18. Finn
Finn
Best Man Wins
Iwatch her run back to the safety of her car.
Run, Saoirse Byrne, run as if the devil himself snaps at your heels.
What’s that girl like? Coming to dance on my uncle’s grave in the nude. I’m not going to count that wisp of white lace fashioned into a dress as clothing.
Just when I think I’ve got Saoirse all figured out—a serious grown-up, a reluctant wife, a lady who lunches—she knocks the socks off me by turning out to be a total wild woman. Definitely some sort of alluring siren.
Fuck me. If I were seeing her for the first time, I might have my cock out right now, slowly stroking myself off, squirting my spunk on the thick green grass.
She still has the power to surprise me, and it might be a good thing to remember that going forward.
My wish list has shortened slightly with Eamon gone. I have to find out who killed my Da and who set me up to take the fall for Seamus Byrne.
And whose big idea it was to use the information Eamon gave them to separate us.
I’m grinding my teeth just thinking about it. If Saoirse hadn’t danced on Eamon’s grave I would’ve gone to piss on it.
He was like a second father to me all those years, always there with some sound advice and a friendly word. I turned to him to help me when I wanted to see Saoirse again.
And the sound advice he gave me that time around?
“An O’Shea man asking about a Byrne lass is how wars are started, lad.”
Eamon started a war by running to tell the O’Sheas’ two fiercest rivals about their very own star crossed lovers.
Fuck him. And may the horse he rode to hell on fuck him in the arse. He might have started this war, but he’s not around to see how it ends.
I’m walking back to the docks, using my burner to send a group text.
Meeting. Pádraig Callahan’s. 8.
I’m using the old warehouse as a meeting point. The place falls under my control because Connor deliberately set it up like that.
The old man must’ve known he was living on borrowed time the night he sent me away. Without his son to have his back, Connor O’Shea was waiting for the death sentence.
Da deliberately didn’t leave a will. He knew dying intestate would wrap everything up in red tape for years, effectively stopping the Maguire-Byrne expansion while lawyers waited for heirs to step up and make a claim.
Here’s the clever part. The land on which the warehouse stands belonged to Pádraig Callahan, all paid up and legit—and he left it to me in his will. Only the warehouse belonged to Connor.
That’s how a functioning gang operates. The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing, so there’s plausible deniability and separation of information, and shite like that.
There’s got to be a meeting so me and the lads can ratify our terms of service and conditions. How can I punish a man for an infringement if I haven’t laid out what the boundaries are first?
I learned all this from my da when I came back from my fostering. If an O’Shea boy is set to grow up to be a prince and earn his right to be king, he gets fostered far away. I was never given preferential treatment, and nor did I expect it.
Nor do I expect it now.
I worked my way up the ranks, same as everyone else. But nothing can anoint me except by the agreement of my men.
***
I’m addressing Johnny Wilde and Damien Tooley after telling them they’ll be made captains when I’m king.
“For our first night, I want the whiskey to flow enough for five shots. After that, cut them off. Can’t have the lads going back home so drunk they need to hold onto a blade of grass so as not to fall off the face of the earth.”
Our small group chuckles. We’re Irish American. We get it.
Mickey doesn’t want me derailing my training by going on the lash tonight though.
“We can’t take our eye off the ball, son. You hold the pride of South Boston and Brooklyn in your hands.”
I’ll hold the pride of Queens in my hands too, by and by.
“I’ll drink some olive oil before I start drinking. That should be enough to keep a good head on my shoulders.”
I’m slumped in a big armchair, shirtless, with the top button of my jeans undone. I had to wrestle hard with my conscience not to go chasing after Saoirse.
She’s calling out for me, even though she doesn’t know it.
Got to keep my head in the game. I use my fingers to mark off our agenda.
“We need allies. Cops. Unions. Council workers.” I check to see they agree before carrying on. “I want proper working men. No police captains, union bosses, or councilors. Those feckers can go hang.”
Damien lifts his hand halfway up briefly. “If we want to build influence, we’re going to need the high-ups, Finn.”
I better start getting ready for the session. I keep talking while in the walk-in closet trying to find something relatively clean and unwrinkled.
“Sure. But those folk are likely to have been touched by Patrick or Declan. All they’ll do is run over there and give them the news of my return. Bastards like that can’t breathe without wanting to curry favor.”
Coming out with a gray sweater on, I catch my three mates exchanging glances at one another.
“You want to know how we’re going to get their influence? Once we’ve got the workers on our side, we get them to find some dirt on the high-ups. Affairs or bribes. Something embarrassing enough for blackmail.”
Johnny gets a bright idea. “Or we could use their girlfriends and mistresses to stitch them up.”
I point at Johnny and snap my fingers. “Good man yourself! Those are the sorts of ideas I’m looking for.”
No one but a staunch Catholic can understand how important it is to maintain harmony at home. There’s no divorce escape clause, so secrets must be kept.
Mickey thinks aloud. “We shouldn’t lose focus when it comes to our enemies. When they know you’re back in the flesh, it’s going to cause a stir.”
