Chapter 44
44
brAIDEN
“ R eady?” I ask Samantha, staring hungrily at her reflection in the elevator door at Boston’s Four Seasons hotel.
She’s wearing the suit she wore when she took apart the Delaware Division of Revenue on my behalf. When we rode that elevator eight months ago, it took all my self-control not to wrap my fist around her hair and steal a kiss. I’m minding my manners this morning, too. The meeting we’re about to attend is too important.
But I take a little comfort knowing I’m the only Captain in the Grand Irish Union who spent last night finding five new ways to make his Clan Chief come.
Because Samantha’s my Clan Chief now.
I announced my decision to my Council in a meeting last week. Seamus, of course, already knew Madden was gone. The others understood as soon as I handed around Russo’s papers. They agreed, to a man, that the Thornfield fire was too good a death for Madden. I didn’t bother elaborating on the details of my brother’s death.
Just as I didn’t elaborate—much—on my logic for choosing Samantha to replace him. She’s smart, I told them. She’s fierce. I trust her with my life. I’m the Captain, I said, and she’s my Clan Chief, and anyone who has a problem with that can leave the Fishtown Boys right now.
No one left.
“Let’s go,” Samantha says, meeting my gaze in the elevator door.
I laugh at the vicious determination on her face. She’s perfect for her job.
When we get to the Four Seasons conference room, Samantha holds the door for me, an action that rasps against my lizard brain. But she’s underscoring the fact that she’s attending this meeting in an official capacity, as my second, and I can’t argue with that.
I ignore surprised looks from the six other Captains and their Clan Chiefs. More than that, actually. The Boston family is still a holy show, no closer to settling their leadership this morning than they were the day after Kieran Ingram coughed himself to death.
Fiona’s staking a claim because she’s her father’s only child. Aran Dowd says he’s in charge because he was Ingram’s Clan Chief for years. Keenan Rivers says the city’s his because he paid his dues as Ingram’s Warlord. All three of them crowd around one end of the table, their seconds shouldering each other for space.
Patrick Moran sits behind Fiona. Fair play to him—he phoned me first to say he’d be here. But he made it clear he wasn’t asking my permission.
Precisely one hundred days have passed since Kieran Ingram coughed out his last order. By Grand Irish Union tradition, it’s time to select our next General. We meet in Boston, because that’s Union tradition too. Every Captain gets a vote—Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Chicago, New Orleans, and San Francisco. Any one of us can stand for the job.
Fiona starts to call the meeting to order. Again, tradition. Boston leads.
I haven’t seen Fiona since Madden worked her over, but she’s at her best today. She’s wearing a scarlet leather bustier and coal-black trousers. Those stilettos have to be four inches high. She could use one to take out Dowd and the other to take out Rivers, if she wanted to resolve her succession woes here and now. Her cheekbones are sharp enough to carve emeralds.
Rivers cuts her off like she’s a child speaking out of turn. “Gentlemen—” he says.
Dowd interrupts: “As you know?—”
Jockeying between the three of them goes on like that for a while, until Mickey Reardon pounds the table with his fist. “All right,” he says in his broad Chicago accent. “We’re all here for the same reason—to select our next General. So let’s skip the greetings and the gossip and go straight to what matters. I’m stepping forward to serve.”
To an outsider, what Reardon says might make sense. He’s the oldest man at the table. Running Chicago, he’s proven he can match wits with the Mafia, and with the Russian bratva that’s made its way into the Windy City. His territory is huge, so he’s got money to burn. The feds have been digging into his operations for years now, without finding enough to build a case.
But none of that keeps me from saying, “It’s good of you to volunteer, Mickey. But I’m thinking I should be our next General instead.”
Aran Dowd explodes beside Fiona. “You’re the reason we’re here today, boyo! You fucking murdered Kieran Ingram.”
“I’ll ignore that accusation,” I say without raising my voice. “Seeing as you’re under so much stress, Dowd. It must be exhausting, trying to convince your crew you’re fit to lead them, instead of a girl.”
“Ya knocked Ingram on his arse at Fenway!” That’s from Rivers.
I study him coolly. “Has Boston ever chosen a Captain who’s blind? I never set a finger on Ingram at the ballpark. Any man with one working eye will tell you the same.”
