Chapter 47
47
FIONA
P atrick and I take the elevator to the Four Seasons conference room. I twitch at the hem of my leather bustier. The scarlet matches my lips; it’s the exact shade of my fingernails. Folds of leather are sculpted into two elaborate roses that cover my breasts. I smirked when I told Patrick he could look, but he could not touch.
Not yet. Not until I’ve finished running this meeting.
I’m steady on my four-inch heels as we walk down the hall. I don’t even flinch when I see Uncle Aran standing beside the door.
Part of me hoped Keenan Rivers would have taken him out by now.
Part of me is glad my uncle’s still alive. I want him to see me run this meeting. I want him to know—in those final moments before Rivers kills him—exactly how I’ll run the Crew. I want him to see me in charge.
Uncle Aran has brought one of the Old Colony lieutenants to serve as his second in this meeting. Angus Miller doesn’t have the decency to meet my gaze.
Patrick reaches the meeting room door first. That gives me the right to enter before all three men. I’m halfway to the head of the table when I glimpse the last man on earth I want to see in this room.
Keenan Rivers is leaning against the near wall, surveying everyone else who’s arrived. His shoulders are back. The sole of his right foot rests beside his left knee. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his white-blond hair is clubbed at the nape of his neck.
I’m not the only one who has dressed in leather for this meeting. Rivers looks like he just left a motorcycle outside some seedy backstreet bar. His well-worn pants are dusty, and his leather jacket fits like armor.
He pushes off the wall and comes to the head of the table with three long strides. “Fiona,” he says.
“Keenan,” I answer evenly.
Patrick and I sent the documents from a burner. There’s no way Rivers knows we’re the source. But he holds my hand a fraction of a second too long when we shake. Or maybe that’s just my own adrenaline, spiking my reactions.
A man flickers in Rivers’ wake, one of the Clan’s newer enforcers serving as a second. I’ve never spoken to him, which reflects badly on me. Once I’m Queen I’ll know every member of my clan by name.
For now, I’m wondering if I can distract the pair of them. Create some sort of forced error. Get Rivers and his second thrown out, so my chosen assassin can work on what’s really important—destroying Aran Dowd.
But if I’m caught squabbling with anyone from Boston, I’ll look like an amateur. A pretender. Not like the captain I want all the other mob families to see.
Fuck.
I sit at the head of the table before Uncle Aran or Rivers can stake a claim to the most prominent place in the room. As the other men scramble to drag over their own chairs, Patrick leans forward to whisper, “Head high. Eyes straight ahead.”
That’s what he said when he saved me at my father’s wake. He’s feeding, me power. He’s giving me strength.
I look around the room and see that everyone else has arrived. San Francisco and New Orleans and Chicago. New York and Baltimore and Philadelphia.
Philadelphia. Braiden Kelly, with his wife, Samantha, sitting behind him as his Clan Chief. I catch a glimpse of a gold ring on her hand, a Celtic knot like Patrick wore until yesterday.
My eyes meet Braiden’s across the table. I haven’t seen him since Easter. I could fill volumes with what’s happened to me since I left his mansion, since I gave up on annoying the living crap out of him. Someday, I’ll tell him I’m sorry.
But not today. Not with Union business the most important thing at hand.
I clear my throat sharply, and every man in the room falls silent. Drawing on my da’s most pompous delivery, I begin: “Grand Irish Union tradition?—”
Rivers cuts me off, his voice like a guillotine made of ice. “Gentlemen?—”
Uncle Aran follows suit, notably louder to make up for being a fraction late: “As you know?—”
The three of us are still jockeying for control when the Chicago captain pounds the table with his fist. “All right,” Mickey Reardon says. “We’re all here for the same reason—to select our next general. So let’s skip the greetings and the gossip and go straight to what matters. I’m stepping forward to serve.”
Braiden takes exception to that. “It’s good of you to volunteer, Mickey,” he says. “But I’m thinking I should be our next general instead.”
Uncle Aran and Rivers explode in predictable attacks. They shout that Braiden killed my da. They bring up old grievances. I let them go on because it makes them sound petty, like pasty-faced bookkeepers instead of like leaders of men.
Braiden parries their attacks smoothly, never letting his temper get the better of him. I risk a glance at his second, at Samantha.
I’ll never admit it in public, but I might have overstepped a bit when I lived in Philadelphia. Before I knew Patrick. When I still believed Da meant me to be his heir.
