Chapter 10
10
brAIDEN
S aturday morning, I pull into the Dover airfield, driving straight to a private hangar at the far end of the compound. My Jeep looks like a second-class citizen among the luxury vehicles of the other members of the Diamond Ring, but the freeport’s other billionaires don’t seem to notice.
After years of working with Trap Prince, I know better than to shake his hand. He’ll do it; he’s not a feckin’ animal. But after, he always looks like he’s plunged his fingers into a bowl of raw tripe. So we settle for friendly nods, and he gestures for me to climb the steps into his private jet.
Half the Ring is already on board. We’ve all followed the dress code on the invitation that arrived by email—collared shirt, no jeans, no shorts. Arsene Dubois has a smear of sunscreen on his nose, but no one else has mentioned it, so I keep my gob shut.
“Anyone know where we’re going?” Carl Braxton asks, barely looking up from his phone. I wonder if he’s closing some illegal arms deal even as we wait on the tarmac. He has customers in every time zone on the planet.
“I tried to hack the flight plan, but I couldn’t get in,” Cole Wolf says.
“That’s a first.” Gage Rider is sipping a Bloody Mary that looks to be nine parts vodka.
Wolf shrugs. “I’m the one who upgraded Prince’s system. I should have left a back door.”
I’m willing to bet he’s done just that; he’s only playing hard-to-get because he wants to be one of the guys.
Steve Torrington flashes a smile that’s served the insurance executive well for a lifetime. “You’re going about this all wrong, boys. Just offer the pilot a good enough tip, and you’ll get our destination in no time.”
“Try that with my pilot,” Trap Prince says from the door. “And you’ll find out what it’s like to fly in the motherfucking cargo hold.”
We laugh, because Prince pretends it’s a joke. But no one tries to storm the cockpit with bribes. Instead, we take our seats when the pretty flight attendant asks us to. We put on our seatbelts like we’re all proper choir boys.
I find myself next to Sawyer Best, which suits me fine. The man knows the value of silence—he built his career as a military interrogator—but he’s happy to talk shop if anyone has questions about how to run a private army.
I’m not looking for soldiers. But Best has other skills I might need. I wait until he puts down his glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. It’s early in the day for the twenty-year-old bourbon he prefers.
As we reach cruising altitude, I ask, “You do consulting work on physical security, don’t you?” The Diamond Ring is all about cutting through unnecessary shite.
“What do you have in mind?” The man is locked up tighter than a bank vault. Which is excellent for my purposes.
“I’m thinking of buying a house. Something near Philly, for my family. Temporary, for a year or two.”
“New construction?”
“If you tell me that’s better.”
“New homes already have networks built in, for surveillance, for computer security. They’ve all got windows like department stores on Fifth Avenue, but you can replace those with bulletproof glass.”
“And old homes?”
“Some of them are built like forts. They’re more likely to have property, a place where you can build a proper gatehouse, install perimeter protection, that sort of thing. Of course, some of them are money pits that can’t anchor a deadbolt.”
“I’ll probably go new. I’m moving fast.”
“Sam wants out of the Rittenhouse?”
Of course he knows Samantha. She’s his lawyer too, at least for all his freeport deals. But I still have to fight the urge to shove his juice glass down his feckin’ throat at his presuming to know what Samantha wants.
Instead, I shrug, as if my promise to leave the hotel isn’t important. “She wants bigger closets.”
Best gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy my lie for a second. But he says, “I’ve got a man. He can look over any place you’re thinking about buying, give you a run down on the security pros and cons. He can supervise whatever work you decide to put into the place.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
We spend the rest of the flight talking about meaningless shite—hockey playoffs where his Washington Capitals annihilated my Philadelphia Flyers, the Fed’s idiotic waffling on interest rates, Elon’s latest rocket to blow up on the launch pad. We’re just two billionaires enjoying a day off, and neither one of us has ever dreamed of breaking a law in our lives.
