9. Elio
Elio
C urse, Enzo, and I all ride together. Curse drives, Enzo is in the back, and I sit in the passenger seat, idly running the edge of the sealed paper back and forth over my lips. It starts snowing as we wind through Toronto’s streets, the sky looking as opaque as grey cotton.
One of Darragh’s main meeting spots is the Briar and Boar pub.
It’s in the heart of Darragh’s territory, and I keep my eyes focused outside the bullet-proof windows for signs of problems to come.
But I don’t see any yet. Just legit citizens going about their daily lives, walking down slippery sidewalks and shovelling shop entrances, oblivious to the parallel universe of mob shit happening right on top of them.
For the briefest flicker of a moment, I wonder what it’s like to be them.
To have your biggest problem be something like, I don’t even know, paying your rent on time or something.
It always seemed kind of dull. Safer, maybe, but boring as hell.
Then I wonder what would have happened if I’d met Deirdre some other way.
If I was just a normal dude who saw her walking down the street one day.
If I hadn’t heard her play in that first moment, would I have even looked at her twice?
See, this is why I don’t engage in what if?
scenarios. They’re pointless and they make you feel weird shit.
What if Mamma was still alive? What if we’d never left Sicily?
What if Uncle Vinny got killed when Curse and I were kids and our family just imploded instead of rising to power the way we have?
What if Deirdre was under Darragh’s control even now, abandoned by her father, trapped somewhere on the other side of the city, and I didn’t even know about it? Or care?
Shit’s enough to turn a man inside fucking out.
I almost crush the paper in my fist and force myself to relax.
Lowering the paper into my lap, I run my thumb over the hardened seal. All those other scenarios don’t matter. Every single thing that’s happened in my life, both the garbage things and the good ones, have led me to Deirdre and that’s what I hold onto now.
“We’re here.”
Briar and Boar is situated on a fairly narrow one-way side street occupied by big, old brick houses.
I know every house and building on this whole street is owned by Darragh and his men.
As far as I know, most of them are used for housing, either for Darragh’s crew or maybe being rented out to regular folks.
The only business on this snowy, tree-lined street is Briar and Boar , marked by a big green sign with gold lettering and an image of a boar with a rose in its mouth.
Curse parallel parks in one of the few spots left on the street, just outside the pub, and we all get out.
I ignore the city parking metre, but Curse silently slips some coins into it.
He’s got a much more meticulous and dutiful sort of personality than I do, and I don’t bother saying anything to him about it.
At least, not until Enzo starts in on him about how there’s an app for that now and you can just pay online.
“Are you two fucking for real? The ins and outs of the Toronto parking situation is not why we are here,” I snap.
“Sorry, Boss,” Enzo says quickly. “Just trying to be efficient. I just figured we don’t need bylaw crawling up our asses when we’re trying to get some real shit done.”
“Tell me how opening a fucking app and then putting all your credit card info in is more efficient than shoving a coin into a slot?” I ask him. “And tell me exactly which bylaw officer is going to be brave enough or paid enough or dumb enough to come anywhere near my fucking ass?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”
Enzo and Curse fall into step, flanking me as we head to the big, heavy wooden door.
I pull it open one-handed, keeping my paper safe in my other hand.
Enzo catches the edge of the door from behind me, holding it open so Curse and I can go through before letting it fall closed with a gentle, wooden thud behind him.
I’ve never been to Dublin, but I imagine this must be at least what some of the places there look like.
The floor, tables, and chairs are made of dark wood, the cushions and benches a rich, forest green.
Warm golden light pours over the shiny surface of the bar, illuminating countless taps and bottles in front of an exposed brick wall.
Between the bar and the bricks stands a young woman, her black hair tied in a tight bun on top of her head.
Her back is to us as she polishes a glass, but even from behind I recognize her instantly as Deirdre’s friend Willow Callahan.
I’ve seen them together before, back when I watched my Songbird from the shadows.
There are pictures of them online together too.
Willow is the much more social media-active of the two of them, posting photos both of Deirdre and herself, but since I took Deirdre Willow’s accounts have gone radio silent.
