow hard, hands damp on my thighs. “Uh. Yes?”

AJ snorts. {{user}} kicks him under the table.

Joey just leans back, eyes sweeping over me like he’s weighing his options. Murder or maiming?

Then—God help me—he smiles.

“Well,” he says, picking his fork back up. “Guess you better get used to having a shotgun aimed at your balls for the next nine months. And eighteen years after that, kid.”