I’ve kept an eye on the window the whole time we’ve been in the air. We’ve traveled south from Dover, with the sun on our left. Two hours after take-off, we’re touching down at a tiny airstrip—there isn’t even a control tower. A sign on the one building in sight announces we’ve arrived at Daniel Field.
Six luxury town cars wait by the runway, trunks open. We approach like kids on Christmas morning. I’m not surprised that Gage Rider finds his prize first.
The former hockey player whoops as he lifts a leather bag out of the trunk. It looks heavy, which makes sense, because it holds fourteen golf clubs along with—as Rider quickly displays—balls, tees, gloves, towels, and a miniature first aid kit.
“Gentlemen,” Trap Prince says, with a gloating smile. “Welcome to Augusta National.”
He deserves the gloat. The club is famously closed to the public. The Masters was played here just weeks ago, every blade of grass manicured to perfection for the days-long televised orgy. There are just three hundred members, and they’re only allowed on the course from October to May. Each member is allowed to invite four friends for a single round of golf each year.
There are twelve of us in the Diamond Ring. That means Prince found three Augusta members to invite us in as guests. Bought three members, more likely.
By the time we arrive at the first tee, boasting is in high gear. I’ve spent some time on golf courses—more, before I took over the Fishtown Boys from Da. But my fourteen handicap is nothing compared to Rider’s four.
Prince divides us into foursomes and reminds us we’re responsible for making good on our own bets. Dubois immediately starts in with his group, calling for Dots, his betting game of choice. He sounds like an eejit, going on about barkies and pinnies and poleys.
Cole Wolf looks at Torrington, Weber, and me and suggests, “Hundred grand a hole?” We shake on it, and Weber tees off.
Torrington takes the first hole. Wolf and Weber tie the second, carrying over the bet. A gust of wind makes me lucky on the third.
I wait until we’re walking to the fourth tee before I ask Wolf, “Say you were wiring a new house to block electronic surveillance.”
“New to you? Or new construction?”
I’ve learned my lesson from Best. “Both.”
Wolf nods. He’s not big on wasting words.
I’ve been a lot more concerned about the feds getting into my business than I have been about other crime bosses hacking their way in. But by the ninth hole, Wolf has convinced me I’ve been looking at it all wrong. Criminals like me are always a concern.
“So, how many guys like you are out there?” I ask Wolf. “Who else would Russo hire?”
“There’s no one like me,” Wolf says, as we watch Torrington drop one onto the green. “But three, maybe four pretend to do what I can.”
“You’ve got a man? Someone in Philly who can do the work once I’ve found a place?”
Wolf shakes his head. “I don’t play well with others. You hire Wolf Hall, you hire me.”
He’ll cost a fortune. And Declan, my clan’s long-time computer expert, won’t be thrilled. But it’ll be worth it, if I’m certain the new place is secure. We shake on it and Wolf steps up to the tee.
Prince knew what he was doing, dividing us into groups of four by nearly equal skill. We trade off holes on the back nine. I manage to birdie fifteen, but I’m out three hundred grand at the end of the day.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t think twice about the loss. But as they say, one hundred grand here, one hundred there, soon we’re talking about real money. I tell myself it’s only cash flow. I’ve still got a grip on my finances.
Prince picks up the first round of drinks in the clubhouse. I take my time, working my way across the room to where Connor Boyle is watching the other members of the Ring. He holds his massive shoulders perfectly still. Only his eyes move, as if he’s weighing danger.
I touch my Jameson to his Guinness. “Good day on the links?”
“Dubois’s a right eejit, when it comes to betting.”
Boyle’s accent is thicker than mine. I don’t know the full story, but his da kept him in the kennel for years, a rank enforcer instead of on his clan’s council, where his last name should have put him. He’s got scars on his knuckles to prove he did his job, and rumor says he still carries his butterfly knife, pistol, and garrote wherever he goes.
