Chapter 4
4
brAIDEN
I ’ve kept Kieran Ingram waiting for longer than any sane man would dare. But in for a penny, in for a pound. “This isn’t a good time,” I growl into my phone. But I’m not suicidal. I add his title at the end of my complaint: “Boss.”
“If I waited fer ya t’ tell me when th’ time is good, I’d be a carcass rottin’ underground.” The General of the Grand Irish Union sounds like he’s gearing up to take a hit out on me. Ingram is in charge of Boston’s Mob, but he’s also the head of us all—New York, Philadelphia, Chicago and all the rest.
My wife is freezing her arse off in the garden, singing songs to herself and staring at the sky. The woman I love just traded my bedroom for the feckin’ pool house so she won’t have to put up with the likes of me. The child I’m responsible for is nowhere to be seen, and I can only hope she’s being cared for by the drunk I’ve hired to do the job.
My life’s in the jacks, so it doesn’t seem like much of a risk to say, “I’ll call you from the office tomorrow, Boss. When I can talk freely.”
I don’t bother filling him in on the details—the office I worked out of for years is wrapped up in yellow crime-scene tape, while Philadelphia’s finest drag their feet investigating who burned it to the ground.
I know who torched the Hare and Harp. The same man who stole a quarter of a billion dollars worth of cocaine from me five weeks ago. Antonio Russo. It’s always fucking Russo.
Not that Ingram gives a shite. “Ya’ll talk t’ me now, boyo, or I’ll put someone in Thornfield Hall who understands th’ way things work.”
His threat ends with an explosion of coughing. The gombeen smokes three packs a day, and his lungs have turned to porridge.
Waiting for him to catch his breath, I remind myself that Ingram’s never made an idle threat in his life. When he can breathe and I can talk without a sarcastic sneer, I say, “What can I do for you today, Boss?”
“Fiona’s arrivin’ at noon.”
Fiona. His daughter. Ingram’s used her as a weapon against me before. “Arriving where?” I ask, even though the stone in my belly says I already have my answer.
He ignores my question, as well he should. “Ya’ll show her how ya run things there in Philly.”
Issuing his order triggers another coughing jag. While Ingram hacks up half a lung, I review my sorry options.
I’m a Captain in the Irish Mob. I rule Philadelphia, same as my da did before me, and his da before that. I choose my men, from my Clan Chief to my driver. If I don’t trust someone, he doesn’t sit at my table.
And I don’t trust Fiona Ingram. She’s a schemer, a spy intent on proving herself to her dry shite of a da. Ingram sent her down here a month ago to broker a peace with Russo, and the chaos coming out of that meeting nearly cost me Samantha .
Samantha. The woman I took a bullet for less than twenty-four hours ago. The woman who just moved into my pool house because my life’s a fucking mess.
Kieran’s finally breathing again, so I take the opportunity to bargain for more time. “Noon is too soon,” I say. “I’ve…complications to attend to.”
“Yer whole life is complications, boyo. Let Fiona help with that. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
Not for the wreck of my home life. And I’m not about to open up every corner of my business to Ingram and the Grand Irish Union. I’ll hand things over to Russo first.
So I shoot in the dark. “What does Fiona say about coming down here?”
“She’ll do as she’s told. Always has. Always will.”
Rumor has it that in the past, Fiona’s been told to kill four men. She’s added to the list herself; her total’s closer to seven.
And after Fiona’s explored my Fishtown business inside and out, she won’t hesitate to make it eight. Take over Clan Kelly once and for all. Name herself first woman Captain in Philadelphia’s history, and any of my lieutenants who don’t like it can answer to her and Ingram both.
“Do we have an understandin’ boyo?”
“Yeah,” I lie. I understand. I just have no intention of obeying. I can’t keep Fiona out of Thornfield, but I don’t have to give her a glimpse of my business operations.
“What’s that?” he presses.
“Yes, Boss.”
“Treat Herself proper,” he says. “Like ya’d treat me, if I came down there.”
He makes me scrape and bow a few more times before he ends the call.
Miracle of miracles, Birte is still sitting in her chair. Keeping an eye on her, I jam my finger, placing a call on my phone.