It’s unheard of, a woman serving as Clan Chief. Nearly as outrageous as a daughter filling her da’s shoes as captain. So I give Samantha a small, tight smile. She returns the gesture, which is as close to making amends as we can come today.
Reardon’s had enough of the bickering over my father’s death, and he lumbers to his feet. Towering over the table, he says, “I hardly need to remind you, deartháireacha , what I bring to the Union.”
I know enough Irish to understand he’s calling them all his brothers. Before I can point out there’s a sister in this room, Reardon starts to present his arguments for why he should be general.
He has a few good points—he’s the oldest man in the room, he manages a massive territory, and he handles a lot of money. But it takes him over an hour to make his pitch.
An hour, when all the men at the table become increasingly restless.
An hour, when I long to look at Rivers, to see if I can read murder in his eyes.
An hour, when Uncle Aran begins tapping his index finger against the table, a sure sign that he’s thinking about cutting off the Chicago captain’s speech.
My heart feels like it’s being battered by hummingbird wings, but I can’t let on that anything’s amiss. I can’t risk Uncle Aran figuring out that I know more than I did the last time we saw each other. I can’t chance interrupting any vengeance that Rivers has set in place .
Forcing myself to look bored, I swallow a yawn before I ask, “Braiden?”
Even if my plot against my uncle goes awry, this is a good time to remind everyone that I’m running this meeting. I’m the best captain Boston could ever name.
Uncle Aran doesn’t like my taking the lead. “Come now, Little Fee—” he starts.
Rivers cuts him off. “The man deserves to make his case.”
My uncle’s beard bobs as he takes offense. I order myself not to stare at Rivers, not to question if he’s arguing because he wants to be seen as Boston’s King or because he’s been made aware of treason so abhorrent he can smell blood.
In any case, Braiden rolls over both of them. He says, “I’ve shared the Jameson with all of you over the years. You know I’ve run a tight ship since I took over from my da. I’ve always paid heed to the Union, playing by its rules even when that’s cost me dosh. I’ll take a stand for the GIU against anyone who means us harm—mafia or bratva, yakuza or the law. By now, you all know what happened to Antonio Russo. And I suspect you’ve heard what I did to my own brother when he turned traitor on us all. I respect the Union. I respect you. And I’ll be your next general.”
It takes me a moment to realize that’s his entire speech. When I do, I hurry to fill the gap. “All right, then, captains of the Grand Irish Union.”
Rivers, though, interrupts before I can call a vote. “Anyone else putting his hat in the ring?”
Turning my voice to steel, I repeat, “All right, then, captains of the Grand Irish Union. Following our tradition, Boston votes first. Then, we’ll proceed in increasing order of seniority.” I don’t give Uncle Aran a chance to interrupt. Instead, I announce: “Boston votes for Kelly.”
Uncle Aran’s wailing must wake Da in his grave. He’s calling me Little Fee. He’s saying I have no right. He’s saying he’s Boston, and he’ll make the call, and the rest of the room should ignore me because I’m a spoiled brat who’s barely out of diapers.
I’m spitting my reply when Rivers closes his fingers over my shoulder.
Maybe he’s trying to push me aside so he can forcibly shut Uncle Aran’s mouth. He’s probably just trying to get my attention. He doesn’t mean to brush against the petals of my bustier’s leather rose.
But Patrick snarls, leaping to his feet like he’s ready to rip out Rivers’ throat with his teeth. That puts Angus and Rivers’ Unknown Soldier on their feet.
Patrick’s left all three of his guns—the Glock, the Magnum, and the little Ruger we took from Kevin Joyce—back home, in deference to the Union captains. He looks angry enough, though, to kill with his bare hands.
I clear my throat to get his attention, but that doesn’t do the trick. He’s breathing through his teeth, short sharp pants. I didn’t see him take his meds this morning. Maybe he did, and the extra tension of wondering if Rivers received our information is what’s pushing him over the edge.
Whatever the cause, Patrick is dangerously close to snapping, the way he was on the golf course. I’m pretty sure I can break his murderous concentration if I say his name out loud. But I don’t want to sound like I’m calling my dog to heel. I don’t want to break him in front of all these men.
And that assumes I can still reach him, that he’d obey.
“Shut it!” The command comes from Braiden.