I count it off using my fingers again. “Find allies first, hunt enemies second, in that order. I can promise you this—Maguire’s lot will circle the wagons when they hear my name. They won’t risk coming after me.”
Damien’s a baker. This is all new to him. “Why not?”
I gesture for Johnny to explain.
“They won’t risk coming after Finn, because sooner or later, the boy’s going to be coming after them. Why speed up the inevitable?”
“Will there be war?” Damien wants to know.
I shrug. “There will be death.”
“It’s the same thing at the end of the day.” Mickey might be heading for pensioner status, but he’s got a wise head on his shoulders.
“I’d better be cracking on and drinking that olive oil then, shall I?”
***
It’s eight p.m. The octagon is surrounded by over two hundred men.
The construction is finished and the place looks grand. The floor smells of freshly set concrete. The doors are shut and padlocked from the inside. Guards posted at every corner and roof outside.
I’ve got a lot riding on this. Been building up to this all my life. There are no second chances.
Stepping to stand in the door of the cage, I lift my arms and call for silence.
“What’s the story, lads?” My voice roars above the rumble of voices.
They all turn to look at me, straightening their heads to crane over the heads of others and forming into a crowd.
A few voices shout back cheerily. “Grand.” “Sound.” “Bring out the whiskey.”
They’re not eating out of the palm of my hand yet, but they will as soon as I begin.
“Lads, I look around, and there aren’t many of us left.”
I pause so they can nod and agree. Jumping down from the octagon, I use my height to stand with them as I pace.
“The old men are dead. The soldiers—good strong men who gave their lives to our cause—were forced to bend the knee to feed their families.” I jump back onto the cage door steps. “Sons grew up with my name used as a fecking cautionary tale.”
A lone voice cries out from the back of the crowd. “An t-anam!”
Cheers, claps, and feet stamping greet my cage fighting name. Finally, they get to put a face and a story to the fighter they once placed bets on.
I punch my fist against the palm of my hand.
“We will hide in the shadows no more! Our labor must profit ourselves before anyone else. And those feckers with their Maybachs and mansions? They will learn the hard way not to feck with the working man!”
The room sounds like a storm is erupting. But I’m not done.
“With Ireland and these great United States running through our blood, sweat, and smiles—and I say that because we’re done fecking crying tears—” more cheers. “The rich feckers will crawl to the negotiating table by the time we’re finished with them. Yeah?!”
A man downs his Guinness and steps forward.
“Your family was as fond of the wealth and glory as the Byrnes and the Maguires, Finn. No offense.”
I nod. “Sure, and when I get a family, I’ll put them first. Until then, every man in this room who fights with me gets his fair share… Because he’s fecking family!”
The man isn’t swayed by the cheering around him. “I’ll fight you for it, Finn O’Shea. Winner takes all.”
The fella’s got about twenty or so buddies to support him. All I do is step aside and invite him into the octagon.
I pull the gray sweater over my head and remove the belt running through the loops of my jeans. Leaning against the fencing, I kick off my socks and boots.
I start sizing up my opponent the moment he steps inside and the cage door closes behind him.
We’re evenly matched, but my belly was lined with olive oil before the drinking started.
I got this.
He does that thing with his fists and feet as he tries getting a bead on me, washing the windows with his right and then left hand, bouncing from one leg and onto the other. I keep low, bending my legs slightly into a semi-crouch, hands hanging by my side.
Unskilled opponents always read that like I’m going to come in low and aim for the legs. So when he comes in sideways, he’s expecting me to try scissor kick his feet out.
I straighten fast and jerk forward with a jump. The arch of my brow connects with his skull. Head butt.
He goes down. Like someone just cut the strings holding him upright.
I’ll have a bruise on my forehead tomorrow, but that’s it.
I wait for Mickey to unlock the cage before helping the lad to his feet.
“What’s your name? I want you to come and train with me.”
He nods and staggers. “Iain Farrell.”
I lift his arm. “Give it up for Iain, lads! He got in the ring with an t-anam and lived to tell the tale!”
We hug it out. Iain bows his head and kneels. The crowd goes mad. I need to imprint this moment in their hearts.
This is what the men have missed. A show of strength and to be on the winning side for once.
“This is what makes us powerful. Not wealth or status, but strength. And our fighting spirit.”
Johnny must’ve taken bets on the fight, because he’s in the corner paying out. Those who are here will go home to tell the story about the boy from Boston who fights like a berserk Irish wolfhound.
Mickey hands me a towel. “Soldiers are going to flock to us now, Finn.”
I wipe my face and wince when the rough cotton rubs the blooming bruise on my forehead.
“Tell them I’ll pay for information that will help me take down our enemies.”
“Declan Maguire and Patrick Byrne?”
“Yeah. But I want information about Saoirse Byrne most of all.”
“So you can fight with her?” Mickey looks confused.
My grin is back. “I don’t want to fight Saoirse. I want to fuck her.”
I need to fuck her. I think she’s in danger of forgetting who came first.
The next time she dances naked, it will be for me.