He should have ignored the young brunette—and the whimpering dog in the alley—last night. He needed to learn to mind his own damned business instead of honing in on the defenseless like a GPS tracker.

What if that dumbass kid had a gun?

He dragged his sorry butt out of the shower and toweled off, ignoring the ache in his abused muscles. Of course he’d been unable to dump the dog at the pound. He’d dropped her off at the vet earlier that morning. Now his apartment felt so empty, it practically echoed. Conor dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and boots. Time to go downstairs to work.

Sullivan’s had occupied a corner in South Philadelphia for over three decades. The bar was established and run by his parents until they’d been killed in a car accident when Conor was twenty. With Danny and Jayne both in junior high when it happened, Pat and Conor had spent the next ten years struggling to raise their young siblings and keeping the bar afloat. Things had gotten rocky again when Danny came home from Iraq two years ago with PTSD. His medical bills had nearly bankrupted them. They’d gotten through some more tough patches, like the deranged killer in Maine who had targeted Jayne and, later, Danny’s fiancée. But things were smoothing out again. The Sullivans were a resilient bunch.

The kitchen staff was gearing up for the lunch crowd. His older brother, Pat, was behind the bar with a clipboard, taking inventory. In the light streaming through the plate glass that fronted the bar, Conor could see a few white hairs threaded through Pat’s once solid-red head.

He smoothed his features. “Sorry I’m late.”

All four of the Sullivan siblings had inherited their dad’s distinctive turquoise eyes. This morning, Pat’s saw right through Conor’s game face. “Rough night?”

Putting an arm across his chest, he stretched his too-tight triceps. “You wouldn’t believe it. How’s your back?”

Pat grinned. At forty, two years older than Conor, half of his brother’s life had been nothing but hard work and responsibility, but Pat’s sense of humor was as solid as the inch-thick oak bar that wrapped around them. “Feels like someone used me as a trampoline while I slept.”

“Hey, in your house, that’s a real possibility.”

Pat’s three kids ranged in age from four to nine, and they were a wild bunch, true Sullivans down to their pint-size souls.

“No kidding.” Pat laughed. “But next time I decide to break up a concrete patio solo, remind me that my back is too old for heavy labor.”

“Will do.”

Pat counted bottles of Absolut and wrote a number on his sheet. Conor pitched in, and together, they finished taking inventory. The bell on the door jingled.

“And here comes the lunch crowd,” Pat said.