Irish Brute (Diamond Ring Irish Mob Trilogy #1)

Chapter 1

1

SAMANTHA

I don’t feel the jaws of the trap squeeze closed until it’s too late.

I thought I was safe, living my life as Samantha Mott. I thought I could go on being an attorney, representing the Diamond Freeport tax haven and its clients in their often-shady, always-high-stakes transactions. I thought the biggest mistake of my life would stay a secret forever.

I was wrong.

Now the wind is picking up outside the Delaware Revenue Department conference room. The parking lot is nearly empty. Heavy, wet snow makes the few remaining vehicles look like giant sheep. I lean back in my chair, grateful for my Balenciaga blazer.

“Gentlemen,” I say, purposely keeping my voice low so the tax officials have to lean forward. “The state government has already declared a state of emergency because of this winter storm. If we can’t resolve this matter in the next few minutes, I propose tabling it until some future date.”

Warren Jenkins, the head of tax enforcement, clears his throat. “That won’t be necessary,” he says. “I’m sure we can agree that a timely amended filing will take care of Kelly Construction’s outstanding?—”

“We absolutely cannot agree to that,” I interrupt.

Braiden Kelly sits to my right. He’s the president and CEO of Kelly Construction, a perfectly legal corporation organized under the laws of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

But that’s not why we’re here. We’re here because—according to TMZ, The Philadelphia Enquirer , and word on the street—Braiden Kelly is the Captain of Philadelphia’s Irish Mob.

Rumor has it he ascended to the role two and a half years ago, capping a decade of bloody infighting. The same rumor says it cost Kelly north of twenty million dollars to gain his seat—payments to cops, gifts to allies, and rewards to his loyal foot soldiers. Kelly supposedly paid that price by diverting Irish pharmaceuticals, cosmetics, and agricultural products.

I have no idea where the butter and honey landed. But according to attorney-client privileged conversations I’ve had with the kingpin himself, the drugs and make-up are sheltered in an underground gallery on Diamond Freeport grounds, here in Delaware. And Delaware’s taxing authority is determined to take their cut, despite the freeport’s tax-exempt status.

“You have no authority to ask for new paperwork,” I say to Jenkins.

“Mr. Kelly does business in Delaware,” he says, like he’s teaching me to share toys in kindergarten.

“No,” I say. “Mr. Kelly does business in a tax-exempt freeport. You have no legal standing to demand any filings regarding any transactions that take place on freeport land.”

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my tailored trousers. I’m not about to check who’s texting me now, not when this negotiation is finally beginning to move.

Instead, I gesture to the thick binder on the table in front of Jenkins, which contains copies of all the relevant statutes, regulations, and corporate paperwork. “Your predecessor understood how freeports work.”

“My predecessor ,”—he says the word like he’s chewing on lemon rinds—“accepted your cockamamie scheme?—”

“By ‘scheme’ you’re referring to a business enterprise licensed by Delaware’s Division of Corporations. A business enterprise that pays annual fees upwards of?—”

“Your scheme ,” he repeats, his voice louder. Sharper. Tight. “Which is clearly an unlawful?—”

“Your saying so doesn’t change the facts or the law.” My phone buzzes again, a reminder of the text. I don’t allow my expression to change.

The bureaucrat’s face flushes crimson at my second interruption. “Miss Mott?—”

“ Ms. Mott.” I glance at the door as I correct him. I’m pretty sure I saw a defibrillator by the elevator. I hope we don’t have to use it, because this guy looks like he’s about to have a stroke.

My phone buzzes again, this time in the pattern I set for an email. Once again, I resist the temptation to see what’s going on.

Jenkins says, “ Ms . Mott, you may think I have nothing better to do than play games today, but I?—”

“Mr. Jenkins, I assure you no one here thinks this is a game. Not me. Not Trap Prince, who founded Diamond Freeport. And certainly not Mr. Kelly, who has generously given hours of his time to pursue this frankly insulting meeting.”

