Chapter 10
10
brAIDEN
T uesday morning, Fiona steps in front of the Jeep as I take the wide turn from the garage toward Thornfield’s front gate. She has a greater confidence in mechanical braking than I have, or maybe she trusts her father will string me up by my thumbs if I don’t stop in time.
Climbing in on the passenger side, she asks, “Where to?”
“ You’re going back to the house. I’m making the milk run.”
“Your Fairfax doesn’t keep your pantry stocked?”
I can’t tell if she’s yanking my chain, or if she really doesn’t understand. “I make the round for collections once a month. Keep my eye on the business. Make sure no one forgets me.”
She gives me a crafty side-eye. “No one’s forgetting you anytime soon.”
She might be flirting under orders from her da, or maybe she’s really interested in having a go. But I’ve already got two women wearing my wedding bands, and I’m not looking to add another. “Go on then,” I tell her. “Back in the house. ”
“I’m coming with you.”
I tighten my hands on the wheel. She’s wearing black leather pants and a matching corset laced up the front. Her stiletto heels look like they’ve dug into more than one man’s dangling bits. I can’t see where she’d hide a riding crop, but it’s all she needs to complete her little dominatrix outfit.
“Not dressed like that, you aren’t.”
I know it’s the wrong thing to say the instant the words are out of my mouth. So I’m not surprised when she curves her scarlet-painted lips and says, “Fuck that,” she says. “You’re not my da.”
If she were Samantha, I’d turn her over my knee.
If she were Samantha, I’d punish her for weeks, just for showing off her wares like that.
If she were Samantha, I’d never be having this conversation.
But she’s not Samantha. She’s a business associate, with hopes of learning from me about how I manage my billion-dollar cartel. And she’s making me late for a whole round of meetings.
“I’m not your da,” I agree. “But I’m responsible for keeping you safe as long as you’re in Philly. Change your clothes or stay at Thornfield.”
She considers fighting back, but it seems that Fiona Ingram is ultimately a practical businesswoman. She opens the car door and slips off the seat.
“I’m leaving in five,” I warn.
She replies with a single jutting finger.
I lean back while I wait, banging my head against the padded headrest.
Fiona Ingram is feckin’ trouble, with a capital, hand-lettered F. My goal is to show her how boring life is in Philadelphia. There’s nothing for her to learn about my operation. She might as well go home and pester her da for a role in Boston.
The sooner I can convince her of that, the better. The trick will be getting Ingram to accept her return without starting a war.
Another war.
Russo’s already chewing away at my right side. I can’t afford to have the Grand Irish Union go after my left. Because Ingram’s exactly the type of spiteful shitehawk to have a go at me, if he thinks I’ve insulted his daughter.
Fiona’s got one thing going for her—she’s a quick dresser. She’s back in the Jeep in little more than a minute. She didn’t bother swapping out those leather fuck-me pants. But she’s put on a sapphire-colored jacket that covers her from chin to thigh. It’s got five buttons and every one of them is done up. And it isn’t even leather.
It’s cut tight enough that I can guess her feckin’ bra size, but I’ll count this one as a win.
“Tame enough for you, old man?”
I don’t take the bait. Instead, I put the Jeep in gear and head toward Fishtown.
But her taunt sticks with me, as I merge into the fast lane on 30. I’m only thirty-five. Hardly ready for a walker and adult diapers.
“How old are you, then?” I ask, like I haven’t been brooding for the past five minutes.
“Twenty-four.” She sounds defensive.
Younger than I thought. But I ask, “Why hasn’t your da married you off by now?”
“He’s tried.”
We cover a few miles, but she doesn’t share any details. I’m not opposed to digging. “Kieran Ingram’s Captain of the Boston Mob,” I say, like it’s news to her. “General of the GIU. I’d expect him to have some strong feelings about your future.”
“What’s that street sign say?” She points to a black and white shield ten yards down the road.
“Highway 30?”
“ U.S. Highway 30,” she corrects. “We’re not in the old country. Da can’t tie me up and drop me on the steps of some church and expect the priest to look the other way.”
She’s wrong. Ingram could do exactly that. Money talks. And Mob money has a louder voice than just about anyone else’s.
I should know. That’s how I got my ring on Samantha’s finger.
But there’s no reason not to humor Fiona for now. “What are you holding out for then?”
She spares a sly smile. “True love and ten dozen long-stem red roses.”
“I didn’t count you as a woman to sell yourself cheap.”
“Have you checked the price of flowers lately?”
“There’s that,” I say, as if I’m agreeing. I have no idea what roses cost, any more than I can quote the price for a gallon of milk. I sent three dozen roses to Samantha her first day back at work after our honeymoon. Sounds like I should have quadrupled the order.
We get to my first stop—a basement gambling den on Wildey—and I park in front of a fire hydrant. Most of the ticket writers know my Jeep by sight. If someone makes a mistake, well, that’s why I fund City Council campaigns. I know plenty of people who can make a fine disappear.
“Watch,” I say as we head down the steps. “Don’t talk.”
I’ll give Fiona credit. She’s quiet as my shadow, standing back and letting me take care of business. Mikey’s worked with me for donkey’s years now. “If it isn’t Himself,” he says, handing over the envelope that’s waiting on the corner of his desk.
“Feels a bit light,” I say.
Mikey looks like a Bassett hound caught in a rain storm. His jowls slosh as he shakes his head. “Business has been off all month. Some of it’s Lent, good Irish lads passing up the cards.”
“And the rest of it?”
