3. Ciaran
Ciaran
The New York City skyline beckons to me as I exit the private plane, my feet back on solid ground after the international flight from Dublin.
“Holy shit!”
My uncle laughs beside me, slinging his arm around my shoulders. “Not too bad, huh? Can’t you just smell the American dream already?”
“You mean piss and garbage?” I laugh.
It’s not true, though. The sky is a beautiful blue, only marred by a few stringy clouds. I’ve got my sunglasses on; the day is warmer than I thought it would be.
I adjust the bag slung over my shoulder.
Uncle Cormac gave me one day’s notice before our flight left. He’s here meeting with business associates, looking to bolster our own profits back home. He doesn’t have to say anything for me to understand how big of a moment this is. The O'Connells in New York City.
Fuck me. We’re not playing around anymore. People know our name back in Dublin. They’re going to fucking know it here too.
“You couldn’t have looked nicer for them if you tried.” Uncle Cormac tilts my chin, inspecting the bruise along my face. My beard doesn’t do shit to cover it.
“It’s not my fault you told me about this trip after I got knocked out.”
“And why’d you get knocked out?” he asks, like always. O'Connells aren’t meant to be on their arses. But he laughs instead of giving me a hard time. “You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me to get you a fight at Leon’s.”
“You could really make that happen?” It feels good to move after the flight. I’ve never been a tourist before. I know we’re here for work, but fuck, I can’t pretend like I’m not excited to be here.
It’s my first time in the United States. Cormac’s been here before. It’s why I’ve heard all about Leon’s and the matches he puts on. If there’s one thing we O'Connells love to do, it’s show people how well we know how to throw—and occasionally take—a punch.
“Of course,” Uncle Cormac promises. “So long as you don’t get thrown on your arse again.”
I roll my eyes, but we’re both smiling. As we walk toward a row of waiting cars, we drop our arms, growing serious.
“I didn’t know he’d be here,” Cormac says under his breath.
“It’s fine,” I tell him.
Our group fans out. Six of us came to town, my uncle and I joined by his best friend and longtime business partner. And you can’t go far without an O’Connell cousin showing up.
We’re greeted by the Irish Mafia, an opening act of respect. I’d be touched if it weren’t for one man in particular who’s smiling like a maniac.
“Ciaran!” Cain Murray shouts, arms lifted in some supposed sense of triumph.
My da is exactly how every American thinks an Irishman should be. A charming leprechaun of a conman.
We share the same dark brown hair, but his eyes are hazel, unlike my brown orbs. It’s the first of many ways we diverge as individuals.
This man might be my father, but he’s certainly never stuck around long enough to teach me anything.
There’s nothing like a pathetic father to show you how to be a better man.
I’m lucky Uncle Cormac, from my mother’s side, was always there to help me in that regard.
It’s why I feel his sharp, watchful eyes on the back of my neck as I nod in greeting.
“Hi.”
“You look good.” Da places his hands on my shoulders. He hasn’t been in Dublin in ten years, and yet, somehow his accent is thicker than mine. He squeezes tight, running an eye over me, taking in my frame. He’s a few inches shorter than I am. “You look good, my son. Good!”
He pulls me into a hug, slapping my back.
“Thanks. You all right?”
“Never better now that you’re here.”
He’s so fucking sincere, my teeth are set on edge.
I’ll never admit it to Uncle Cormac, but there was a part of me that wanted to come on this trip to see my father. To remind him that he does, in fact, have not just one, but two sons.
“How’s your brother?” he asks.
“Good.” I’m already dreading how much shit he’ll get into while I’m away.
“And your mother?”
“Still hates you.”
Da laughs, but it’s not a joke. For as long as I can remember, Mam’s referred to Cain Murray as ‘that son of a bitch.’
“And Nora?”
Da cocks his head to the side. There’s no fake smile or laughter. Just a plain and simple question. He waits patiently for the answer.
“Yeah, she’s good.” Ian’s mam deserves a fucking gold star for the shit she’s had to deal with since Cain came into her life. One day I’m going to make sure she’s taken care of.
“Good.” Da opens the door to an SUV. “Come on.”
“This was good of you, Cain,” Cormac tells him, following me into the car. “Picking us up.”
“You can thank Walsh for that,” he replies, referring to the head of the Irish Mafia.
We’ve been trying to get a meeting with him for months now.
To form a better alliance. My da has worked for Walsh directly for almost two decades now.
