Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Cormac
Why do I call her that?
It popped into my mind, and it won’t pop back out. I think Jocelyn is a pretty name, but there’s something about Joey that works for me. She’s clearly not easily intimidated if she works in this neighborhood, and she was willing to literally stick her neck out for me to protect me. I can tell she has a sense of humor that leans toward dry, which I appreciate. She’s got an athletic build her professional attire hides, but I felt as we rolled down the stairs. I’d rather go for a roll in the hay with her than down steps again. I get the sense she was a tomboy growing up, so I guess that’s why Joey comes to mind.
I didn’t mean to say it aloud.
But I know I said it more than once, which is never a good sign in my family. Giving a woman a nickname is essentially a marriage proposal. I am not looking to get married. I’m not looking to date. I’m not even looking to fuck these days. I just got out of a three year “relationship.”
I had a sub for three years, but I ended things recently. It was a splendid arrangement I didn’t foresee ending. But her best friend was my brother’s former sub. We met the women the same weekend at a BDSM club Seamus and I are silent part owners of. He hit it off with Makayla, and I hit it off with Deirdre. But things got ugly a month ago when Makayla tried to get in touch with Seamus after he ended things to date his now-wife. She texted twice, and he didn’t read them. He blocked her instead. She didn’t take that well.
She didn’t go all Fatal Attraction or Single White Female on him, but she tried to out our family business. When you’re with someone for three years, and your family’s name’s been splashed in the news over the last five years—thanks to shitty dead relatives—it’s difficult to hide who and what we are, even if we never admitted it.
Makayla went so far as to have Deirdre suggest to me that Makayla have a threesome with Tiernan and Seamus. They thought I’d pass the idea along to Seamus. He about lost his ever-loving shite. I didn’t tell him as an endorsement. I told him as a warning because Makayla also threatened to tell people she’d been a mobster’s submissive for three years and repeat organized crime things she supposedly learned while with him.
It’s why Tiernan dealt with it. Seamus was too pissed off. My sister-in-law made sure Makayla understood there isn’t a fucking chance in any universe they’d be interested in her having any contact with Seamus.
I told Deirdre not to get either of us involved, but she claimed she was trying to help her friend who’s in love with Seamus. I stared at her as though she were an idiot. I really thought she was. How would suggesting a woman who’s in love with my brother join a threesome with him and his wife be a good idea?
Deirdre overstepped just by suggesting it, but the way she spoke didn’t fit our D/s dynamics. I warned her, but she persisted. Even after two punishments, she wouldn’t chill the fuck out about it, so I ended the contract.
So, I’m not looking for anything remotely committed right now. I don’t even want a situationship after that, so I have no clue what I was thinking when I gave Jocelyn a nickname.
I’m not marrying her.
I’m not dating her.
Though I wouldn’t mind fucking her.
But that isn’t happening, and that’s the last thing I need right now. I’m trying to uncomplicate my private life. She would be nothing but a complication, considering how we met and how our occupations couldn’t be more opposite even if we tried. Her job is to help keep families together. My job—in part—very frequently—is to rip them apart.
One thing I can say about kids and protecting them is that my family stopped recruiting when my cousin Dillan became the boss. None of us are interested in drawing kids who are barely out of elementary school into this world. We don’t go scouting high schools like college coaches. If someone comes to us, and they’re over eighteen, then we might consider it. If Dillan accepts someone, it’s usually a legacy guy. That sorta makes it sound like the guy’s being admitted to an Ivy League. The mob isn’t officially hereditary, but yeah, it is.
It’s not automatically handed down generationally unless you’re born into the boss’s family. I was, so there was never a choice. We’ve been in the mob for three generations on one side of the family and four on the other. When your great-grandfather, grandfather, uncle, and cousin once removed have been bosses, and your cousin is the current one, there’s no declining the calling.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah.” Whoops. I have no idea what Dillan just told me.
My mind completely wandered as I walked to my car and for the last four blocks as I head home. I’m never unfocused.
“Do you have bad reception or something?”
“I guess so.” Not at all.