“If anyone is being insulted?—”

“Mr. Jenkins,” I interrupt again, gesturing toward the manila folder on the table, the one I carefully put there at the start of this meeting.

Another email arrives on my phone. I’m beginning to consider the communication important, but I need to drop the hammer on Jenkins.

“If your office no longer wishes to abide by the laws of this state, then you need to take things up with the legislature, or perhaps the courts. But if you continue to harass Diamond Freeport and its clients, then I am prepared to file suit by close of business today, with”—I tap the folder—“a six-count complaint naming your office and you personally as defendants.”

He splutters.

His face turns crimson.

He eyes the folder, as if it might transform into a living, breathing dragon.

I maintain eye contact— just try me —even as a third email arrives.

Out on the main road, a snow plow goes by. Its blade sounds like someone is excavating the stone foundation of Hell.

Mr. Jenkins looks out the window at the rapidly worsening winter storm. He checks his cheap Timex, as if it offers free legal advice. He licks his lips and eyes the manila folder.

“Mr. Jenkins,” I say, leaning a little harder.

“Fine!” he explodes. “I’ll close my request. But I reserve the right to refile my demands the instant this department learns of anything bringing any transaction by any freeport client under our jurisdiction.”

“Of course,” I say.

My agreement steals all of Jenkins’ bluster. He sits back in his chair, as if he’s not sure who just punched him in the gut. His fellow tax dweebs look like they just got a whiff of sewer gas.

“Mr. Kelly?” I ask, getting to my feet and returning the manila folder to my briefcase.

He’s the ideal client. He keeps his mouth shut and his eyes on the prize. A lot of clients—a lot of men —would have to deliver their own cutting words. Kelly’s content with opening the conference room door. He holds it for me before following me to the elevator.

I push the button. Behind us, the conference room fills with the sound of rats scurrying for cover. I wonder if Jenkins is hissing an explanation to his colleagues or if they’re whispering the Riot Act to him. He deserves whatever indignation they’ve got. It was a waste of everyone’s time, dragging us here.

The elevator door opens. Kelly and I step in, automatically spacing ourselves and turning to face out. After I press G, I catch his eyes in the wavering silver door.

My stomach swoops.

I could lie and say it’s a fast elevator with a wicked drop. I could pretend I’m riding the adrenaline high of handing Warren Jenkins his lunch. I could even blame the changing air pressure from the monster storm outside.

But it’s none of those things.

Braiden Kelly is looking at me with a calculating smile that makes my nipples go sharp as stone. And judging from the cocky rise of his eyebrows, his cobalt eyes have some sort of bionic implants, because he just caught that detail in our smudged reflections on the elevator door.

I’m suddenly aware of the scent of him, a blend of cedar and spice that makes it hard for me to swallow. My fingers itch to reach out and press the Stop button, because something tells me Kelly knows exactly what to do with a few stolen minutes.

The door opens before I can make a fool out of myself. And my phone starts ringing as we step into the grim governmental lobby.

“E—excuse me,” I say, surprised to find myself breathless. I gesture with my cell. “I need to take this.”

“Of course.” He crosses to the security desk, giving me the illusion of privacy. I try not to question the part of me that’s pleased he doesn’t leave. He has to drive all the way back to Philly. Hitting the road before the storm gets any worse would be a sound decision.

I look at my phone’s screen for the first time since it started going haywire in the meeting. EC , it says, with a 215 area code.

Philadelphia.

My knees start to buckle.

EC. Elisabetta Canna. A name and number I typed into my phone eleven years ago. Data that has been transferred from contact list to contact list, as I upgraded to newer and newer mobile phones.

I hit the green icon, my mouth suddenly so dry I don’t know how I manage to say, “Hello?”

“Giovanna!”

No! I want to say. I’m not Giovanna. I haven’t been Giovanna since That Night. The night I graduated from college. The night I made the biggest mistake of my life and Elisabetta was the only person I trusted to help me clean up the mess. She promised she’d only use this number in a matter of life and death.

