Chapter 32
Sean
Ciara has placed the ball in my court. My survival instinct is to call Connor or Liam to take care of it, like they always do, but this isn’t about a few grand lost playing cards. The stakes are higher, and there is no chance in hell I’m leaving it to my family to protect my wife.
That is my fucking job.
“Drive to The Liberties,” I say, the plan forming in my mind with a clarity that usually only comes after three shots of whisky. But this time, it’s cold, hard, and sober. “Specifically, to Paddy ‘The Rat’s’ pawn shop.”
Ciara glances at me, eyebrows raised. “We’re going shopping for stolen jewelry?”
“No. We’re going to find out who holds the paper on O’Sullivan.
” I shift in the seat, the leather of the sedan cracking under my weight.
“If Ryan is desperate enough to kill me for a dowry, he’s not paying his bills.
Guys that are desperate like him don’t owe the bank; they owe the streets.
They owe the bookies, the fixers, and the loan sharks who don’t care about a last name. ”
“You think this Paddy knows who holds the debt?”
“Paddy knows everything. He’s the sewer grate of Dublin; all the shit eventually flows past him.
” I look at her and fall even harder. She’s trusting me to lead, and the weight of it feels better than any high I’ve ever chased.
“I spent ten years in the gutter, Ciara. My father and yours, they sit in their ivory towers. They don’t see the rot at the foundation until the house collapses.
But I do. I know the rot because I lived in it. ”
She nods, sharp and decisive, spinning the wheel to change direction. “Then let’s go dig up some rot.”
“If we can get proof of his debts—markers, IOUs, overdue notices from the underground—we don’t need bullets, and we sure as shit don’t need our dads,” I continue, a savage grin spreading across my face. “We hand that proof to the families. They’ll eat him alive.”
“Death by bureaucracy,” she muses, a vicious glint in her green eyes. “I like it. Slower than a bullet, more painful and humiliating.”
The Liberties greets us like a slap in the face with a wet rag—gray, gritty, and smelling of hops and hopelessness.
It’s familiar territory, though usually, I’m stumbling through these streets with my vision swimming.
Today, the sharp edges of the red brick buildings cut through the gloom with high-definition clarity.
Ciara pulls the sedan up to the curb two doors down from a shop with a faded yellow sign that reads Paddy’s Exchange.
The windows are barred, and the display is filled with items that scream broken dreams: engagement rings pawned for rent, tools stolen from job sites, and musical instruments that will never be played again.
“Stay close,” I murmur, checking the Glock tucked into the back of my pants as we get out. “Paddy isn’t dangerous, but the people he deals with are.”
She gives me a look as she slams the door shut. She adjusts her t-shirt, concealing her weapon, looking entirely out of place and yet terrifyingly comfortable amidst the grime.
I push open the door, a little brass bell announcing our arrival.
The air inside is thick with dust and the sour tang of old tobacco.
Paddy sits behind a glass counter that’s bulletproofed from the old days and smeared with grease, counting a stack of crinkled notes.
He looks up, his beady eyes narrowing behind thick spectacles as they land on me.
“Sean O’Neill,” he croaks, sweeping the cash into a drawer with a practiced swipe. “I heard you were dead. Or drunk. Or both.”
“Disappointed?” I ask, stepping up to the glass. Ciara is a tiny, silent, lethal shadow at my shoulder.
“Depends,” Paddy grins, revealing a mouth full of gold and rot. “Are you buying, selling, or looking for trouble?”
“I’m looking for dirt, Paddy. I know you’re holding the shovel.”
Paddy chuckles, a sound that scrapes against my nerves like a rusted blade.
“Dirt is expensive, Sean. Especially when it involves names that can get a man killed in his sleep.” He eyes Ciara with a lecherous curiosity that makes my trigger finger itch violently.
“And who’s the lovely lady? Another debt collector come to break my thumbs? ”
“My wife,” I growl, placing my hands flat on the scratched glass, leaning in until I occupy his entire field of vision. “And she has significantly less patience than I do.”
Ciara shifts slightly, letting the hem of her oversized t-shirt ride up just enough to reveal the grip of her gun tucked into her waistband.
Paddy’s eyes flicker to the illegal as shit weapon, then back to my face.
The amusement drains from his expression, replaced by the calculating look of a rat cornered in a trap. Good.
“I want Ryan O’Sullivan,” I state, cutting straight through the bullshit. “I know he’s bleeding cash. I know he’s desperate enough to put a hit on me to secure funds by swooping in on my wife. I want to know who holds the leash.”
Paddy hesitates, his tongue darting out to wet his cracked lips. “O’Sullivan? That’s heavy, Sean. He’s old guard. He’s got friends.”
“He’s a broke old man trying to start a war to pay his heating bill,” I counter, my voice low and lethal.
“If he goes down, anyone holding his markers gets nothing. You help me, and I ensure the sharks get fed before the ship sinks. Or, you can protect him, and I’ll tell Connor you were conspiring against the O’Neills.