“Did you hear what I said?” He’s getting testy, so he’s said whatever it was more than once.
“Parts.” Not at all. “I can hear you now, so can you give me the gist of it?”
“The gist is what the feck happened today?”
Feck .
Our parents would crucify us if we ever truly swore at each other. It’s the eleventh commandment. No—twelfth. The eleventh is never go a full day without telling everyone you love them.
“I went to collect from Ignacio, and his dumb-arse nephews were there. Rather than being men and staying the feck out of it, they thought their balls dropped today. They thought they could stand up to me.”
“Okay. But how did it get to them shooting at you and some woman pushing you down a flight of steps?”
Fucking city cameras. Our mutual cousins Sean and Finn—who are brothers—are skilled hackers. They keep a running feed of the city cameras in all five boroughs in case we need to track someone down or find out where they’ve been. Word got back to someone, and at least one cousin went to work.
“She’s a social worker and was in the neighborhood. I guess she’s known Ronaldo and Jesus since they were kids. She recognized them and was on my side of the street. What the hell possessed her? I don’t have a clue. But she shoved me out of the way. We wound up losing our balance and falling. She talked the guys into going back into their uncle’s bodega.”
Ronaldo and Jesus are cousins who try to one up each other all the time. They don’t get what my cousins and I understand—you don’t battle each other when you’re at war with everyone else. They wanted to prove who had the bigger pair today, and I didn’t want to shoot a couple dumb-arse kids.
“Why’d she hide when Pablo showed up?”
Something doesn’t feel right about divulging more. It’s not that what Joey—there I go again—told me is some massive state secret, but it doesn’t feel like my place to say. She confided in me, and she trusts me not to tell anyone, in case it gets back to Pablo. I know my family won’t say shite, but it’s the principle.
“She fears him.”
“Smart woman. But why?”
“I didn’t get her entire life story, Dill.”
“But you stood talking to her for quite a while.”
“Yeah. She got hurt when she fell and landed on her elbow. We were arguing about her seeing a doctor. I even offered Meredith if she didn’t want to go to the ER.”
There’s a long pause before he speaks again. I know it doesn’t thrill him I gave Meredith’s name to anyone. She’s been our family’s private physician—private surgeon—since my grandda led the organization. Things got messy when my cousin Shane fell in love with her daughter. That shite was complicated, but the long and the short of it is, she was nearly outed to the NYPD and DEA. They almost found out her connections to us. I should help her keep a low profile, but I trust her nearly as much as I do my mom and aunts. That’s about the highest form of praise from me.
“Do you think she’ll call Meredith?”
“No.”
“Then why’d?—”
“It felt like the right thing to do. She wouldn’t have gotten hurt if she hadn’t protected me. I tried to shield her, but I probably did more harm than good since I’m so much bigger than her.”
“Okay. What’d Pablo have to say?”
“Same shite, different day. He’s pissed we’re encroaching on their territory. Enrique’s embarrassed that we’ve been there for nearly a year, and Ignacio never went to him for protection. Not that he could afford it after paying us to protect him from Enrique.”
Dillan chuckles. We have a few business owners on that street believing we’re keeping Enrique Diaz, the Colombian Cartel jefe , away from them. They’re too scared of that old motherfucker to ask many questions. He didn’t give a fuck about them until today. He only gives a fuck because we’re extorting those people, and he didn’t think to do it himself. It makes him look like a pussy to have another syndicate slip into one of his neighborhoods and start collecting money he could be strong-arming from his own people.
Oops. Oh, well. Too bad, so sad.
“Was it Ignacio who called Pablo or one of those dumb-arses?”
“Neither. Ronaldo’s or Jesus’s mother—I don’t remember which since they’re both Ignacio’s sisters—was looking out the window of their apartment across the street and saw the eejits come out and shoot at me. Rather than try to get her son and nephew to stop, she called Pablo.”
“What’s he want in exchange?”
“Obviously, he wants us to leave without giving anything up to us. But he’s willing to way outbid Maks for that textile factory in Bangladesh if we get out of the neighborhood altogether.”
