Page 19 of Irish Vice

I came out the worse in that exchange. Especially because I’m still working out the cost for the fire commissioner to forget that basement room. In the end, I’ll pass the debt on to Russo, I’ve vowed that. But for now, he’s made my life a feckin’ hell.

And I’m taking all my meetings at Thornfield.

My home office is any working man’s dream—a leather chair behind the desk big enough to handle my large frame, two chairs for visitors in a dark green plaid, with a matching couchlong enough to stretch out on when I need a kip. My favorite books line the walls, and a pair of windows look out over the drive so I get fair warning of anyone allowed past my guarded gate.

So that means I can watch Father Regis make his way down the drive after a morning of visiting with Birte and Aiofe. I’m not sure things went as Samantha hoped. Birte spoke in rhyme when she bothered to say anything at all, and Aiofe didn’t say a word. But the good father prayed over both of them and said he’ll be back soon.

At least I’ve kept my promise.

I’m still at the window when Madden arrives, climbing out of his acid-green McLaren, a car so flashy it makes my eyes bleed. My brother stretches like he’s made a cross-country trip, then he plants his hands on his hips and looks around the courtyard like he owns the feckin’ place.

I consider walking down the hall to see if Samantha’s eyeing the eejit from her own office. I’m man enough to know I don’t care if she’s watching the show. I just want to see her.

I want to see her smile, same as she did when she came to breakfast this morning. I want to see her shift on her chair, trying to find a comfortable position, given the arse I striped last night. I want to see her blush as she remembers how I used her, how she let herself be used.

I want to see her.

Which is reason enough for me to stay in my own bloody office. I have an empire to run. I pace away from the windows, flexing my knees to ease some of the pressure my zipper has placed on my cock.

Coming upstairs, Madden takes the steps two at a time, sounding like a T-Rex crashing through a jungle. He whistles as he’s walking down the hall, which gives me plenty of time to cross to the door. “What’s the cr—?” he starts to say, striding into the room.

Craic. He’s about to saycraic.But the word dies in his throat as I catch him in a headlock, partway over the threshold.

He’s slow going for my wrist, so he doesn’t stand a chance. I use my weight to press his temple against the doorframe, adding pressure until he goes limp in surrender. I ignore the twinge as my barely scabbed wound breaks open beneath its bandage.

“What the fuck?” he complains.

I’m out of line. Samantha said she had everything under control. But I growl, “Touch my wife again, and I’ll break your fucking neck.”

I’m cutting off my brother’s idiotic obsession right here, right now. He came at me with a bundle of lies the night we met Russo at the Rittenhouse. Foolishly, I listened to him then, and I lost five weeks with Samantha.

I know Madden’s only carping because he feels cornered by the Mafia don. He hates that Russo’s won the last few rounds. But I won’t let him put the blame on the woman I love, not when I finally have her home. Well, in the pool house. At Thornfield, anyway.

Still pressed against the door, my idiot brother proves he has more bollocks than brains by asking, “Which wife?”

Before I can rip those shriveled stones off him and make him eat them bite by bite, there’s a voice from the hallway. “Oh, joy. The circus came to town, and I’m in time to see the clowns.”

I give Madden one last shove before I push off him. Fiona’s standing in the hallway, dressed like she just stepped off one of those fashion runways in Paris. The crimson of her trousers looks like she dipped them in blood. Her jacket closes with a single button across her flat stomach, pretty much engraving an invitation to check out her tits. Her bra isn’t up to the challenge even though—or maybe because—the lacy cups are dyed to match the trousers. She’s finished the outfit with four-inch stilettos.

This is the first I’ve seen of Fiona Ingram this morning. Shewas under no obligation to come to breakfast—I have neither the jurisdiction nor desire to insist on house rules for her. But she clearly detoured by the dining room before coming to this meeting. From the smell of it, her expensive insulated mug is filled with coffee instead of the tea a good Irish girl should drink.

I growl at the pair of them and stalk over to my desk. Madden throws himself into one of the plaid chairs. Fiona takes over the couch. Fair play to her, choosing a seat that forces Madden to twist half-way round to keep an eye on her.

“Cards on the table,” I say, leaning back so they know I’m not intimidated by either of them. “Last month, we met with Russo’s bunch at the Rittenhouse.” I point at Fiona, knowing the gesture’s rude and not giving a shite. “You had marching orders from your da. You cut a deal with Russo’s boss before we ever sat down to the bargaining table.”

She doesn’t try to argue—just salutes me with her coffee before taking a sip. I fight a swell of irritation. I want her to lie, just so I can give out to her, put her in her place once and for all.

But I go on, because that’s the only option she’s left me. “For almost six weeks, I’ve worked under the peace treaty—no business west of Tenth Street, nothing from the port, no new corner boys. I’ve lost a third of my protection money, two whorehouses, and a gambling club, not to mention after-hours pours at all the bars. We’re running in the red.”

Fiona merely studies her nails. “A good Captain has a backup plan,” she says.

“Mybackup planwas boosting a shipment of cocaine from the Philadelphia port the night of the summit. The Germans were bringing it in, rebuilding after their own upsets last year.”

I witnessed part of thatupsetpersonally, a dry shite butchered for his poor choices in life. His business partners met their own bad ends shortly before Christmas, leaving a vacuum on the docks. And as the good Jesuit brothers taught me at St. Ann’s, nature abhors a vacuum.

I should have had a quarter billion dollars of coke free and clear last month.

“Russo hijacked the truck,” I say, just in case Fiona’s forgotten that little detail. “I’m still digging to find out how he knew about the shipment, how he traced the Fishtown Boys.”