He became king of New York around the same time I took over Philly, but we’ve never been exactly friends. Not enemies either—Boyle keeps his own counsel.
But I ask him: “What do you hear from Boston?”
He shrugs, a mountain threatening a landslide. “There’ve been ructions since Ingram’s girl got home.”
“Who’s been fighting?” I want to know if his sources match mine.
Another shift of those shoulders. “Rumor says the girl’s staking a claim. Her uncle too, her da’s Clan Chief. And Ingram’s Warlord’s weighing in.”
“Jaysus.” I hear myself slip into his brogue.
He pins me with a flat gaze. “I expect your Warlord’s told you the same.”
Fair play to him. He knows Patrick is at Fiona’s side.
In reality, my so-called Warlord has only texted a couple of times. Herself’s still rough, Patrick says. Ring if I need him home. He can be at my side in hours.
On the homefront, Rory O’Hare is working his old boss out of a job. And keeping a man up in Boston means I’ll know if—when?—Ingram’s crew remember they want my blood. So I haven’t ordered Patrick home. Yet.
I salute Boyle with my glass, twitching my lips like I don’t care what happens north of the New Jersey state line. “Boston’s far from Philadelphia,” I say.
Boyle nods, as if those words are profound. “Far from New York, too.”
As long as we’re still talking, I give another push. “But the Union covers all.”
By tradition, a new general is only named one hundred days after the death of an old one. That’s over three months for a questing man to gather votes. No one has yet knocked on my door for support. But Boyle says, “I hear Reardon’s getting restless.”
“Out in Chicago? I’d expect him to let the First Four handle this.”
Chicago’s a wean, compared to the East Coast dynasties—Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore. The Union general has always come from one of the old families.
“Boston’s a holy show right now,” Boyle says. “I’m still proving a second son can do the job. You’ve got that goombah prick breathin’ up yer arsehole, so you don’t have a chance in hell. Reardon must think he has a chance against Baltimore. New Orleans and San Francisco will fall in line.”
It’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard Boyle make.
And it’s the first I’ve heard that I don’t have a chance in hell.
Until this moment, I can honestly say I haven’t thought once about taking a run at General. Between Thornfield burning, Madden dying, and Russo plotting… Boyle’s right. I’ve a lot on my plate.
But as the silence stretches out between us, I let myself imagine life without a general grabbing ten percent of everything I earn. How it would feel to be my own man, free and clear at the top of the Union…
And suddenly the idea of bending a knee to Mickey Reardon makes my Jameson taste like piss.
If Boyle’s realized I’m thinking too much, he doesn’t give a sign. Instead, he looks across the clubhouse, where Prince is calling us all over to the bar. We cross the room together.
Prince has prizes for the day’s outing. Rider lodged the lowest score, no surprise. Best told the filthiest story on the back nine. Torrington landed the most business. Everyone laughs, and the winners stand us another few rounds.
Now that I’ve thought about trying for General, I can’t stop tallying my chances. Sure, money’s tight right now. But the Fishtown Boys are more profitable today than they were when I took over from Da. The other clans’ll see the value in that. Or they will, once my cash flow is adjusted.
The best thing I could do to raise my chances? Get rid of Antonio Fucking Russo for good. Destroy Philadelphia’s Mafia once and for all. The Union couldn’t ignore that.
And while I’m at it, I can cure cancer. And generate world peace. After all, I’ve got almost three months before the captains vote.
I’m not going to reach a decision about running today. So I might as well relax and enjoy the top shelf booze. I just played the most exclusive golf course in the world. Samantha’s waiting for me at home. I’m certain she’s fretting that I’ll never put her back in her collar, which limits my options for tonight but will pay off well down the road.
I’m good at playing the long game. Always have been. So I order another whiskey. And I laugh at someone’s bad joke. And I tell myself Boyle’s flat-out wrong when he says I don’t have a chance in hell.