He sighs. “This war you’re in with the goombahs. No one wants to get caught in the crossfire. ”
“We’re in a truce now, Mikey. Have been for a month and a half.”
“The boys who come here want to gamble on a royal flush. Not on how long those guinea shitehawks will honor a feckin’ truce.”
Money’s getting tight. Russo drove off with two hundred and fifty million dollars of my cocaine. I’m looking for a new place to rebuild the Hare. I’ve got a constant stream of payments, getting city officials to look the other way, and business has been lighter than usual at Kelly Construction.
But Mikey isn’t responsible for any of that. I slip his envelope into my breast pocket. “Pleasure doing business with you,” I say.
Fiona waits till we’re back in the car to speak. “You don’t worry he’s skimming?”
“Mikey’s brother was a runner for me, years back. Till he decided it was easier to snitch to the feds than face a heroin rap. He ended up in the Schuylkill with a rat in his mouth.” I tap the envelope through my jacket. “Mikey knows the cost if he skims.”
I skip my other gambling spot, and the after-hours bars too. No reason to serve up my entire list to Fiona on a silver platter.
We hit a couple of restaurants, spread out over a dozen blocks. By the time we get to McKinley’s, word’s got out. Everyone knows the boss is making today’s run. I’d rather catch them unawares, but I’ll settle for seeing them on their best behavior.
I save the girls for last. Part of me is hoping Fiona’ll get bored, that she’ll decide to take an Uber back to Thornfield. Not feckin’ likely.
At this hour, the working girls are still asleep. Mimi’s nursing a coffee that looks like it’s half Bailey’s. It smells like pure booze.
“Your cast is off,” I say, as she raises her mug in greeting. One of Russo’s thugs broke her arm before our peace talks at the Rittenhouse.
“Good as new,” she says, opening and closing her fist. I paid for her to see one of the best orthopedists in the city. And I picked up her tab for a week in Atlantic City when she was too sore to work. “Here you go,” she says, handing over her envelope.
“Good week,” I say, because Lent doesn’t seem to have made a dent in the whorehouse business.
“Spring break. God bless the frat boys of St. Peter’s University.” She makes a half-hearted sign of the cross before she nods toward Fiona. “Who’s your lady friend?”
“Just a visitor from out of town.”
“Showing her all the top tourist sites, eh?”
“The Chamber of Commerce says I’m a model citizen.”
When we get back to the car, I decide to skip the strip club. Madden can pick up Jacko’s envelope later, along with all the other stops I’ve driven past.
We’re back on 30 when Fiona says, “So I’m your dirty little secret?”
I wondered how she’d take my keeping her name out of it. “No reason to paint it on the city walls—Kieran Ingram’s got my bollocks in a vise.”
“You think that’s what’s going on here?”
“It isn’t?”
“If Da wanted to dig in his claws, you’d be talking to his Warlord, not to me.”
“Sending his chief enforcer might make too loud a statement.”
She cocks her head to one side. I don’t know how she gauges it, but a shaft of sunlight falls straight on her slick red lips. “I can be plenty loud.”
With that tone, she intends her words to go straight to my cock. She wants me to shift in discomfort or—better yet—come back with a promise of all the ways I’ll make her scream.
I’ve been talking dirty since she was eight years old, and I always deliver on my promises. But I won’t be playing her game today .
“Your da’s using you,” I say.
“My da trusts me to build his empire.”
“By spreading your legs for the likes of me?”
She flushes so hard her cheeks match her lips. I don’t think she knows the meaning of the word shame, so I’m guessing that’s anger I see. “By serving as his Clan Chief. I’ll be in charge of Boston one day.”
“Not unless you grow a prick down there. How long did he give you to land in my bed?”
“Jesus, you’re an asshole. I just thought the two of us might have some fun.”
“Your type of fun leaves a man looking for a new line of work.”
“I’ll need a Clan Chief once I’m in charge.”
I suspect she doesn’t mean me to laugh. And I’m not sure the harsh bark that squeezes out of my chest even counts as amusement. So I make my voice deadly serious to avoid any misunderstanding. “I won’t be anyone’s second in command.”
“You go on telling yourself that,” she says.
She reaches out and slaps down the sun visor. Neither of us says another word until we’re back at Thornfield. I work the security at the gate, masking a wince as my bandaged arm stretches for the biometric reader. I start the long drive up to the house.
“Let me know when you’re ready to head back to Boston,” I say.
“I don’t need your permission to travel.”
“No. But you need my permission to stay.”
I wait for her to call me on the lie. If I bundle her home, Ingram’ll have something to say about it.
Instead, she says, “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“You have an odd way of showing that.”
“I’m here to learn,” she says. “I want to see how you run things. ”
“You go on telling yourself that,” I say, matching her tone from earlier.
She squares her shoulders. “So you’re afraid of showing me how the Fishtown Boys work?”
“I just took you on the milk run.”
She purses her lips, puffing out a sigh of dismissal. “You let me see your marks. Some of them. Not even half, I’m guessing. I want to see your men. That is, if you aren’t afraid to show me.”
“Nothing about you frightens me, Fiona.”
“I’ve killed four men.”
“Closer to seven from what I’ve heard.”
She doesn’t like that. Some of her kills leave her ashamed. That’s good leverage to have. I need more details.
But she isn’t through yet. “If you’re not afraid, Kelly, then let me meet your Council.”
“I’ve nothing to hide. You can meet every one of my made men.”
“Fine,” she says, those feckin’ lips curling into a smile.
“Fine,” I repeat.
And that’s how I end up telling Fairfax we’re having two dozen for dinner on Friday night.