I could have called him up and asked for an invitation, but that’s not how O'Connells do things. We proved our mettle, working deals in Dublin, gaining ground with various shipments. So when Walsh called us, we knew the work hadn’t been for nothing.
“He apologizes for not being able to come,” Da says from the front seat, motioning for the driver to go. “But you’ll see him tonight.”
“Tonight?” Cormac asks.
Da smiles, and for a second it’s not him I see, but my older brother Ian.
It’s always been said that I take after Dad physically thanks to the brown hair and pale skin.
Ian’s features are delicate, a lazy confidence often tugging at his lips.
But for the first time in my life, I realize he got that smile from our father.
“You O'Connells and your impeccable timing.” Da laughs.
I’m wondering just how long it will take before he starts to grate on my uncle.
They’re complete opposites. Da likes jokes and pints and anything he can stick his cock into. Cormac is measured and disciplined. He cares about things, unlike my father, whose talent relies on rubbing elbows with the right type of people.
“There’s a party,” Da explains. I’m glancing out the window, taking in every single thing. The other cars, the weeds on the side of the road, the Americanness of it all. “The Bratva are rolling out the red carpet.”
Uncle Cormac lifts a brow. There’s not a stitch out of place. His suit immaculate even after an international flight. “Lev Zimin rolling out the red carpet?”
Da snorts. “Boris Akatov. But we’re better off for it. Gia knows how to put together a party. Much more inviting than if Lev’s wife had called in her normal caterers.”
It’s fascinating hearing all the names come out of Da’s mouth. I’d think he was showboating, but there’s a naturalness as he speaks. Though, he was always good at that.
“Will a lot of people be there?” I ask, already liking the idea of putting faces to names and tucking away whatever bits of information that come my way.
“Think of it like a holiday gathering,” Da says, gesticulating as he speaks like always.
Even in a moving vehicle, he has a way of making this conversation feel like we’re in a pub, catching up like old friends.
“Everyone is on their best behavior. Nobody mentioning the times they’ve been fucked over and nobody mentioning the ways they might fuck a person up in the future.
The food will be great, the women delectable, and knowing the Russians, the fucking liquor will be top shelf. ”
He smacks out a kiss, pleased with his analysis of the upcoming event. I’m wondering just how much of that top-shelf liquor will make its way to my da.
“Jesus,” my cousin Dermot says under his breath. “It’s a fucking castle.”
“Is this where they live?” I ask my uncle.
I can picture them laughing at us now. The O’Connells staring up at the monstrosity of a house. Cars wrap around the driveway, dropping off guests. Women wear dresses and heels. Men in tailored suits.
Jesus Christ. I’ve rolled up to the Akatov mansion sporting a black eye.
“No,” Uncle Cormac replies. He’s like me. Always got one ear to the ground. Knows who and where people are. “There’s not a chance they’d let us come if this was their actual home. This is some place they’ve rented out.”
I’ve no idea where I’m at exactly, but I know we’re no longer in New York City but some nearby suburb where the rich can own land and not deal with air pollution.
“You all right, Ciaran?” Uncle Cormac murmurs.
Dermot and my other cousins head inside, laughing.
But I’m still staring up at the fucking turrets.
It might not be the Akatov family home, but they’ll live in something similar.
Everyone here tonight will probably live in something like this. Ostentatious wealth.
I’m a lad from Dublin. The butler’s pantry will be bigger than my flat back home. And before that I was living out of a room in Nora’s terrace flat.
There’s lamps here, lit up in the night with real fire, guiding guests to the giant double front doors. What it would be to just light everything up. Tear the Bratva down and show them what the working Irish can do.
Cormac’s shoulder brushes into mine. My hands remain in my pocket. I might be looking up at the grand castle, but I’m not gawking. I’m memorizing this moment. This feeling. Letting it forge me into the man who will one day surpass everyone here.
Though, admittedly, I might be jetlagged as fuck.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I clear my throat, dragging a hand through my beard before tucking it back into my pocket. We begin walking, joining the crowd of people.
This should be risky, inviting so many people of a certain occupation to one place. But Da was right, the bastard.
The alcohol is flowing, and men all around are patting each other on the shoulder.
“I thought the only neutral place was Fujimori’s,” I say. The restaurant is the one spot where an automatic white flag is thrown.
“We’re much more domesticated than you’d think.” Da appears between us and throws an arm around each of our shoulders. I don’t have to look over to know my uncle is stifling an internal sigh. “See, son. Business is done here differently than in Dublin.”