Chapter 40
40
brAIDEN
I tell Trap Prince I won’t be coming to his monthly Diamond Ring meeting. He tells me I can go to fucking hell, that I can’t let the jizzstains run my life, and he won’t take no for a motherfucking answer.
He can be persuasive.
Plus, the Diamond Ring meeting is Fight Night. Five matches, from featherweight to heavyweight. Ten rounds a match, all the referees brought in from Vegas. No-limit betting.
The ring is set up beneath a massive tent at the back of the freeport property, down by the river. Rumor has it the platform has been cleared for a helipad; some New York client is throwing around his weight.
Connor Boyle’s the first man I see as I enter the tent. He’s the only Captain I know who’s ever stood up to Kieran Ingram and the Grand Irish Union. He refuses to tithe on income from his Green Energy Systems corporation because it’s a legitimate business that he’s never used for money laundering.
Boyle’s on his best behavior tonight, bringing me a glass of the Teeling Thirty when he gets one for himself. The man’s a feckin’ giant, tall enough and broad enough that he could go more than a few rounds with the professional boxers Prince has brought in.
I gather he went to last month’s Ring event, the first I ever missed. I’ve never seen the northern lights, and it sounds like the display over Reykjavik was one of the best in decades. But I couldn’t head to Iceland, not when my truce with Russo was so new.
I should tell the feckin’ truth.
I didn’t go to Iceland because I couldn’t bear the thought of going through Delaware to get there. I didn’t trust myself to get on Prince’s private plane if Samantha was anywhere near the airfield.
We’ve been apart for five weeks, but it’s still hell being at the freeport. My mind plays tricks, saying I need to head up to the office tower, just to make sure my check cleared for last month’s services. I need to visit my gallery, to see that no one’s broken in and stolen all my valuables. I need…
I need to keep my head in the feckin’ game. Watch some brilliant fighters. Bet enough to keep it interesting. And forget that Samantha’s closer than she’s been in weeks. In thirty-four days, not that I’ll admit to anyone I’m counting that closely.
Gage Rider comes over to shake hands, first with me, then with Boyle. Rider owns solid blocks of downtown Manhattan real estate, along with a Brooklyn sex club, Kynk.
I think about taking Samantha to Kynk. I’d attach a chain to her collar and walk her through the underground rooms. We could play out a scene in public—I could see how she handles a paddle or a cat o’ nine tails. I’m not big on exhibition, but a crowd would test her need for control. My little sub wouldn’t dare top from the bottom there.
Christ. I’m not taking Samantha anywhere anymore. She’s not my pet to test. Not anymore.
I look up to see Sawyer Best watching from the far side of the ring. His eyes are narrowed, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s studying me, or Rider, or Boyle. Best perfected that look of shrewd evaluation owning and managing Sawgrass Corporation, his own private army.
I’ve never hired Sawgrass men. I don’t have a problem doing my own wetwork. At least I didn’t, before the Hare burned down. I’m still explaining to the fire marshals why my bar had a room in the basement that resembled a feckin’ dungeon. I haven’t had time to build another one. I haven’t needed one. Yet.
My General laid down the law. I’m not allowed to take out Russo or any of his men. Which doesn’t seem fair, because that Mafia wanker is the sole reason I keep hearing Samantha’s name, keep seeing her picture every round of the news cycle. The media vultures won’t let her story rest.
Yeah. My hands are tied for now.
But no one said anything about outsourcing.
I trust Best knows how to cover his tracks. And a shitehawk like Russo has plenty of enemies; there’d be loads of suspects if he turned up dead.
I’d just have to set an alibi—make sure I’m somewhere public when the hit takes place. Samantha too—she can’t come under suspicion. We could hand out Easter baskets at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Host a fundraising dinner for the Philadelphia Animal Welfare Society. Sponsor a new literacy program at the Free Library of Philadelphia.