We were going to make an offer on it just to fuck the bratva over. We don’t really want another overseas factory, but the Kutsenkos do. Helping us fuck over the bratva at the Cartel’s expense works for us. Our racket was going to end eventually, so the money wouldn’t come in forever from that neighborhood. Losing future income there is less than what it’ll cost Enrique to get that factory.
But for him, it’s more about saving face and hiding that a rival swooped in and took over one of his neighborhoods. He’ll pay out the arse to keep that quiet. He’ll also make sure the shop owners know they erred not going to him. He’ll make sure they pay him back for what they should have tithed to him, and he’ll make sure they understand silence is golden.
“When’s he going to put in the offer?”
“Tonight, at eleven. It’ll be nine tomorrow morning there.”
“Maks should be having a hissy fit to rival his twins by nine-ten. If only I could watch.” Dillan chuckles, and I laugh along with him.
“I’d bring the popcorn if you’d bring the Twizzlers.” We’ve been doing that since we made up over the Lego set that wound up with us both getting nursemaid’s elbow.
“Tell your brother to bring the grape soda. And none of that organic popcorn shite you tried to slip in last week during the rugby match. Tasted like newspaper soaked in misery.”
“Woe is you. You wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t seen the bag when I popped it.”
“As though the popcorn weren’t bad enough. You insist on that vegan imitation butter shite. Nana and Granny are crying in heaven. Irish men eat Irish butter.”
“Feck off. Tell Sean to keep an eye on the Cartel’s accounts and Maks’s emails.”
We all hack one another’s bank accounts and emails, but having a cousin with a graduate degree in national security comes in handy since we hide our shite the best. We spread so much misinformation, the other syndicates think we’re the impoverished ones when we have more than all three—the Mafia, the bratva, and the Cartel—have all together.
And that’s saying something, considering Enrique Diaz is one of the most powerful men in the world. No drugs move in the Western Hemisphere without him knowing about them. It’s not worth his time, effort, and money to stop the other three syndicates here in NYC.
But just about every other syndicate on this side of the world pays a tariff to him for the privilege of doing business. He insists everyone knows his family is the Cartel with a capital C, not to be confused with low-level competitors like the Mexicans or Guatemalans.
He’s as bad as the Cosa Nostra , who lose their shite whenever someone who isn’t Sicilian is called Mafia. They like to make sure everyone knows they’re the “real” Mafia, so they get a capital letter too. The Ivankov branch, run by the Kutsenkos, couldn’t give two shites if Americans capitalize bratva or not. It should be, but that’s not the hill they’re dying on.
And we don’t give a rat’s fart whether we have a capital M for mob because everyone knows the O’Rourkes are the mob pretty much any and everywhere. Some of the other syndicates—like the Poles—want the recognition, so they call themselves the Mob. If they cared less about proving they’re big bad mobsters and spent more time actually being mobsters, they might be relevant.
“Do—” Dillan hesitates. He never hesitates. “Do you want Sean to let you know if Jocelyn talks to any witnesses tomorrow?”
“She’s a social worker in that community. She’s bound to be there tomorrow or another day this week or next. We can’t assume she’s there for any other reason than her job. If her name comes up, let me know. But I don’t want Sean invading her privacy or her clients’ when there’s no reason to.”
That feels worse than telling Dillan why Pablo terrifies Joey. If she found out, she’d never forgive me. That might crush me.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does this matter to me?
I’m acting like I’m going to see her again. I’m acting like she’d care whether she sees me again.
“All right. Do you think she knows anything useful?”
I’m sitting in traffic—shocker in New York—which irritates me. Now this conversation is too. I try to keep the frustration out of my tone.
“I’m certain she knows plenty of useful things, but I doubt any of it matters to us.”
I failed at that. I sound like a dick.
“What’s the deal with you?”
Dillan could sound accusatory, but he’s being patient with me. That’s almost worse. I’m not looking to pick a fight, but it makes me feel shitty that he’s patient when I’m testy.
