Chapter 15
15
brAIDEN
M adden strides into my office like he’s the Captain of the Fishtown Boys, flopping onto the sofa against the far wall hard enough to make the oak frame groan. I authorized his credentials for the front gate two and a half years ago, after he swore his personal oath of loyalty to me. Fairfax knows to give him full access to the house, but my brother’s casual disregard for my home makes my fingers tighten on my letter opener.
“Don’t wait for Patrick,” he says. “He’s still handling Commissioner Washington.”
“ You should be handling Washington.” Knocking over three clubs in a morning requires more than a simple phone call to make the police look the other way. A decently stuffed envelope has to change hands, which means a trip to a back alley, or to one of the city parks in the northern suburbs, somewhere no security camera can pick up the transaction.
Madden shrugs. “I knew you’d want a prompt report.”
He’s playing me, same as he did when we were kids. Da would’ve had him on the milk run for a month, picking up protection envelopes as a reminder not to shirk—if Madden could even walk after Da ran his head into the door a time or three.
But I’m not Da. And Madden’s not my son. He’s my frustratingly talented brother who’s lazy enough to make a three-toed sloth look hyperactive. When Madden puts his mind to a problem, he’s more creative than the rest of my Clan Council combined. As his Captain, it’s my job to keep him properly motivated. So I won’t ride his arse over the police. This time.
“Go on, then,” I say.
“We hit all three targets at ten o’clock sharp.”
“Any problems?”
“None. We didn’t bother making them look like gas-main problems. Not with three simultaneous blasts.”
I wave a hand in agreement. “Anything left standing?”
“The massage parlors both had basements. It was easy enough to place bombs where they could take the whole building down.”
“And the strip club?”
“It was a little trickier. No windows, so it took longer for the fire to catch. Didn’t burn as hot. If Russo had a decent safe in there, he’ll probably be able to get something out of it once the place cools down.”
Not the result I wanted, but probably more than I deserve, given my tight turnaround. “Casualties?” I ask.
Madden looks at me from under his brow, one sigh short of a teenager gasping exasperation with a nagging parent. “I called, like you said. Gave everyone five minutes warning.”
“And?”
“How the fuck do I know? There were girls at all three joints. They came running out in their knickers, titties flying. There was a lot of shouting and hollering, but no one tried to go back in.”
Madden is annoyed, but I don’t actually give a fuck. “Any of our boys picked up?” I ask.
“None.”
He’s pretending to be relaxed on the sofa. His legs stretch forward like he’s sitting in his own parlor, watching telly and having a lash with the boys. His head lolls back. If he were chewing gum, he’d blow a bubble just about now.
Which pretty much gives me the answer to my next question, but I have to ask it anyway. “And the garage?”
“Well, there we had some problems.”
Now it comes together—keeping Patrick away, the drawn-out report, pretending to be casual as he wastes the oxygen in my home. Madden fucked up.
“I want my Lamborghini,” I say, like a fucking car is what matters when I can’t trust my second-in-command.
“Then I hope Father Christmas left you a quarter million dollars.”
“I’ll dock you the quarter mill, wanker.”
“Jaysus!” Madden explodes. “You gave us twenty-four hours to plan the job. Russo’s got those cars locked up tighter than a nun’s chuff. He’s got four layers of electronic locks—finger scans, retina scans, facial recognition, and voice ID—and that’s after you get past the twenty-foot wall, the concertina wire, and the dogs.”
“I’m not looking for excuses,” I say. But I have to admit, I’m impressed. Russo’s protecting those vehicles a hell of a lot better than he watches over the slags making him money on their backs.
“I put Donny in charge,” Madden says. “You know if there was any way, he?—
Before Madden can lie, my phone rings. It’s the encrypted one, the one I use to take calls from my men in the field. Donovan O’Keefe says the screen. One of Patrick’s best enforcers.
“Speak of the devil,” I say to Madden. I hold up a finger, more than happy to make my brother wait while I conduct business. I tap the phone and say, “Donny.”
“I am afraid not.” The voice is gravel and broken tree trunks.
“Russo.”
“There is something you should see.” The phone beeps, and I pull it away from my face to accept a live video feed.
Donny. Lashed to a chair. Hands tied behind his back. His face has been worked over so I’m not sure he can see. The fingers on the one hand I can make out stand at strange angles. He didn’t give up his phone without a fight.
“Go ahead,” says Russo, somewhere off-screen.
A man steps into the frame with a petrol can. He starts splashing clear liquid over Donny, whose shouts are muffled by some sort of gag. As Donny struggles, I realize his mouth is stuffed with an Irish flag, the green, white, and orange splotched with blood.
“Don’t do it, Russo,” I say.
The guy with the petrol steps close enough to pour the last fluid over Donny’s head, focusing on his mouth. Donny’s shouts rise an octave.
“Russo, I swear to God, if you kill that man, we’ll be at war till I put you in the ground.”
Russo laughs. “Do not waste your time with this stronzo. He did not even pick up the tail on his car until my men forced him off the road.”
“We’re even now, you and me. We each took out three joints. You’re ahead of the game. You put four of my girls in the hospital, and one of them’s still there.”
“The only reason we are even ,” Russo says. “Is because you Irish motherfuckers could not figure out how to torch my garage.”
Russo’s man is holding a matchbook. He’s already pulled a match; it’s trapped against the striking pad.
“You want me,” I say. “Not Donovan Fucking O’Keefe.”
“I will get you,” Russo says. “Along with your fucking wife. And when I do, you will be tied up worse than your man here. But I will not bother with a gag, because I want to hear what you say when you watch me fuck Giovanna. And when I am done with her tight little cunt, I will soak another Irish flag in gasoline. I will shove it up her hole, and I will set her on fire. And when she is nothing but a lump of charred fat, you will eat what is left. And then I will finish you off too, carving an inch at a time and shoving it down your screaming Mick throat.”
“You fucking?—”
But I don’t get to say the rest. Russo must signal his man, because the match flares bright on the phone’s small screen.
“Russo!” I shout, but it’s too late. The match arcs through the air. The flames hit the ceiling in whatever slaughterhouse Russo’s using. Donny screams for longer than I thought a man could last.
I watch, because that’s the only way I can acknowledge a brave man’s death. And when the flames start to die down, I say the only benediction I know over the blackened bones: “You’re a dead man, Russo.”
He doesn’t bother responding. He just cuts the connection.
I’m breathing hard enough that the roof of my mouth stings. My hands are clenched into fists I don’t remember making. Madden shifts on the sofa, which is the only thing that reminds me he’s there. He’s a color green no man should ever be.
I cross my office in four long strides.
“Where are you going?” my brother croaks.
“To find my wife.” And once I find her, I’m getting her logged in to the panic room downstairs, so there’s one place on earth I know she can be safe.