He splutters, but it’s too early in the day for us to come to blows. I surprise a tiny smile on Fiona’s lips, before she lowers her eyes to her crimson fingernails. Patrick gives me one slow nod, as if he’s keeping score in a high-stakes game of darts.
Truth be told, I could have kicked the shite out of Ingram in the middle of Boston Commons, and half the men here would line up to shake my hand. Ingram made sure to take his tithe on legitimate income—whores, gambling, waste management contracts, and the lot. But all too often, he demanded a taste where he didn’t have a right. He regularly hit me up for profits from Kelly Construction, and once the word was out about Boyle’s green energy venture, Ingram developed a healthy appetite for that cash cow.
Plain and simple, the old man got greedy. So no one at this table is shedding too many tears that he’s gone. Including, I suspect, Fiona, Dowd, and Rivers.
Reardon clears his throat, lumbering to his feet as he wrests back control of the meeting. “I hardly need to remind you, deartháireacha , what I bring to the Union.”
So now we’re all his brothers. He spreads his meaty hands wide on the table, leaning forward like he’s sharing the best way to butcher a hog. Because he’s the most senior man present, and because he’s charmed by the sound of his own voice, he proceeds to tell us—at near interminable length—why we should vote for him.
He outlines every deal he’s made in the past twenty years. He catalogs every elected official he’s got goods on in the state of Illinois. He points out the size of his territory, the number of small towns in the upper Midwest that already pay him tribute.
It takes him more than an hour to go over all the ways he’ll serve us. I keep one hand on my wallet the entire time he talks because I’ll be paying through the nose if he gets the Union’s vote.
In the end, he stops just short of saying Jesus, Mary, and all the saints would vote for him, if we just gave them half a chance. When he finally takes his seat, his Clan Chief leans forward to whisper congratulations in his ear, nodding so hard I think he might concuss himself.
Fiona—God bless her—visibly swallows a yawn. “Braiden?” she asks.
I dive in before Rivers and Dowd start mewling that she has no right to run the meeting. “I’ve shared the Jameson with all of you over the years,” I say to the table. “You know I’ve run a tight ship since I took over from my da. I’ve always paid heed to the Union, playing by its rules even when that’s cost me dosh. I’ll take a stand for the GIU against anyone who means us harm—Mafia or bratva, yakuza or the law. By now, you all know what happened to Antonio Russo. And I suspect you’ve heard what I did to my own brother when he turned traitor on us all. I respect the Union. I respect you. And I’ll be your next General.”
I’m aware of Samantha behind me, every molecule of my body tuned in to our unique frequency. Of course I know she’s the one who executed Russo, and I’m not afraid to tell the truth to anyone who asks. But she and I agreed that it made strategic sense not to complicate the matter for the Union. Samantha can accept their believing I’m the one who blasted his bollocks through his brain.
Fiona realizes I’ve finished my pitch before anyone else does. “All right, then, Captains of the Grand Irish Union.”
But before she can call a vote, Rivers interrupts. “Anyone else putting his hat in the ring?” He glares up and down the table, as if it’s a personal insult that no one else is going for the title.
Fiona repeats herself, “All right, then, Captains of the Grand Irish Union.” Before Dowd can figure out a reason to cut in, she says, “Following our tradition, Boston votes first. Then, we’ll proceed in increasing order of seniority.” Riding the wave of her own momentum, she announces, “Boston votes for Kelly.”
Dowd and Rivers’ protests can probably be heard all the way over in Dublin. Rivers is foolish enough to set his paw on Fiona’s shoulder. That gets Patrick involved, which puts the other Boston seconds on their feet. Even though no one’s carrying visible weapons, I’ve seen Patrick kill men with his bare hands, and it looks like he’s ready to add to his total.
I’d let Fiona get out of the fix herself, but I have a point of my own to make. I’m fairly sure I’ll regret the immediate fallout, but I’m playing a somewhat longer game. I wish I had the option of talking to Samantha, of seeing if she sees things the way I do. But ultimately, a Captain needs to take his own risks.
“Shut it.” I don’t try to make myself louder than the Boston scrum. Instead, I cut beneath the chaos—sharp enough and cold enough that every one of them feels the land collapse beneath his feet.
The sudden silence vibrates like a tuning fork.
