Chapter 44
44
SAMANTHA
A shot fires, and Braiden bellows again, and a body falls to the floor. Aiofe’s trembling beneath me like a rabbit cowering in its burrow. I know I should stay hidden, but I can’t, not after I hear the clatter of a gun kicked across the room.
Braiden’s standing over his brother. Madden is twitching, flailing, making a horrible noise that’s part scream, part gurgle, part moan. His cheek is a mass of bloody splinters, his nose reduced to a bleeding hole.
Braiden presses the barrel of his gun against his brother’s shoulder. “You couldn’t even do that right, shitehawk,” he says. “Count to three, deartháir , and then we’ll start to dance.”
“Stop!”
The shout comes from beside me. Aiofe’s gripping the back of the couch. Her fingers stand out like jagged icicles against the dark green leather. Her face is covered in snot and tears.
“Uncle Braiden!” she shouts. “Stop!”
Aiofe’s voice hits him like a two-by-four. Shock stiffens every muscle in his body. But I know the code he lives by. Madden betrayed him, betrayed every one of the Fishtown Boys. Madden sold out his clan to Russo, and that can never be forgiven.
Still, Aiofe is the child Braiden has protected for the last seven years. He was there when bright red blood stole her voice. If he fires that gun, he’ll do more than torture Madden. He’ll ruin Aiofe forever.
He settles for snarling over his shoulder to Seamus. “Let’s get him upstairs.”
Seamus reaches for his phone. “Want me to call Kelleher?”
“No.” Braiden puts force into the word. It’s a direct command.
Seamus nods as if he expected the order. Now he knows what will happen in the infirmary room on the second floor. All four of us adults know. “I’ll tell the others we have him.”
“No,” Braiden says again, and this time Seamus is surprised. “I need to be certain Russo’s kept in the dark.”
That admission costs Braiden something. Madden fooled him for weeks, for months even, working secretly with Russo. There may be other traitors in the ranks. Braiden will have to scour the Fishtown Boys, test their loyalty from top to bottom.
And Madden will pay for that too, once he’s upstairs.
As Seamus bends over the writhing Madden, Braiden turns to me. There are a thousand things I want to say—every thought I’ve had in the past week, every discovery I made when I saw him standing in the hallway. But we’ll have time for all of that later, when the house is quiet, when we’re alone.
“Get her out of here,” he says, jutting his chin toward Aiofe. And he’s right. She’s already seen far too much.
Aiofe’s hand is limp in mine. I ease her through the doorway and down he hall lined with bookcases. Red lights flash outside the windows. A quick glance shows three fire engines and at least a dozen firefighters in full turn-out gear. The flames are already out .
The men start to swear behind us. From the range of curses, they’re forcing Madden to his feet. Aiofe tries to turn back, but I keep my body between her and the bloodshed. After a moment’s resistance, she lets me guide her toward the kitchen.
Fairfax frets beside the stove, shifting a kettle over an open flame as if that will make the water boil faster. A stack of foam cups waits on the counter, waiting to restore the firefighters. I suspect there isn’t a crisis in Fairfax’s life that wasn’t made better with tea.
His face is marked with soot, and I spy a burn on his wrist, as if he was caught by an ember. But he smiles weakly as I lead Aiofe into the room. “Such a fuss all those men are making outside. Did they wake you, little one?”
Instead of answering, Aiofe says, “You’re hurt!”
He startles and looks at me, as if I’m the one pulling puppet strings, making the once-mute child speak. Of course, being Fairfax, he recovers so quickly I wonder if I imagined his surprise. “I’ll be right as rain by tomorrow,” he promises Aiofe.
He glances past me, at sudden chaos in the foyer. Braiden and Seamus are getting Madden upstairs, being none too gentle about it. Aiofe’s paying too much attention again, so I ask her, “Why don’t we help Fairfax with his tea?”
“Chamomile?” Aiofe asks. “That always makes me feel better.”
