Chapter 11
11
brAIDEN
I lost control. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d slept last night. If I hadn’t spent hours driving between three bombed-out clubs. If I wasn’t spending every waking second figuring out how to cut off Russo’s bollocks and feed him his own prick.
The right thing to do was shrug when Samantha asked about the door. I should have told her I keep supplies in the attic. Christmas decorations. Empty boxes from every computer I’ve ever owned.
Now, I’ve needed to train one of Declan’s tiny spy cameras on the door across the hall so the motion-activated footage will go straight to my phone.
Fuck.
Eoghan is waiting with the Bentley. “Where to, Captain?” he asks, same as every morning.
“Let’s start at the Hare,” I say.
We catch the tail end of morning rush hour, so I have plenty of time to think about how I’m a feckin’ fool.
Samantha is curious about Aiofe. What woman wouldn’t be? At least the girl won’t spoil anything, telling tales out of school. This is the first time I’ve ever been grateful for her silence. Selective mutism, the doctors say.
Grace on the other hand… Well, the woman’s never said a single unnecessary word to me. I assume she’ll be as close-mouthed with Samantha.
I’d be happy to send Grace back to Dublin tomorrow. But Aiofe’s bad enough when the woman’s gone for a week at Christmas and a week in July. The child would go on a full-blown hunger strike if I took away her nurse forever.
Not to mention the chaos in the rest of the house.
Fairfax would miss gossiping with Grace in the kitchen. And I’m not eejit enough to upset Fairfax. Not when he’s the one keeping Thornfield Hall on the rails.
Eoghan pulls up in front of the Hare and Harp and asks, “Want me to wait around the corner?”
“No. I’ll call you if I’m going out. Otherwise, I’ll head home at five.”
This hour of the morning, the bar is locked up tight. I let myself in and breathe the smell of spilled beer and old leather. It’s too early for a scoop, so I head back to my office. I know the hallway well enough I don’t have to turn on the lights.
First things first. I call my man at Pennsylvania Hospital to get an update on the four girls who were taken in yesterday. One is already out; she’s heading home to San Antonio. I make a note to send her a severance package—a stack of unmarked hundred-dollar bills to tide her over till she makes a better choice of career.
Two other girls are likely getting out today. The fourth one is the kicker—in a medically induced coma, third-degree burns on more than half her body. I don’t say it would be a mercy for her to slip away, but I think it.
As I hang up the phone, my arm starts to itch, deep and vicious, like something evil is chewing its way out from the inside. I swear and tell myself not to scratch the scar, because I know that only makes it worse. Of course, my fingers don’t listen to my brain. I barely stop before I break the skin.
I fucked up.
I spent the past week focused on Samantha. I had my men guarding her, making sure Russo didn’t come close. I concentrated on St. Columba’s, posting lookouts to guarantee the worst the church suffered was a ruined—now replaced—roof. I sent out runners, told the boys to listen for anything to do with Dover, with the freeport, with the Canna family.
But I lost track of the real threat. I didn’t stop the murdering wolf getting at my main flock.
And now I’m scrambling for a battle plan when the war’s already begun.
I call Patrick Moran, my Warlord, my chief enforcer. I call Madden too, telling both men to be here within fifteen minutes. Patrick will make it with a couple of minutes to spare. Madden will walk in at the last possible second.
My brother is three months older than I am. He would have been Captain himself, if Da had put a ring on his mam’s finger before he started diddling her after hours, behind the scarred bar out front. When we were kids, Madden held a grudge, but he hasn’t stepped out of line for a couple of years now. Not since I broke his nose in a bare-knuckles boxing match, a week before I made his Clan Chief job official.
Madden has our da’s long reach, and his temper too. I got the dark hair and blue eyes, but Madden favors his mother, with brown hair to match his eyes. No one will be confusing us in a dark alley.
By the time both men are here, I’m studying an old-fashioned paper street map of East Falls. It’s easier to see the lay of the land this way, spread out over my desk instead of crowded onto a computer screen.
The three of us spend the morning debating where to hit back—how many targets, how many men. I want to pave everything east of the Schuylkill River, but Madden tells me I’m over-reacting. I make him think about his choice of words, but in the end, he’s right.
We settle on three targets—two guinea massage parlors and a strip club. I think about what Samantha said, about how it’s not fair to kill Russo’s slags. She’s wrong—she doesn’t understand how men play this game.
But there is something Russo loves more than his whores.
“What about that garage?” I ask Madden.
“What garage?”
“The one out in Wyndmoor. Where Russo keeps his cars.”
Patrick says, “Where the fuck?”
I snap my fingers, trying to remember the details. “Eoghan tried to hire a mechanic from there. Paid him double to break his contract, but the bellend went back after a month.”
Patrick calls my driver while Madden leans back in his chair. “So, you’ll burn out yer man’s toys,” he says.
“Every fucking one.”
“Seems like a waste of fine automobiles,” Madden says.
“Got it,” Patrick says. He scans the map until he can tap the new location.
But something about Madden’s observation makes me pause. “Russo got a Lamborghini last year,” I say. “That red Huracán.”
“The one he drove to City Hall. Took the mayor around the block.” Madden snorts in disdain. We agreed at the time that nothing good could come from that type of public scrutiny.
“I want it,” I say. “Torch the rest.”
Patrick says, “So do we do this in stages? Girls first, then the cars?”
I shake my head. “Same time. But call in a warning on the girls. Give them five minutes to get out.”
Patrick shoots me a look, like I’ve gone soft. But he knows better than to say a fucking word.
“Go on, then,” I say to the two of them. “You have till noon tomorrow.”
As I set the deadline, my phone vibrates in my pocket. There’s only one thing set to come in on that pattern—Declan’s spy camera.
Madden and Patrick don’t start complaining until they’re out in the hall, where I can pretend I don’t hear them. I’m not listening for details anyway. I’m too busy staring at the evidence on my screen. Declan’s little camera sends a picture as clear as the lines on my palm.
Samantha.
I sent a man down to Dover to pack up her closet, but he must not have returned yet. She’s wearing the clothes I salvaged from the church basement when I went back for her handbag—trim black jeans, a white jumper, and matching runners.
I watch my wife hesitate outside the forbidden door. This time, there’s no one to stop her when she reaches for the black iron doorknob. But she glances over her shoulder first, like a child raiding a jar for biscuits.
She knows she’s not supposed to be there.
She tries to turn the knob, is stopped by the lock, and tries again, more vigorously. When it doesn’t budge, she kneels down to see what’s what. It must be obvious the lock is modern, much newer than the knob, than the door, than the entire third floor of the house.
She turns her head. Presses her ear to the door. The image is clear enough that I see her catch her breath. I feel her listening.
Lucky for me, she doesn’t hear a thing. She stands and looks over her shoulder again, this time staring straight into my office, into the camera, into my gaze. She wipes her hand on the thigh of her jeans and moves out of range of Declan’s lens.
I tap an icon to save the video before I send a text to Eoghan. He’s at the front door within five minutes. He must see something in my face, because he doesn’t say a word, just raises the privacy screen between us.
I sink into the back seat and pinch my lip between my fingers.
Oh, Samantha. I warned you. Now you’ll have to pay.