“It’s been a long day, and that was before getting shot at. I ripped my suit, and my ribs hurt like a mother. I nearly crushed a woman today who felt she needed to protect me. And I had to deal with Pablo. As though that last one isn’t bad enough, I’m stuck in traffic on the bridge.”
“You’ve been shot at before. Hell, you’ve been shot.”
“And I’ve ripped suits before and bruised my ribs before. But I usually don’t get stuck in traffic right afterward.”
Yeah. Let’s blame it on traffic. Dillan and I both know that’s bullshit, but he backs off.
“Sean’ll let you know what comes of the Bangladesh deal. Banged up ribs or not, maybe a night at your club will do you some good.”
I respond with a noncommittal grunt. Tying a woman up, spanking her, then fucking her into next week is usually the best solution to a fucked-up day. Even though things are over with Deirdre, I can still go to my club. Our contract included a monogamy clause, which I’m certain she broke now that I know Makayla broke that clause with Seamus. I had women I’d scene with before Deirdre, and we sometimes went together and included another woman. So, I’m not without options, and I don’t need to fuck some random woman either.
But it holds no appeal. My dick doesn’t even twitch at the idea. I’m too fucking tired.
“Nah. I’m going home, soaking in the bath, and going to bed early. I’m wiped.”
“Talk to you tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Bye.”
If we were the only family that was affectionate and demonstrative, then people would call us weak. But all Four Families—the Mancinellis, the Kutsenkos, the Diazes, and us—are all the same. No one hides our devotion to our family, and no one doubts we’ll each put our family ahead of absolutely everything in this life and the next. We’re stronger for it, which is a pain in the arse because it means the balance of power is constantly shifting. No one family is on top, or at least not for long.
It takes me another thirty minutes before I pull into my garage in Boerum Hills in Brooklyn. I nodded to my security detail parked around my block as I drove by. I live in a quiet area, and I like it that way. Only Finn got a place in the city—SoHo—and that was only to make life easier since he owns several restaurants, bars, and nightclubs mostly in Manhattan.
The rest of us preferred not to be in Manhattan like the other bachelors our ages. We prefer hiding in plain sight as opposed to the flashy penthouses. The other families think we can’t afford them. We can afford them twenty times over because we don’t waste our money on stupid shite like that. We like our privacy, and there’s no such thing in Manhattan.
Once I’m in my place, I make a beeline to the kitchen. My latest batch of kombucha is ready, so I pour myself a glass. It tastes like straight up arse, but I swear it’s why I’m the only one in my family who never gets colds. Like never. The moment I feel a tickle, I kill it with this vinegar-flavored shite. I was feeling under the weather this morning, and now I feel like arse. I beg my tastebuds for forgiveness and down the brew.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I walk away from the dishwasher and head to my bedroom.
MP
Meredith Prichard. My chest tightens. Is this about Joey?
“Hello.”
“Good evening, Cor.”
Fuck. She’s pissed I gave her number out.
“What’s up?”
“I spoke to a delightful young woman about an hour ago. Imagine my surprise.”
“Is Jocelyn all right?”
“Her elbow wasn’t as bad as she suspected. She tweaked it but didn’t dislocate it. She also has a mildly sprained wrist. She felt a migraine coming on from a bump on her head.”
“What? She said nothing about hitting her head.” That pisses me off.
“With the fuss you made about her elbow, she said she didn’t trust you not to drag her to the ER and demand an MRI on the spot. I made a house call and checked her out. No signs of a concussion, but I gave her the protocol and instructions to follow up with her doctor in the morning.”
“Does she know you’re telling me all of this?”
Doctor-patient confidentiality is a little murky in our world.
“Yes. She assumed I’d call you to tell you she’d called me. She said I could share all of that.”
“Anything else? Anything more serious?”
I don’t want to admit how anxious I am. I’m in my room, stripping off my ruined suit. I examine my ribs in the mirror as I listen to Meredith. They need wrapping, but I don’t need a doctor to do that. I have plenty of experience doing it for myself.
“No. Cormac, why did you send her to me?”
“She didn’t want to go to the ER.”
There’s silence while Meredith expects me to fill her in more, but there’s nothing more to say.