“Chamomile it is,” I say. “Lets find the strainer.”
Fairfax shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.” I don’t know which amazes him more—Madden’s injury or Aiofe’s speaking or my voluntarily taking on the task of drowning foul leaves in water.
But then he keeps Aiofe busy, asking her to choose a favorite teacup and saucer. He directs her toward a step stool so she can retrieve a decorated tin filled with fresh toffee cookies. It’s not until she’s lining up the foam cups for all the men outside that Fairfax says to me, “Go on, then. Aiofe’s the only assistant I need. ”
“I—” I start to tell him I’m happy to stay. But the truth is, I’m desperate to know what’s happening upstairs. “Thank you,” I say.
Before I can leave, Aiofe gives me a fierce hug. “And thank you ,” I whisper into her hair. “Thank you for keeping an eye on Fairfax.” But I mean more than that. I mean, thank you for warning me about Madden. I mean, thank you for choosing to speak.
“All right, Aiofe,” Fairfax says. “After we take care of the men outside, you can help me back to my cottage. In fact, why don’t we have a sleepover out there? You can stay the night, and I’ll make us both waffles in the morning?”
I suspect Fairfax will be needed back at the house, once he gets Aiofe into bed. But I slip free while the child is still distracted by the promise of breakfast.
The door is closed to the infirmary on the second floor, but I don’t let that stop me. Braiden has rolled up his shirtsleeves. The scar on his forearm looks purple in the bright light, raised like a mountain range and twisted like a snake.
He looks past me. “Aiofe?” he asks.
“She’s with Fairfax. He’s taking her back to his cottage.”
He nods once before he says, “You don’t need to see this.”
“I do.”
He won’t argue. He never does. He’ll just issue a single command— no —in that tone I can’t resist.
But he doesn’t do it. Instead, he says, “Close the door. If you need to boke, there’s a trashcan in the corner.”
Madden lies naked on the paper-covered table. Medical scissors and clumps of blood-stained cloth tell the story of someone cutting him free from his ruined clothes. Vinyl cuffs are buckled around his wrists and ankles, holding him fast.
The restraints didn’t come easy. Seamus is shaking his right hand; his knuckles are split. A spray of blood paints the floor. There’s a smear of handprints on Madden’s heaving chest. The mess that used to be his face pulses with every breath he gasps.
Drawers stand open, and cabinets gape. One counter is covered with bandages and sutures, syringes and vials of drugs. Another is lined with the sterile blue of a freshly opened surgery pack. Stainless steel tools gleam in the cold bright light—forceps and clamps, retractors and scalpels, heavy-duty tweezers and a bone saw.
Madden’s moaning is a constant low rumble. His lips are the color of liver.
Braiden selects the forceps and runs his thumb along its ridged jaw. “Let’s go all the way back, deartháir . When did you first meet with Russo behind my back?”
Madden barely sounds human as he spits, “Go to hell. Deartháir. ”
Braiden strikes like he’s delivering a boxing jab, stepping between me and the table. I can’t see what he does with the forceps, but Madden’s keening is loud enough that I want to cover my ears. The cry goes on, longer and louder than I ever thought possible. The smell of piss is sharp in the air.
Braiden drops something bloody onto the floor. Madden pants, “Thank God we live in Philly. City of Brotherly Love.”
Braiden shifts his grip on the forceps, holding them just above Madden’s ruined face. “How much did he pay you to save his fucking cars?”
“Why, deartháir ? Need a loan?” Madden asks, the words pulled and twisted through blood.
Another strike from Braiden, but this time he holds on longer, and his shoulders shake with the effort. Madden’s screams turn my stomach to fire-washed stone. The reek of shit floods the room. Both men are gasping like beached sharks when Braiden finally steps back.
I can’t watch. I can’t leave. I look at Seamus to see how he can bear this, but he’s leaning against the wall, shoulders back, studying his thumbnail like his cuticles have done something to offend him.
