Chapter 31
ARE YOU DAFT?
KOEN
Now
The next afternoon, I’m in my office at our main warehouse, discussing with Liam our mess of a situation with the Italians and Russians, when my uncle Conor barges in.
“Tell me you didn’t kill the Italian’s consigliere and set his mansion on fire?”
I look up at my uncle with a straight face. “Okay.” There’s a flash of relief on my uncle’s face as I speak. “I won’t tell you,” I finish, and that relief turns to rage, Conor known for his hot temper.
“Christ above, Koen!” he curses. “I suppose I don’t need to ask if the rumor that your brother married the Russian Pakhan’s daughter in an unauthorized ceremony is true then, too?”
I just shrug, reaching for my glass of whiskey. “Father Lucent officiated.”
He hisses and I hide my smile with my glass.
“You think this won’t start a war?” He’s pacing the room now, hands running anxiously over his balding head.
“The war already started,” I tell him. All we did was make it official.
He lets loose a string of curses and I narrow my gaze at him, not that he notices, too caught up in his own fury.
“Pissing off both the Italians and the Russians in one night? What were you thinking?”
“Technically it was a weekend,” Liam adds, and I watch our uncle struggle to keep his composure. He’s not wrong; we killed Matteo on Friday night, and Aidan and Rory got married earlier today.
Conor Reilly is our mother’s older brother.
Their family had strong ties back to Ireland and he’s been in the game now for decades.
Best known for his ability to fly into a fury at the drop of a hat.
Since my father died, he and my uncle Seamus—on our father’s side—have been acting as pseudo advisors to me.
“And what about your sister? Did you think on how this would affect her?” He frowns down his nose at the two of us.
“Aye, of course I did. Which is why she’s with Alex on her way to one of the safe houses right now.
” I’d sent Reagan, as well as Aidan and his new wife Rory, out of the city for a few days to help the heat die down and give me a chance to sort out this mess so everyone doesn’t end up dead.
It dawns on me that I haven’t checked in on either of them today and I reach for my phone.
Reagan was pissed when I shoved her in a car and sent her away.
By the looks of the unanswered thread of texts, she’s still not talking to me. I pull up Alex’s contact.
“Do you really think you can trust him?”
“Trust whom?” I don’t look up from the screen, typing out a quick message.
“Alexei.”
This has my attention and I glance up, leaning back in my chair, and take my uncle in fully.
“Alex, you mean?” I ask, for clarification. There’s a warning in my tone, asking if he really wants to go down this path with me.
“Are you really asking us that?” Liam fumes from beside me, and I feel the tension in the room pull tight.
As my mother’s brother, he knows as well as anyone that Alexei Ryan was the child of his sister’s best friend.
When his mother died, he came to live with us, and our parents raised him as their own.
And Alex, even though he’s lived with the Bratva the past couple of years after reconnecting with his father, is just as much my blood, as Aidan and Liam are. And he’s just as much a brother to Reagan, too. There’s no doubt in my mind that he would protect her with his life if it came down to it.
Sensing my darkening mood, my uncle holds his hands up innocently. “I know, I know, you grew up with him, I know! But we’ve had a lot of problems lately—” My jaw tightens as I realize where he’s going with this. “—a lot of shipments gone missing or destroyed…”
“It’s not Alex.”
“As the newcomer, I think we have to consider the possibility—”
“It’s NOT Alex.” I slam my fist down on the desk, shaking everything on it, before rising to my full height to stare down at my uncle. “And he’s not a fucking newcomer,” I bite out.
He relents, letting out an exhausted sigh. “Fine. Fine. But if it’s not Alexei, then who? Someone’s running their mouth to the Russians. I can’t prove it yet, but I know it’s them intercepting our cargo.”
I run my hand down my face. “I don’t know.” And while Alex has my full loyalty, Conor isn’t wrong. There’s still a traitor amongst the Irish.
A knock sounds at the door, pulling our attention.
“Am I interrupting something?” Uncle Seamus asks, poking his head in.
No,” Uncle Conor says, waving him in. “Come on in. You ought to hear this too.”
My two uncles couldn’t be more at odds. Conor is huge.
Our height came from our mother’s side clearly, as he’s a bulky six-foot-five.
He’s got wild and unruly red-gold hair and a thick beard that makes him look like he may as well live off in the Irish cliffs.
Seamus, on the other hand, looks like our father.
His graying hair is always slicked back, his suit neat, and he prefers strong-armed negotiations to backdoor alley threats.
Seamus looks between us for a moment, reading the room before entering, and closes the door behind him before helping himself to a glass of whiskey at the cart.
Conor continues, “Like I was saying, cash is low, the territory war in the city is only growing worse, and the men are restless. I don’t think I need to remind you that if you don’t get this shit under control, the clans won’t stand for it.”