“Couldn’t you have suggested urgent care if she didn’t want to go to the ER?”
“I didn’t think she’d go anywhere, but I thought she might see you if it didn’t feel like a big deal.”
“She wasn’t forthcoming about how she got injured. She said she tripped. Cormac, did someone hurt her?”
“No. She was somewhere she should have been safe when something dangerous happened. She protected me, but we fell in the process.”
“The way she answered—it was too rehearsed. She’s given the ‘I tripped’ excuse before. It almost sounded plausible except I’ve heard it too many times to fall for it.”
My hand grips my phone so tightly I fear I could crack it. My other hand fists. I tell myself not to overreact.
“Were there any signs she’s being abused now?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.”
“Do you think I need to check on her? Intervene?”
“I don’t know. Something felt off.”
“I thought maybe the hospital fees kept her from wanting to get checked out. Now I wonder if she feared someone would push for a full examination and find things she doesn’t want shared.”
“That thought crossed my mind, too. Cor, it could just be a trauma response she developed years ago and is still her instinctive response.”
“But it could be something more.”
“I trust your discretion, and she relaxed once she found out I’ve known you since you were twelve. Learning that didn’t make her more comfortable with me. It made her more comfortable about you. It was like she feared trusting you. But once she knew I’ve been around you for most of your life, and I spoke fondly of you, she stopped doubting herself. I think she would listen to you if you spoke to her. Just go easy on her.”
“Do you know where I could find her tomorrow?”
“She said she had appointments in Port Richmond.”
That’s the part of Staten Island we were in today. Do I just camp out there all day? That’s a great way to guarantee getting shot. Pablo’s going to have his goons patrolling the streets, looking for anyone with red hair. I could have Finn check the DMV records, so I can find out her address or license plates. I’m not hanging outside her front door like a stalker. But the license plates would make it easier for Finn or Sean to track her once she’s in the neighborhood.
All of this feels super stalkery. Nothing about this strikes me as something she’d be okay with. But she might have to suck up being angry to give me some peace of mind. How fucking fucked-up is that? Talk about selfish. But it’s true. I’ll risk her ire to reassure myself she’s safe. That means I have to find her somewhere outside Port Richmond because it won’t be safe if anyone sees her with me again.
My mind’s whirring a mile a minute. I’m assessing everything. I’m used to making life-altering decisions with no room for error in a matter of seconds. It’s why I’m alive and in my early thirties instead of being worm food in my teens.
“Did she mention her office?”
“She splits her time between Port Richmond and Manor Heights. I don’t know which one she’ll be at tomorrow. I don’t know if she’s going there or just straight to whatever appointments she has in Port Richmond. She said she works in schools, too.”
I rack my brain for the schools in the area. She made it sound like she’s known Ronaldo and Jesus a while, and they both graduated from high school a year ago. There are high schools in both neighborhoods and a few P.S. whatever elementary and middle schools. I don’t remember the numbers in that area. My guess is she’s assigned to a middle school. Then again, they could have assigned her to like ten, given the perpetual shortage of social workers.
“All right. I’ll figure something out and check on her tomorrow. Thank you, Meredith.”
“You’re a good lad.” Every once in a while, her Welsh accent gets extra strong.
She’s a retired British Royal Navy surgeon and salty as the day is long. She’s heard every excuse, so nothing impresses her. But she’s kind and been like a third aunt for nearly two-thirds of my life.
We hang up, and I’m left looking in the mirror at my bruised ribs. Could Joey’s clothes have hidden more than just the hottest body I’ve ever felt?
Fucking hell.
What kind of perve am I if she’s being abused, and I’m thinking about feeling her up?
I spend way too much time in my head. Introspective is what my mom calls it. Morose is what Seamus calls it. Prone to overanalyzing and being too self-critical is what everyone—including me—knows it is.
I don’t have a plan for tomorrow—completely unusual, utterly stupid, and unnecessarily reckless, so I better wake up with something, or I’ll find myself fucked in more than one way. But not the kind where I tie a woman up, spank her, and get my rocks off.