Braiden drops the forceps on the floor. As he moves to select a scalpel from the counter, I can finally see Madden’s newly ravaged face. I swallow hard, telling myself I don’t need the trashcan in the corner. I’m stronger than that. I have to be.
Madden opens his eyes as Braiden moves back into position. I can’t see where Braiden presses the scalpel—on his brother’s chest or his belly—but I watch Madden’s lips stretch tight.
Braiden demands, “How much did you get for Donovan O’Keefe, motherfucker?”
“Didn’t…fuck…my…mam.” Madden fights for each word. “Fucked…yours.”
I expect Braiden to make one quick cut but he doesn’t. Instead, his shoulders tense and his arm moves slowly—inching, inching, inching his way down Madden’s body like he’s sculpting a masterpiece.
Madden’s shriek would shatter glass, if there was any in this torture chamber. Tears stream from his eyes into the mangled hole where his nose used to be. Every muscle in his body convulses; he strains so hard I’m certain he’ll break his bonds. I wait for the table to collapse.
But the buckles hold. The straps too. The table stands.
Madden pants through his teeth, foul air whistling out of him. He tosses his head, and I wonder if he can still see, if he’s still able to hear. I can’t imagine how much more of this he can take.
But before Braiden can ask another question, Madden’s thrashing stops. His eyes open. He turns toward me and grasps with his near hand, as if he wants to feel the fabric of my suit.
When he speaks, he seems to have found some new well of strength. His words are slurred because his face is shattered, but he manages complete sentences, gasping just a little, every few words.
“Thanks for leaving…my cock, deartháir . I need it…to fuck your guinea whore…up the arse.” He purses his lips in parody of a kiss. “Russo’s waiting, Giovanna.”
Braiden doesn’t shout. He doesn’t strike. He doesn’t falter.
He simply swipes beneath Madden’s body, filling his hand with an unholy mess of piss and shit and blood. He shoves his palm against his brother’s bleeding mouth. He swipes his fingers through the ruins of Madden’s nose and cheek.
Only when Madden is gagging, when his chest is heaving, when his belly is rising and falling like he’s about to give birth, does Braiden jam the scalpel deep into his groin. He twists. He carves. And he jams the resulting link of flesh past Madden’s filthy lips, choking him on his own cock.
It takes Madden a century to die.
When it’s finally over, Braiden hangs his head, breathing like a bull. I’m pretty sure he didn’t intend to kill Madden—not so soon, not without getting at least one honest answer to his questions. Madden goaded him on purpose, ending his torture by pushing Braiden past reason.
Braiden drops the scalpel between his brother’s mutilated legs. He strips off his shirt and uses it to wipe his hands, sponging up as much of the muck as he can with the white cotton fabric. He drops the ruined shirt on Madden’s body and crosses to the surgical sink. Lathering up like he’s scrubbing in for surgery, he washes all the way up to his elbows, taking care to soap between each finger, under his nails, around the sinews of his wrists. After he finally rinses, Seamus pushes off from the wall and hands him a towel.
“Thanks,” Braiden says, as if he’s just been passed a cocktail napkin.
“Where should I take him?” Seamus asks.
Braiden says, “Leave it for now.”
It . Madden is gone forever.
Braiden goes on. “We’ll send pieces to Russo—put them in that fucking McLaren and leave them at his gate. But we all need sleep first. There’ll be pushback once this gets out.”
Seamus shakes his head, keeping his voice mild. “Russo doesn’t give a shit about that guy.”
“He’ll bite. I took his toy away.” Seamus still wants to argue, but Braiden interrupts. “Not a word to anyone. Not until I say. ”
“Not a word,” Seamus agrees after a few heartbeats.
“Go on, then,” Braiden tells him.
Seamus barely glances at me before he opens the infirmary door. His head is high as he takes the stairs. He doesn’t look back.
So there’s no one to see what happens, when Braiden finally turns to me.