“I’m working on it,” I seethe. Turning to pace the space behind my desk, I spy Seamus, out of the corner of my eye, slip a fresh glass of whiskey onto the desktop.
“You have a lot of enemies right now, you might want to consider making a few friends,” Seamus says smoothly, taking a sip from his own glass, watching me with a knowing look in his eyes.
“You already know my opinion on that,” I spit out, not even considering it.
“Aye, I knew your opinion on it when your father was alive and kicking, but—” he lets out a humorless laugh, “—things have changed.”
I glare at him sharply.
Still he presses on. “Alliances are important, but now that your father is dead, it’s even more crucial that you produce an heir.”
I can’t help but scoff, making eye contact with Liam, who sits by silently taking measure of the exchange. “An heir? I’ve been head of the O’Rourke family for six months and already I’m expected to produce an heir?”
“Many say that as the heir, you should have already married in preparation for this.”
I let loose a low growl, reaching for the glass on the desk.
“There’s been talk among the other clan leaders that you’re not ready.”
“Bollocks!” Conor bellows loudly from where he’s still pacing by the door.
I stop my own pacing, turning slowly to face Seamus, and he holds up his hands in defense, as if declaring innocence.
“Hey, hey don’t shoot the messenger. All I’m saying is, getting married and having a baby will show them you’re serious and want to settle down into this new role.
And it’s the perfect opportunity to strengthen ties.
The Quinn girl, for example, would be an excellent choice, and a union that would strengthen the Boston Devil’s ties back to Ireland. ”
“Ah, leave the boy alone, Seamus,” Conor chides, looking appraisingly at me. “Aside from this recent business with the Italians, he’s been doing a fine job, ain’t you “boy?”
I sigh, irritation running through me at being called ‘boy.’ And I run a hand down my face at the emergence of a familiar argument.
It’s not the first time Keira Quinn and I have been pushed together, and while I have no intention of marrying her, I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t at least pretend to think it over.
“I’ll consider it. But for the moment, I think we have more pressing concerns.”
My eyes travel to Seamus. “The Montreal shipment’s gone,” I say flatly. “Two containers. Vanished. Someone’s lining their pockets with our cargo.”
Concern etches at the corner of Seamus’ eyes and he leans forward in his seat. “First I’m hearing of it.”
“Was Alex on that run?” Conor’s mouth twitches up before he hides it with his glass.
Both Liam and I glare at him. “No, he wasn’t. Like I said, I have him guarding Reagan while we sort out all this business with the Russians and Italians.”
Conor mutters a few choice curses under his breath, pacing the back of the room like a caged lion.
“But did Alex know about the run?” Seamus asks, his tone careful.
“Everyone in my inner circle knew—and the guys we had on both the run and the warehouse,” I admit, and Conor slams his glass down on the table before flexing his fists. Not known for his subtlety.
“You need to send a message. Line up every last one of them and take ‘em all out,” Conor seethes. “You want loyalty? You remind ‘em what happens when they cross you.”
If I did that, I would have even more to answer for from the clan chiefs.
Seamus looks at Conor as if he’s gone mad. “Are you daft? Are you trying to get the boy killed?”
Conor blows out a breath, continuing to pace the office like a barely contained storm.
“Someone’s gotta pay. That’s all there is to it.” Seamus turns to face me. “If you let this slide, the men will talk, and the Callahans and Murphys will see you as weak and all hell will break loose.”
Liam rises after quickly checking his watch. “We gotta go,” he says to Conor, striding for the door. “Shipment’s coming in.”
Conor grumbles, following him out, but not before adding his two cents, “Think about what I said, Koen. You’re playing with fire here.” He leaves shaking his head.
I blow out a breath, draining the rest of my whiskey, silence falling over the office until my eyes find Seamus, still sitting in the leather chair across from me.
“Conor Reilly ain’t known for his thinking. You know that, don’t you? Could be costly if you trust him blindly.” Seamus shrugs, sipping from his glass.
I grunt in response, too much on my brain to read too much into it.
“But Reilly’s right about one thing, we need to find the man—or men—responsible for sabotaging our runs. Which clan was in charge of the Montreal run?”
My jaw tenses. “The Reillys,” I admit.
There’s a subtle sharpness in Seamus' eyes when they meet mine. “Perhaps put the Reillys on another run next week, something not terribly valuable, just to see. You know your father had Conor on the shite work ever since your mother left, and ever since he’s been gone, Conor’s been in here every other day, making a fuss about this or that, vying for more responsibility, more control. ”
My eyes narrow at the implications. “What are you saying?”
“I’m a man of detail, Koen.” As if to emphasize his point, he rises out of the armchair, adjusting his impeccably tailored suit, picking a thread of invisible lint off his sleeve.
“I pay attention. And I know you do too. You get that from the O’Rourkes.
You have to watch who you let close. Even friends can make mistakes… or worse.”