The pub has only just opened and we’re the only ones here with Willow. She doesn’t turn to look at us but she must hear us come in, because she calls out, “Sit anywhere!”
“We’re not here to eat,” I reply. “We’re here to see Darragh.”
She tenses, then turns, a questioning look on her face.
When she sees us, sees me , her expression turns to one of shock. Maybe even a little fear. The glass slips from her hands and shatters.
She stares, just for a moment, with her mouth hanging open.
Then her green eyes flash with something that looks a hell of a lot like anger.
She slams her mouth shut and barrels out from behind the bar at frankly impressive speed, and I wonder if this is who Darragh’s got on security now, because it looks like she plans on tackling me.
Curse instantly steps between us. Willow’s all of about five-foot-two, but she could have a knife or something on her, and those green eyes tell me she means business.
If she has a weapon beside the rage sparking in that gaze, she never gets to use it.
A man comes out from what I assume must be the kitchen area, his eyes huge before he lopes across the pub to grab Willow by both arms, restraining her from behind.
I recognize the man too, from a social media post Willow made last year on his birthday.
He’s her father, Paddy Callahan. The post had included a picture of him blowing out the candles on a cake, and I’d only really stopped to look at the image because Deirdre had been in the background, a smiling smudge surrounded by a halo of orange.
Willow tugs against her papà’s hold, staring past Curse and directly at me.
“Where’s Deirdre?” she demands, practically spitting. “Is she still at your place? Is she safe?”
Her papà goes so red with rage I think his head is about to explode from his daughter’s audacity.
“Shut yer mouth, Willow,” he hisses. “My apologies, gents.”
“No apology required,” I say smoothly, honestly kind of amused by this whole thing. A smirk tugs at one side of my mouth, and I’m already savouring what I’m about to say next. “It’s only polite, after all, to enquire about a man’s fiancée.”
Willow’s so startled by that last word that all the fight drains out of her for a second. She pales, then goes slack and still in Paddy’s hold.
“Fi… fiancée?!” she echoes.
But then she’s back at it with twice the energy, pulling against Paddy’s arms and swearing.
But her papà has got at least eighty pounds on her.
He’s got a big gut but also big fucking shoulders and he tilts them, dragging Willow backwards towards the room he first emerged from a minute ago.
It’s one of those swinging doors, so he just ploughs back-first through it, yanking his daughter along with him until they’re out of sight.
But not out of earshot. I can hear them through the door. Paddy’s Irish accent gets thick in his fury.
“Question Elio Titone in this feckin’ pub? Are ye completely mad, ye eejit? Or just daft? Darragh will have yer empty head if one of the Titones don’t blow it clean off yer shoulders first!”
“He’s got my best friend! Did you hear him call her his fiancée?! I need to know what the hell is happening!”
“Ye don’t need to know nothin’! All ye need to do is pack yer feckin’ bags. Ye’re going to stay with my sister just like I knew ye should have when all this shite started with the O’Malleys!”
“Oh, fuck no! You can’t just ship me off to Ireland!”
“I can and I will! And don’t even give me that look, lass, because I’m one feckin’ hair away from sending you to a bloody convent instead of just to stay with yer cousins and aunt Orla! No, not one more word!”
I’m pretty sure Willow does have another word for him, more than one, in fact, and choice ones too, but I stop listening because someone else has entered from another door at the other end of the pub.
He looks like a fucking Viking, a mountain of a man with a close-cropped ginger beard and thick red hair pulled back into a ponytail. A black T-shirt is stretched to its absolute limits across his barrel of a chest, and his trunk-like arms are criss-crossed with tattoos.
“Darragh sends his greetings,” the giant says. “He’s currently engaged downstairs, but will be finished shortly. If you’ll follow me, he will receive you in his office.”
He crosses back to the door he emerged from and yanks it open, revealing a set of stairs going down.
I can practically hear Enzo and Curse running scenarios through their heads.
Neither of them want to get cornered in a basement shootout or some shit like that.
Personally, I don’t really give a fuck. I wonder briefly about fire exits, then stride towards the door, Enzo and Curse pulling up the rear.