You know my father doesn’t ask questions first.”
It’s a bluff, mostly, but Paddy pales. In this city, the only thing scarier than a broke O’Sullivan is an angry Connor O’Neill.
“Bratva.” Paddy gives up the goods with a whisper.
I rear back slightly. “Russians? Since when?”
Ciara and I exchange a glance. This is also the first time she has heard this.
“Since recent. Don’t know the exacts. Not my scene.”
“Fuck,” I mutter. “And their first order of business when snaking into an Irish city run by Irish born and bred, is to lend money to O’Sullivan. Can you say brass balls?”
Paddy shrugs.
“Are you sure about this?” Ciara asks, skeptically. “There has been no word of Bratva moving into Dublin.”
“They don’t exactly take out ads in the paper,” Paddy snaps at her, though he shrinks back when I drum my fingers on the glass. “They move in the quiet. Loans first. Prostitution. Hard drugs. O’Sullivan took the bait because he was drowning, and now they own his arse.”
It makes sick sense. If Ryan is in bed with the Russians, he’s not just a broke rival; he’s a traitor to the Irish families. That’s a death sentence Connor won’t hesitate to sign, and Donal O’Byrne will likely sharpen the pen for him, along with Landry and the Kellys.
“I need proof. This is about my head on a fucking pike. I need a name, a location, or a copy of the marker.”
“You’re asking to get me killed,” he wheezes, wiping sweat from his upper lip with a shaking hand.
“I’m giving you a chance to pick the winning side,” I counter, my voice dropping to that low register that usually precedes violence as the pieces off the board fall into place. “If the Bratva take over O’Sullivan’s territory, you’re just another loose end to them.”
Paddy looks between me and Ciara’s steady hand near her waistband. He curses under his breath. “There’s a bookie in O’Sullivan territory, Lamberts. Rumblings are, he is placing bets for O’Sullivan on the ponies. That’s all I’ve got.”
“How deep?”
“Seven figures.”
“Fuck.” He’s trying to win back a million euros and probably getting in even deeper.
No wonder he is after my head. War with Connor is worth risking to get his hands on Ciara’s money, plus a negotiation of territory.
If the Russians are looking to take over pieces of the Dublin pie and are using O’Sullivan to do that, O’Sullivan needs to regroup and fucking fast. “This goes a lot deeper than the hit on my head,” I add to Ciara as I rap on the glass screen in thanks, and we leave with a lot more haste than when we strolled in.
This is a ticking time bomb. Ryan was expecting Ciara and my dead body over an hour ago. He will escalate. Fast and nasty.
“He won’t hurt you,” I say to her more for my benefit than hers. “He needs you.”
“No, he needs money. I was the easy way out. Shit has hit the fan, and I’m expendable now as well.”
“Still not calling our dads.”
She smirks. “So what’s the plan, Captain? Go to the Russians?”
“Hell, no! They will annihilate us on sight. We’ve got fuck all to give them. They are a secondary issue. We deal with Ryan.”
“How? By telling everyone he is in bed with the Bratva? That involves telling Connor and Donal and the rest.”
“We tell them,” I say, grabbing the key from her and opening the passenger door for her to get in.
I round the shitbox and get in the driver’s side, shoving the key into the ignition and praying the engine turns over one more time.
“But not like children running home because they scraped a knee. We go to them with the head of the snake on a platter from a position of power.”
The engine sputters to life. I check the mirrors—still clear, but for how long?
“Paddy’s word is worth shit in a sit-down,” I continue, merging back into the chaotic flow of Dublin traffic. “Connor will squeeze him, and Paddy will say whatever keeps his teeth in his head. We need the paper trail. We need the ledger.”
“So we hit Lamberts.”
“If O’Sullivan is down seven figures, Lamberts is holding the markers.
You can bet the Russians aren’t letting any winnings slide back to Ryan.
We get that book, we have proof O’Sullivan is selling out his part of Dublin to the Russians.
” My grip tightens on the wheel until the fake leather groans.
“Then we hand it over. It won’t just be a hit; it’ll be an execution sanctioned by every family in Ireland. ”
“A bookie joint in hostile territory,” she muses, a dark, dangerous smile curving her lips that makes my cock twitch despite the danger. “Just the two of us against an army of leg-breakers.”
“You scared, wife?”
“Terrified,” she says, though her eyes are burning with a reckless fire that matches my own. “Tell me again why the easy way out is not an option.”
“If we tell Connor and Donal that Ryan has a hit out on me because he wants you, we will be locked down, and I’m not prepared to start married life in my father’s compound with guards breathing down our necks while we dodge disappointed glares constantly, while the families hash it out.
A straight-up betrayal of Ireland by handing it to the Russians is a whole other fucking ball game that involves every single crime family, every single two-bit crew, every single street gang trying to claw a piece of the pie.
It’s bigger than us, and we are the ones bringing it to the table. Make sense?”
“Yes,” she says. “So let’s go get that power.”