Chapter 31
31
brAIDEN
W hen Trap announced he was taking us to the Miami Grand Prix, I prepped for the outing. I added Formula 1 analyses to my breakfast reading. I studied the drivers, the pit crews, the team leaders. I planned my bets.
Sure, Russo would be there, but I could handle that.
We’ve been jockeying for position the past few weeks. It’s mostly penny-ante shite, boosts that are more annoyance than anything else. I muscle in on his contracts for summer landscaping around the city, scaring off his men and replacing them with my own. He returns the favor, carjacking half a dozen vehicles in Fishtown, terrifying the ordinary men and women in my territory.
So, I knew Russo and I wouldn’t be shaking hands in Miami. But with eleven other blokes in the room, I figured we could keep from murdering each other. Probably.
But then Trap said Samantha was coming along.
I won’t be in the same room with her and Russo. Not when that goombah gobshite will do everything in his power to yank my chain.
Not when Samantha wears his brand.
So I cancel at the last minute. And I place an idiot bet on my own, putting a hundred grand on one of the Mercedes drivers, because that’s the car Samantha left at Thornfield.
I choose wrong. The Mercedes eejit leaves the track in a tight hairpin and loses a costly seven seconds, only to return with dirt on his wheels. He boxes late and picks up a ten-second penalty for leaving the pit too close to another car. His entire race strategy ends up banjaxed. His soft tires can’t hold up, and he needs a second pit stop seven laps before the end.
He comes in dead last. So much for my hundred grand.
On Monday, I send Liam Murphy over to Thornfield with instructions to sell the Mercedes. He protests, exactly the way I know he will. He offers to drive the car down to Dover. He has the feckin’ nerve to say Samantha’s name out loud.
I give him a choice. Sell the car or hand in his Fishtown ring.
He sells the car. But he tells me I need to forge Samantha’s name on the registration. He flat out refuses to do it on his own.
I sign, and I put the money into an account for Aiofe.
When Liam’s still sulking a week later, I wake him at midnight and tell him to bring me Madden’s McLaren. I don’t need it. But Liam has to remember I’m his fucking Captain.
He calls me Boss as he hands over the key fob. But he leaves the car parked under the oak tree at the edge of the drive. When I come down to breakfast, a flock of crows has had at it. The roof is coated in shite.
I wash it down myself, because no one’s supposed to think about Madden. When I’m done, I move it to the side of the house and cover it with a tarp. And I try to come up with the next degrading task to put Liam Murphy back in his proper place.