Dammit all to hell. Samantha won’t be joining me for any society function. Even if I do pay Best to take out Russo. Even if I pay extra to make it hurt.
Samantha thinks I’m an animal. She doesn’t want a life like mine. She can’t stand the violence—even if I keep her safe forever.
Closing my eyes, I shift my glass of whiskey to my left hand. I pinch my lower lip, waiting for my heart to catch up with my brain.
And when I open my eyes, Samantha’s standing beside Prince, on the far side of the tent. She’s wearing one of her black suits, a white top, practical heels that make sense for the walk from the office tower.
It’s Saturday night, well after eight. She shouldn’t be dressed for the office now. She should be wearing a skirt.
Samantha doesn’t live by my rules any longer.
There are circles under her eyes, and I’m pretty sure this isn’t the first weekend night Samantha’s worked late. She’s lost weight. Her face looks pale, like she hasn’t seen the sun in far too long.
Her lips curl in the professional politeness of a flight attendant. I see her try to hand an over-size envelope to Prince. He shakes his head, clearly reminding her that business is forbidden at Diamond Ring events.
She’s insistent, though. She points at a red stamp on the envelope, something urgent and bold.
I watch Prince scowl at the envelope, or at Samantha, or at any interruption of business when the Diamond Ring is all about play.
I watch Samantha, fiercely determined, because that’s who she is, and that’s how she does her job.
I watch a waiter, gliding toward her with a silver tray of the signature cocktails Prince’s Michelin-starred chef came up with for the night. The waiter stumbles, though, spilling the drinks. He comes up moving faster, more sure.
My legs move before my brain feeds me the information: The waiter is pointing a gun at Samantha.
I’m back in that closet with Sister Mary Margaret. I’m the only one who can stop the bad man. I’m the only one who has the power.
But tonight I’m not a terrified little boy. I don’t freeze. I don’t piss myself in terror.
I tackle the waiter at the knees, crashing us both to the ground. A shot goes off close to my ear, loud enough to make the world go white.
I grab the dry shite’s wrist with both my hands. I crash his arm against the ground, again, again, again. He finally loses his grip and the gun falls away. I have a split second to see its evil eye glaring at us, and then I shove it away.
The gobshite fights as dirty as I do. He knows how to use his knees, and he’s not afraid to bite.
He outweighs me by at least twenty pounds, and his prison tattoos give me an idea of where he learned to grapple. He throws me far enough that he’s able to get to his feet. We circle each other like cats tied together by our tails.
Without warning, he lunges, stiffening his fingers and going straight for my eyes. I just have time to block with a forearm. While he’s staggering for balance, I follow through with an elbow strike to the back of his neck.
I do more damage than I plan, because his legs turn to rubber and he falls hard on his arse. I straddle him before he can recover, smashing my fist into his face. His nose goes first, and then the arch of his right cheekbone. My knuckles split on his teeth, which are immediately filmed with red.
My hands close around his throat. I can press my thumbs into his larynx, strangle him and be done. Or I can pound his head into the ground, hitting heavy and hard. Or I can stop, grab his bollocks, and squeeze with all my strength.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move a muscle.
I broke his spine with that blow to his neck.
His eyes are wild as I grab hold of his ear. “Who sent ya?” I bellow.
His lips clamp shut.
“Eight pounds t’ pull yer ear off. That’s all it takes.” I tug hard to reinforce my point.
“Do it,” he dares me.
So I do.
He’s bleeding like a firehose as I shove the scrap of his ear past his bleeding lips. I force him to swallow. “Who sent ya, shitehawk?”
He’s broken. He’s bleeding. I’m kneeling on his chest, and there isn’t a man in the tent who’s come to take me off him. He glares at me like an eagle being plucked, but he rasps, “The fucking cunt deserves it.”
The gun is just three strides away. The grip is cold in my hand, like it’s been left in a snowbank all winter long. I shove the barrel past his broken teeth, and then I pull the trigger.