“Today isn’t about Boston,” I say. “We aren’t here to decide which of you has the better claim. That’s a question for your own clan to debate, for your own men to manage. But none of us leaves this room until we’ve decided on a General. So each of you state your choice. Boston’s vote is the majority, between the three of you.”
I look around the table, measuring reactions. I hear Samantha behind me, tension tightening her breath. She’s smart enough, though, to stay quiet. “Reardon?” I ask the Chicago boss. “Fair enough for you?”
He’s done his own calculating. “Fair enough,” he agrees with a slick smile that turns my stomach. And then, because he wants to look like the solution is his own idea, he says, “Dowd? Rivers? How do you vote?”
Dowd forgets to tailor his glare for me. He stares down the entire table before he says, “Reardon.”
That puts Rivers in a bind. He doesn’t want to agree with Dowd on anything. But as much as he hates his rival, he hates me more. Plus, he gets the added thrill of tweaking Fiona. “I vote for Reardon too.”
Fiona may be fighting for her political life, but she’s no idiot. She takes back control as if this had been her plan all along. “Boston votes for Reardon, then.”
Her eyes are flint as she stares at me. I think of all the jousting we did when she was down in Philadelphia, all the ways she fought to show her strength. I’m glad Patrick stays standing behind her, even after all the others take their seats.
San Francisco votes next: Reardon. I’m losing, two to nothing.
New Orleans votes for me. I’ll have to take Samantha to the Crescent City sometime. We can enjoy some blues and pay our respects to the clan. The vote sits at two to one.
Reardon’s next. Three to one.
Baltimore hesitates. On the one hand, Reardon will reward him if he’s the vote to end the battle. On the other hand, I’ve always played fair with my southern neighbor. When I’ve expanded territory for my Irish butter game, I’ve made a point of pushing west from Philadelphia, or north into New Jersey. I’ve left Baltimore room to grow.
Now, I watch his lips purse, ready for the R in Reardon. But in the end, he sinks back in his chair, saying, “Kelly.”
That makes it three to two, and I vote for myself. Three to three.
There’s one vote left: New York. Connor Boyle has watched the proceedings silently, his face settled in its usual unreadable calm. Boyle has seen me at dozens of Diamond Ring meetings. We’ve raced each other, bet against each other, and drunk beside each other. He saved the Book of Skreen from Russo. He sent Rider out to fight on my side at Fenway.
But Boyle’s relatively new to running New York. He made his billions through green energy, not by managing a mob family. He’s junior to everyone at this table except for the Boston scavengers.
The safe thing is for Boyle to vote for Reardon. Side with the senior man. Earn respect. Consolidate his own position for a future run at the title, once he’s spent a few years managing his own clan.
Boyle’s shoulders are as broad as the Brooklyn Bridge. He doesn’t give a hint that he feels the weight of every eye in this room. His narrowed eyes look gold as he studies Reardon. They turn green when he looks at me.
Other men might give a speech. They might make it clear they’re giving a gift, might hint at what they want in return. They might draw things out, reveling in their power over some of the most powerful criminal overlords in the country.
Boyle says, “I vote for Kelly.”
Reardon takes his loss like a man. He shakes his head like we’re all making the biggest mistake of our lives, and he sighs as if he’s trying to knock Boyle over with the power of his breath alone. But he gets up from his seat and walks around the table to me. He holds out his hand, and we shake. And then he offers a conceding grip to Samantha, recognizing my Clan Chief as well.
I fetch the bottle we’ve all been ignoring on its table by the door, a small-batch Jameson that was twenty-two years old when Ingram was sworn in as General. I pour for all of them—Captains and Clan Chiefs alike—and Samantha carries the glasses around.
There’ll be more tonight, centuries-old traditions that we’ll honor. All the captains here will come to my suite upstairs. They’ll bind their oaths with blood and fire. We’ll all drink again, with a new bottle I’ll track down this afternoon, one that will be held over for whatever man replaces me, may that be decades down the road.
I raise my glass to all of them, but I take extra care to catch Boyle’s gaze. He looks back, as still as ever, and I wonder how I’ll repay my debt.
For now, though, my Clan Chief leads the toast. Samantha’s voice is steady and strong as she proclaims, “To Braiden Kelly, General of the Grand Irish Union!”
And with one voice, they all respond: “To Kelly!”