Braiden Kelly has the power to shut Patrick down. They have years of working together, decades of mutual respect. Braiden’s command pierces the scuffle like an icepick.
“Today isn’t about Boston,” he says. He looks from Uncle Aran to Rivers to me. “We aren’t here to decide which of you has the better claim. That’s a question for your own clan to debate, for your own men to manage. But none of us leave this room until we’ve decided on a general. So each of you state your choice. Boston’s vote is the majority, between the three of you.”
What the fuck is he doing?
I already cast Boston’s vote. I already gave him my support. Why the hell is he undermining my position?
But the answer comes to me before I can glare my fury. Braiden truly doesn’t give a fuck about the Old Colony Crew today. He doesn’t know that Patrick and I sent secret evidence to Rivers. He hasn’t heard about Uncle Aran’s betrayal. He doesn’t even care if I become the Boston captain.
He just wants to be general. And he thinks he’ll get one step closer to that by diluting my vote.
Reardon finally agrees to accept a three-way Boston ballot. Uncle Aran wastes no time proving he’s not beholden to me. He cast his vote: “Reardon.”
Rivers cold blue eyes narrow. I can’t tell if he’s weighing an attack on me, an evaluation of my traitorous uncle, or the matter actually in front of him—choosing the Union’s general.
I can’t breathe. I can’t turn to Patrick. I can’t do anything but wait, hoping, praying that I’ll be able to parse whatever he says next. Rivers’ vote is like a clump of tea leaves spread across a cup, and I’m the witch trying to read the future.
“I vote for Reardon too,” he finally says.
So he’s siding with Uncle Aran, against me. Is he ignoring all the evidence we sent? Refusing to believe it? Has he even read it at all?
But everyone else in the room is playing a different game—the Grand Irish Union game—so I force myself to shrug. I pretend I planned to side with Chicago all along. “Boston votes for Reardon, then,” I say.
The voting proceeds around the table. San Francisco votes for Reardon, and of course Reardon votes for himself. New Orleans and Baltimore go for Braiden. He casts his own vote, so they’re tied, three-three.
Connor Boyle, New York’s captain, is a giant of a man. He takes his time, looking first at Reardon, then at Braiden. And then he says, “I vote for Kelly.”
Just like that, Braiden Kelly is the next general of the Grand Irish Union.
Following tradition, he pours a toast for each of us from a bottle of Jameson that was twenty-two years old when my da was sworn in. Samantha carries the glasses around.
I take one, as do Uncle Aran and Rivers. Patrick follows suit, and Angus and the Unknown Soldier. We wait until Samantha raises her own glass, until she calls out, “To Braiden Kelly, general of the Grand Irish Union!”
I make my answer, loud and clear: “To Kelly!” The whiskey is smooth, coating my throat with a complicated blend of oak and chocolate and just a hint of dried winter apples.
Uncle Aran pushes forward, making sure he’s the first of us from Boston to shake our new general’s hand. He acts like he’s forgotten that he cast his vote for Reardon; he’s bent on wiping clean the slate and starting new.
He makes a point of recognizing Samantha, too, touching his glass to hers. He’s building bridges, forging allies against the storm for control of the Crew.
For now, I hold back. Braiden knows he had my support. Samantha saw my bid to set things straight after the differences we had in Philadelphia. There’ll be time enough for me to speak after the visiting captains have had their say.
Patrick moves forward to shake his former boss’s hand. There’s a moment between them. A silence. A wait.
But then Braiden takes Patrick’s offered grip. He does more than that, he pulls his former Warlord in for a quick one-armed embrace. They both step back, and they turn to me at the same time. Braiden raises his glass. Patrick meets my gaze.
I lift my own glass, high enough that my stays dig into my sides. I consider calling for limericks, but this isn’t the time or the place.
The sworn captains will gather with their new general this evening. They’ll crack the seal on a new bottle of well-aged Jameson. There will be secret oaths, ones I’ve never heard before, but I understand they’re made on blood and fire.
Down the road, I’ll swear to my general. After Uncle Aran’s dead. After the Old Colony Crew makes me its Queen.
Braiden’s taken away by someone else offering congratulations. Patrick starts to make his way across the room, to me.
Uncle Aran’s still lingering among the others. He doesn’t understand his place in this crowd. He doesn’t know he’s about to be destroyed.
I look around the room for Rivers.
He’s nowhere to be found.