“Eliza?” I ask, because that’s I called my cousin when we were children—when we wanted elegant names, English names, names like the heroines in all the books we loved.

“Gia!” She’s sobbing, crying so hard she’s choking. “I tried to text you.”

“I was in a meeting.”

“I emailed.”

“I couldn’t answer,” I say. My hand is shaking, and a high-pitched hum fills my head. “What’s wrong?”

Before she can answer, I hear a heavy pounding, like someone dropping elephants from a balcony. “I made a mistake,” Eliza moans.

“Where are you?”

Instead of answering, she shouts, her voice thick with tears and desperation. “Leave me alone, stronzo! ”

Bile paints my throat, because there’s only one place in the world Eliza can be. One place she’s supposed to be, anyway. And it’s a place I swore I’d never see again. “Eliza, where are you?” I repeat.

“I’m home now,” she says, the words coming out too fast. “I shouldn’t have done it. I know. But I’ve loved Peter forever. He’s a civilian. Antonio can’t hurt him.”

Eliza’s husband can hurt anyone he wants. Don Antonio is the head of the Russo crime family.

In a sane world, I’d tell Eliza to hang up and dial 911. I’d call them myself; I know her address by heart. I’d tell the cops to hurry, to get there before something terrible happens.

But Eliza’s world isn’t sane. If the cops get there at all, they’ll be too late. And chances are, the dispatcher will get disconnected. The call will get dropped. The records will be lost.

Because that’s the type of power Antonio Russo has in Philadelphia.

Eliza is babbling, confessing her affair to me while she shouts defiance at her husband. “Please, Giovanna,” she says. “You have to come get me. You have to take me somewhere safe.”

Before I can answer, there’s a noise like a bomb exploding, followed by Eliza’s shriek. It takes me a moment to figure out Antonio shot the lock off the door between them.

“Please,” Eliza starts to plead. “Antonio… My love…”

She yelps and my ear is filled with a heavy thud. Her begging turns echoey, and I realize she’s dropped her phone.

Antonio snarls, “ Porca giuda! ” I’d know that voice anywhere, a corpse scraped over a gravel road. There’s a thud and another cry, and I’m pretty sure he punched her, or maybe landed a kick.

Eliza babbles, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was a mistake. An accident. I promise I’ll never see him again. Peter is dead to me, Antonio, I promise.”

The entire time she’s talking, he’s growling insults in English and Italian, calling her a cunt, a whore, telling her she’s not worth fucking.

“Oh my God,” Eliza gasps. “What are you doing? You don’t have to— No! Antonio, no! You can’t?—”

“You’re my bitch. I can do whatever I want to.”

“Please, Antonio. Please, please, please…”

“You think you’re too good for my cock?”

“No, baby. Never.” She says the words, but they’re distant, vague, a hopeless, helpless prayer.

“You put another man’s prick up there?”

“ Ave, o Maria, piena di grazia, ” Eliza breathes her Hail Mary.

“How’s it feel to have something hard inside you, puttana? Your limp-dick asshole didn’t give you this, did he?”

He’s raping her. All I can do is listen as Eliza prays, her tone desperate. “ Il frutto del tuo seno, Gesu. ”

“ Vaffanculo a chi t’è morto, ” Antonio says, a foul Italian curse. Go fuck your dead family.

“ Della nostra morte ,” Eliza finishes.

And my ear is filled with a massive explosion, a monstrous sound followed by a rasping, demented laugh. “No one’s fucking that cunt now.”

He used his gun.

He raped my cousin with his gun and then he shot her.

I start to shout Eliza’s name, but terror and revulsion freeze my throat. I drop to my knees in the sterile lobby. I cross myself, something I haven’t done in years.

And my blood turns to sludge as I hear jostling. As someone’s heavy breathing comes into range of Eliza’s phone. As Antonio Russo snarls, “Giovanna? Giovanna Canna? I’m coming for you next.”