“Mr. Braiden,” Grace answers on the fourth ring. She slurs my name. It’s not yet noon, and she’s drunk .
“Who do you think was standing in my fucking dining room this morning?”
She figures it out faster than I thought she would. “Not Miss Birte!”
“One and the same.”
Her excuses pile up, half in English, half in Irish, all soaked in the stolen whiskey she keeps hidden in a hip flask.
“The last time Birte got out, she set my office door on fire. You’re lucky she didn’t burn the house down today.”
“Mr. Braiden,” Grace starts again. “I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. You know I love that girl like she’s my own. I prom?—”
I cut her off mid-word. “Come up to the house. Bring Aiofe with you. One more slip, and I send you back to Dublin.”
“But Miss Birte?—”
“She’ll learn to live without you if you so much as drop a saucer.”
Fairfax is next. It’s his day off, but I’ve called him back to the house on plenty of Sundays before. As I expect, he answers on the first ring. “Sir?”
“Going forward, the door to the third floor will remain unlocked.”
“Sir,” he says, and I can’t tell if he approves or not.
“And Birte will join us for meals.”
“Sir,” he says again, and if he thinks Birte can’t handle the stress, he’s smart enough not to voice his concerns out loud.
“Also,” I say. “As of this morning, Samantha has decided to move into the pool house.”
“Th— the pool house, sir?” In any other man, that stammer would be a fierce outcry, accompanied by enough curse words to singe the sky. I’m certain I’ve never before knocked Fairfax so far off-balance.
“I want her belongings moved from my bedroom by three,” I say. “She’ll need a bed out there. By tonight.”
“Very good, sir,” he says, as if I haven’t demanded the impossible. “Do you want appliances installed as well? At present, there’s a mini-fridge and a microwave.”
“No.”
I’ll give her the distance she demands. She can take some time to come around. But my house rules aren’t as easy to get around as she thinks. She’ll eat breakfast beside me here in the dining room and dinner too—every feckin’ day.
Still, I’m not a total monster—multiple marriages to the contrary. “Have a coffee maker installed. And lay in a supply of the Jamaica Blue she likes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And one more thing. We have a new houseguest arriving today—Fiona Ingram. I suspect she’ll stay for several weeks.”
The long pause is the most eloquent protest I’ve ever heard Fairfax make. He’s worked for me, and for my father before me, long enough to know the Ingram name. He’s heard all the rumors, and I’m sure he has his own share of facts.
But he finally says, “And where will Miss Fiona be staying?” Another pause, but he maintains his professionalism by adding, “Sir.”
“In one of the guest rooms.” And then, as if it’s an afterthought, I add, “Not the one Samantha used.” Before she moved into my room. Before she became mine.
“Very good, sir.”
I thank him and end the call.
My fingers go to the fresh bandage I wrapped around my forearm when I woke this morning. That was when I thought the worst part of my day would be managing a seeping wound, reminder of a wayward bullet meant to take Samantha.
I trace the outline of an older wound beneath the gauze, a scar I’ve carried since I was six. A madman trapped me in a closet then, murdering seventeen of my classmates and five innocent nuns. I’ve long grown used to the acid burn deep in my ruined skin, to the bitter taste of failure. I should have stopped the killer. Twenty-two tombstones measure how I failed .
I stop myself from scratching as Aiofe and Grace appear in the garden, rounding the corner of the pool house. When Aiofe catches sight of Birte, she flies across the lawn, her small features lighting with joy. Grace plods along after, her plain face tugged into sullen lines.
Before I can see how Birte responds to the attention, my phone rings again. It’s a blocked number, one I’d ignore if this were a day my life wasn’t falling apart. Instead, I answer: “Kelly.”
“Tell your guard to let me past the gate.”
“Fiona.” She’s hours early, which can’t be a mistake.
“ Boss ,” she prompts me.
“I’ll not call you Boss in my own home.”
“You’ll give me the honor I’m due.”
“Your da’s my General, and I call him Boss. You only get the title when you act in his stead.”
“I always?—”
I make a point of cutting her off. “You’re here to learn, your da said. Lesson one. I make the rules at Thornfield.” I tap my phone, opening the front gate. “Come on up to the schoolhouse, Fiona. Make yourself at home.”