Chapter 24
24
brAIDEN
I n the past, when I needed a break from Thornfield, I drove downtown to the Hare and Harp. I drowned my sorrows in a glass of the black stuff. I called my Council to meet in my private office at the back of the pub.
But that isn’t an option today. It hasn’t been for over two months—since Russo burned my bar to the ground.
Time for that to change.
I place three calls as I drive downtown. The first is to Seamus, my Quartermaster. He manages the clan’s finances—dozens of bank accounts spread out across the city, along with the off-shore dealings we need to keep things craic. I tell him to meet me at the corner of Frankford and Master.
My second call is to Patrick, my Warlord, back from Ireland nearly two weeks since he collected the Book of Skreen. Technically, he’s my chief enforcer, in charge of all the muscle the clan can wield. But at forty-eight, he’s my oldest advisor, the one I trust most to tell me when my arse is showing. Plus, he’s lived in Philadelphia for thirty years, and he knows every block of downtown like a priest knows the Bible.
My third call is to Madden. He’s still my Clan Chief, my second-in-command. His driving off with Fiona yesterday didn’t change that, any more than my breaking his jaw did, weeks back.
I’m his Captain. And his brother. We need to talk. Clear the air. Get back to doing what we do best—making money for the Fishtown Boys.
When he doesn’t answer his phone, I leave him a message: “Call me when you get this. I’m settling on a new place for the Hare this morning, and I’d like your input.”
See? I can be perfectly reasonable, when people around me aren’t doing their level best to drive me mad.
Before I can put my phone back in my pocket, it sings out “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” So much for not driving me mad.
“What?” I snap when I answer the call.
“Ya hurt my Fiona’s feelin’s, boyo.”
“She shouldn’t have been surprised. Not if her eyes were open. Not if she paid an ounce of attention, the entire time she was here.”
“Ya have one chance t’ make this right.”
“Don’t bother giving me a deadline, old man. I won’t play your game. I’ve struck out on two wives, and I won’t try a third.”
“Ya seem t’ think I’m askin’.”
“ You seem to think I’m one of your Boston boys, pissing my pants every time you start to roar.”
“They call it a union fer a reason, boyo!”
“Because that’s how they do things over in Dublin. Because that gives you a chance to lord it over the rest of us. Because that’s how you make your fucking money, tapping your Captains to pay up their tithes, like scared little boys topping off the collection plate. I’m not scared, Ingram. I’m not little. And by Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m not a boy.”
He starts coughing when I’m only halfway through, and he hasn’t caught his breath by the time I get to the end. I could wait for his threats, for his telling me to watch my back, for his twin demands of obedience and tribute.
But nothing he can say will make me take back my words. I’m tired of bending a knee to an old man whose days are numbered. So I tap the call done before he splutters another word, and head off to my meeting in Fishtown.
I get there first. There’s a coffee shop on the corner, and they’re doing good business, which would ordinarily please me, because what’s good for the neighborhood is good for the Boys.
But every time someone opens the shop door, the smell of coffee wafts to where I’m waiting. Of course, that makes me think of Samantha, and that makes me think of the feckin’ disaster I left at breakfast and that makes me wonder what the hell I’m actually going to do about Birte.
Because Samantha is right: Birte’s getting worse. Maybe she’s overwhelmed by spending time outside of the attic. Maybe Easter was too much for her religious sensibilities. Maybe…
I don’t have a feckin’ clue.
Then call a doctor and get one.
I need Samantha out of my feckin’ head.
My phone rings, and I know the boys would laugh if they saw how fast I take it from my pocket. It’s not Samantha, though.
It’s Liam. And he starts off apologizing, which can’t be good. “I’m sorry, Boss.”
I sigh. “What’s she done now?”
He hesitates a moment, but not too long because he’s one of my best men. “Took her Mercedes,” he says. “I tried to go with her?—”
I interrupt him with a curse. Truth be told, I forgot Samantha’s car was in my feckin’ garage. “Just pull up the tracker. Keep an eye?—”
“There isn’t a tracker, Boss.”
I pinch my lower lip. Of course there isn’t a tracker. When I had the car brought to Thornfield, Samantha and I had already had ructions about my selling off her condo. It wasn’t worth another fifteen rounds over the Mercedes. I figured I’d sell it soon enough, after she had a chance to settle in. No need to add the tracker I put in all my cars.
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, Boss.”
Did she take a suitcase with her? I can’t make myself ask it. Part of me doesn’t want to know.
I force more confidence into my voice than I feel. “Let me know when she’s back.”
“I will, Boss. I’m sorry. I didn’t think she’d go like that. I should have forced her to stop. I should have dived in front of the car. I should have?—”
“We’ll talk after she’s home.”
I end the call while he’s still groveling.
Liam’s sole job was keeping an eye on the woman I call my wife. I want to hang him from the ceiling by his bollocks.
But I want her home more. And if there’s a chance she’ll call him from the road… Better to keep Liam on my side. For now.
