Chapter 37
37
brAIDEN
P atrick and Seamus have arrived in record time. Soldiers are still trickling in—four of them standing watchfully in the corner of my office, another eight on their way.
Ingram’s men will come looking for vengeance, ready to hit me hard. The most logical place to start is Fishtown, the heart of my life in this city. Every place on the milk run is vulnerable.
My lieutenants study an old-fashioned paper map spread on my desk. Patrick’s second-in-command, Rory O’Hare, double-checks boundaries on his phone. They’re breaking down streets into manageable plots, assigning sections of my territory to the waiting enforcers.
“That won’t work,” Rory points out, stabbing the map with a crooked index finger. “There’s six blocks exposed, with Mimi in the middle. The girls will be one of their first targets.”
Patrick swears and tugs the paper closer to the edge of my desk.
I’m about to weigh in when my phone rings. One glance at the screen, and my heart tumbles into triple-time. I’m being haunted by a ghost.
But I didn’t read quickly enough. The phone doesn’t say Ingram, Kieran , and the ringtone isn’t “Sunday, Bloody Sunday”.
It’s Ingram, Fiona.
Not a hell of a lot better.
But the girl’s just lost her da, and my ignoring her will only make things worse. And maybe, just maybe, she’s calling to make peace before I’m forced to go to war with the Boston clan.
Yeah. And leprechauns hand out gold at the end of the rainbow.
I cross to the curtained window and tap the screen. “Fiona.” I do my level best to scrub emotion from my voice.
“Your brother’s a fucking bastard.”
Christ. It’s taken something as disastrous as Ingram’s death to make me put Madden’s treachery on the back burner. Glancing over my shoulder at the map, I say, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“He took it all,” she says. I realize her words sound thick. Slurred. Like she’s talking through swollen lips and a broken nose.
“Took what?”
“The milk run.”
“The money you two stole from me?”
“He beat me up,” she says, like that’s a reasonable apology.
My brother’s always been a shite to women. He started in ninth grade, bragging about Katie Monahan sucking him off beneath the bleachers. Her four brothers beat Madden to a pulp for ruining her reputation and then they turned on me, just for good measure. I’ve refused to get between Madden and his girls ever since—not my circus, not my feckin’ monkeys.
“I’m not your knight in shining armor,” I say.
Her snort sounds painful. “If you don’t kick his ass, my father will. And you’ll end up caught in the middle. Is your piece-of-shit brother worth burning every bridge to the Union? ”
Jesus Christ. She doesn’t know her da is dead.
“Braiden…” Fiona says, and I hear something in her voice I’ve never heard before: Desperation.
My phone vibrates in my hand. I pull it away from my face just long enough to see that a text’s come in. It’s from Fiona.
I tap the screen, and it fills with a photo.
Her lip is split. Her nose is broken. There’s blood on her teeth, her lips, her chin. Her left eye is swelling closed, and a dark bruise blooms on her cheekbone.
“Christ, Fiona,” I finally say.
“Make him pay.”
I will. Because only an animal would do that to a woman.
And also because when Madden was beating the shite out of Fiona, he thought Kieran Ingram was still alive. He had to know the old man would hold me responsible for my brother’s violence. Ingram would make me feel every blow Fiona took.
I’m trying to decide if my brother will ever walk again, when Fiona starts to sob. “Please… Come get me, Braiden.”
I can’t have Fiona Ingram at Thornfield while I’m building a defense against her father’s men. Once she’s back on her feet, she’ll hate herself for making this call, for admitting human weakness. She’ll be a thousand times more dangerous than she’s ever been before.
But for now, her da’s dead. My brother beat her. I’m the one she called.
I swear under my breath, long enough that Patrick, Seamus, and Rory all look up from the map. I shake my head; they can’t fix this problem.
But Patrick can help. He’s been my Warlord for years, managing all my enforcers. His hard work has created the machine we’re about to deploy tonight, the defensive barrier we’re building.
But over the last four months Patrick’s acted more like my Clan Chief than Madden ever did. Patrick is my true second-in-command. I can send him in my stead .
Fiona’s still on the phone, waiting.
“I can’t leave Thornfield,” I say. “But I’ll send my Warlord, Patrick Moran.”
A question peaks Patrick’s eyebrows when he hears his name. His gray eyes look black as he stares across the room. The overhead light glints off the silver in his hair.
It’s a shite job, telling a girl her da has died. But Patrick is calm and level-headed. Even better, he moved to Philadelphia from Boston thirty years ago. He might even have a kind word to say about Ingram, something he can dig up from his past. Or he’ll lie. Whatever’s necessary.
“Please…” Fiona says. “Come get me yourself.” It’s the second time she’s begged, and it’s not a good tone for her.
“Text me your address,” I say. “Patrick’s on his way.”
That’s the only solution I have on offer. And Fiona must hear the resolution in my voice, because she says. “Tell him to hurry.”
I forward the text to Patrick with the flick of a finger. He’s not happy to go. “You need me here, Boss.”
“I need Fiona squared away. And in a manner that won’t egg on her father’s men.”
He wants to argue, but he’s too well-trained to put any more objections into words.
I tell him: “If Madden’s eejit enough to be anywhere near Fiona, you can take care of business. I don’t trust anyone else to handle a Kelly man.”
Patrick nods his understanding. He’s followed his Captains’ orders for decades. Now, he says to his second, “Rory. Keep an eye on the waterfront. Those warehouses will be hell to take back if Ingram’s men get in.”
Rory pulls the map closer. My Warlord claps a hand on his shoulder as he hurries out the door.
I shoulder in beside Rory. Another four soldiers have arrived. They’re standing in the corner, trying to look casual, but the room is growing thick with a toxic mix of testosterone and adrenaline.
Seamus argues for my pilot to be put on call, ready to ferry me up to Boston to launch settlement talks with Ingram’s Warlord before bodies start dropping. Rory takes out his phone and places a call, staring at the map with narrowed eyes. He starts to give out to the person who answers, telling him he should have been here fifteen minutes ago.
I’m studying the warehouse district. Patrick’s right. If Ingram’s men get in there, it’ll be door-to-door combat getting them out. In the past, I’ve seen good men wounded in raids down there. I have to protect my Boys.
All of a sudden, the room falls silent. I figure Patrick must have come back. He forgot something. Or someone’s blocked in his car. I look up, annoyed, because I need Fiona neutralized without delay.
But Patrick isn’t standing in the doorway.
Samantha is.