Page 37 of Irish Brute

Madden shrugs. “I knew you’d want a prompt report.”

He’s playing me, same as he did when we were kids. Da would’ve had him on the milk run for a month, picking up protection envelopes as a reminder not to shirk—if Madden could even walk after Da ran his head into the door a time or three.

But I’m not Da. And Madden’s not my son. He’s my frustratingly talented brother who’s lazy enough to make a three-toed sloth look hyperactive. When Madden puts his mind to a problem, he’s more creative than the rest of my Clan Council combined. As his Captain, it’s my job to keep him properly motivated. So I won’t ride his arse over the police. This time.

“Go on, then,” I say.

“We hit all three targets at ten o’clock sharp.”

“Any problems?”

“None. We didn’t bother making them look like gas-main problems. Not with three simultaneous blasts.”

I wave a hand in agreement. “Anything left standing?”

“The massage parlors both had basements. It was easy enough to place bombs where they could take the whole building down.”

“And the strip club?”

“It was a little trickier. No windows, so it took longer for the fire to catch. Didn’t burn as hot. If Russo had a decent safe in there, he’ll probably be able to get something out of it once the place cools down.”

Not the result I wanted, but probably more than I deserve, given my tight turnaround. “Casualties?” I ask.

Madden looks at me from under his brow, one sigh short of a teenager gasping exasperation with a nagging parent. “I called, like you said. Gave everyone five minutes warning.”

“And?”

“How the fuck do I know? There were girls at all three joints. They came running out in their knickers, titties flying. There was a lot of shouting and hollering, but no one tried to go back in.”

Madden is annoyed, but I don’t actually give a fuck. “Any of our boys picked up?” I ask.

“None.”

He’s pretending to be relaxed on the sofa. His legs stretch forward like he’s sitting in his own parlor, watching telly and having a lash with the boys. His head lolls back. If he were chewing gum, he’d blow a bubble just about now.

Which pretty much gives me the answer to my next question, but I have to ask it anyway. “And the garage?”

“Well, there we had some problems.”

Now it comes together—keeping Patrick away, the drawn-out report, pretending to be casual as he wastes the oxygen in my home. Madden fucked up.

“I want my Lamborghini,” I say, like a fucking car is what matters when I can’t trust my second-in-command.

“Then I hope Father Christmas left you a quarter million dollars.”

“I’ll dockyouthe quarter mill, wanker.”

“Jaysus!” Madden explodes. “You gave us twenty-four hours to plan the job. Russo’s got those cars locked up tighter than a nun’s chuff. He’s got four layers of electronic locks—finger scans, retina scans, facial recognition, and voice ID—and that’s after you get past the twenty-foot wall, the concertina wire, and the dogs.”

“I’m not looking for excuses,” I say. But I have to admit, I’m impressed. Russo’s protecting those vehicles a hell of a lot better than he watches over the slags making him money on their backs.

“I put Donny in charge,” Madden says. “You know if there was any way, he?—

Before Madden can lie, my phone rings. It’s the encrypted one, the one I use to take calls from my men in the field.Donovan O’Keefesays the screen. One of Patrick’s best enforcers.

“Speak of the devil,” I say to Madden. I hold up a finger, more than happy to make my brother wait while I conduct business. I tap the phone and say, “Donny.”

“I am afraid not.” The voice is gravel and broken tree trunks.