Samantha’s been driving herself around for well over a decade. She’s a responsible, capable woman. She keeps her head in challenging situations; she’s a capable enough fighter that she bloodied Madden’s nose.
But she’s never been out in Philadelphia with so many enemies on the streets.
We still don’t know who sent the man—Terrence King—to attack her at the freeport. I’ve done my digging, and Prince has too. Even Best has gotten in on the game. But whoever hired that piece of shite could be planning another attack, this very moment.
Russo’s been quiet since he made out like a king at our Rittenhouse summit, but I don’t trust that peace to last much longer. Once he wakes, he’ll be loud, and if he decides to settle all of this, once and for all…
There’s Ingram, too. I declared open war with him yesterday. This morning’s skirmish only proves I’m not backing down. I assumed getting rid of Fiona would cost me money, maybe even some territory. But if Ingram’s angry enough to hand the Fishtown Boys over to a man of his own choosing, he’ll start by hitting me in my soft bits. And there’s nothing softer than Samantha…
Christ. Even Fiona could work her own scheme. She acted calm yesterday, but my rejection had to sting. She’s a viper in her own right—seven men she’s taken down. If she decides getting at Samantha’s the way to even things up with me…
And there’s Madden. He’s bullin’ at me, but he’s not eejit enough to touch Samantha. Unless Fiona puts him up to it. Unless he’s ready to make a break with the Fishtown Boys… Unless…
He can’t. He won’t. Despite all the shite over the last four months, we’re brothers.
But the Mafia, the GIU, a woman scorned, and an enemy I can’t begin to name? Those are more than enough reasons to get Patrick back on the phone.
“I’m five minutes out, Boss,” he says. “Just parking now.”
“Change of plans. I need four men with me, here in Fishtown. Now.”
“Did someone?—”
“And once I’m home, I want them backing up the guards on the gate. With machine guns. Walking patrols at the fence. Visible.”
He doesn’t waste time arguing. “My best men are on their way. You’re safe until I get there?”
I want to believe I’m over-reacting. I’m putting on a show here in Fishtown and protecting the piece of property I call home because I can’t get a man to Samantha.
But glancing around, I realize that a late-model Ford has been idling in the loading zone across the street since before Liam called. And a man hurrying down the sidewalk—shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets—is heading on a straight line to me. And that woman going into the coffee shop could be reaching for anything in her ragged, stained backpack.
My scarred forearm burns, and I’m back in the closet, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for a storm of bullets to tear me apart. I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to be brave. But I’m six years old and I’m pissing my pants as Sister Mary Margaret dies.
The car pulls away. The man veers into a drug store. The woman comes up with a wallet, even more worn than her pack.
Patrick’s still on the line, professional enough to have kept his silence while he waited. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.” But I add, “Hurry.”
Patrick arrives in under two minutes. He’s got one hand tucked into his jacket; fingers on the Glock he keeps in a shoulder holster. “Boss,” he says, his eyes sweeping the street with steady concentration.
Seamus saunters over five minutes later. It only takes him a moment to pick up on Patrick’s tension. He studies the rooflines above us like he’s thinking about funding an award for urban architecture.
“Forget about walking Fishtown today,” I tell them. “But I want a list of possible properties for a new Hare and Harp on my desk by Friday.”
I give them my specifics—square footage, ideal location, a basement I can outfit the way I need. Chances are, the place will already be occupied, but Seamus is an expert at manufacturing financial incentives. And Patrick can pick up the slack if anyone makes the mistake of being unreasonable.
Patrick’s men show up as I finish outlining my expectations. All four enforcers are big enough to offer intimidation just on sight. Two have shoulder holsters. Another has a pistol in the small of his back. The fourth looks like he’s got a gun strapped to his ankle—not my choice, but it’s a free world.
If they’re Patrick’s best, they’ve also got weapons I can’t clock, which is fine with me. They’ll pick up machine guns from the stash at the house.
One of the men climbs in the Aston Martin with me. The others go with Patrick and Seamus. Opening the throttle once I’m back on the freeway, I call Fairfax, and he says the house is quiet.
Thornfield is safe.
Birte and Aiofe are safe.
But Samantha… I call her, and I’m not surprised when I drop into her voicemail. I try her work phone, too. Voicemail, again. I try her landline in Dover, which is ridiculous, because she hasn’t had time to get there, even if that’s her destination. When Mary answers, I ask her to have Samantha call. I say it’s urgent.
After that, I have to wait.
I pick up my speed—not because I think that will get Samantha home faster, but because that requires a faster reaction time. My brain has to focus on something other than all the possible threats to my wife’s safety.
It works.
By the time I weave through the reporters and sign-carrying eejits at Thornfield’s front gate, my mind is calm. I’ve left behind that feeling of helpless urgency. I’m back to being a Captain, to making the hard decisions no one else can make.
It’s not until I sit behind my office desk that I realize Madden never returned my call.