Page 48 of Irish Vice

He gives me a filthy look. “We’ve updated our procedures.”

“So ya’ve decided not t’ let killers past th’ front gate now?” I don’t mean to let my accent off the hook, but it feels good to say exactly what I’m thinking.

Prince snorts. “The jizzstain you killed came in with the caterers. Near as we can tell, he took out one oftheirguys and got in on his credentials.”

“And what are ya doin’ t’ keep it from happenin’ again?”

“Effective last Monday, the freeport uses no outside staff. We’ve hired all our own waiters, bartenders, busboys, the lot. And every cocksucking one of them clears freeport security before they set foot inside the gates.”

Jesus. I can’t complain he’s ignoring the threat. But I’m not ready to back down completely. “You’ve had almost two weeks. What do you know about the guy who went after Samantha?”

“Best didn’t read you in?”

I shake my head.

Prince says, “I’ll have him send you the files. We’ve got a name—Terrence King. No known address. The shitball was in and out of prison five times after he turned eighteen.”

“He’s with Russo?”

“Who?”

“Antonio Russo. Philly’s Mafia capo.”

“That motherfucker at your wedding?”

I grit my teeth. If I’d had my way, Russo wouldn’t have been within a hundred miles of St. Columba’s that day. “That’s the one.”

Prince shakes his head. “This guy was local. Dover born and fucking bred.”

That doesn’t make sense. I don’t have enemies in Delaware. No one local to the freeport should be going after Samantha.

Prince’s voice is deceptively mild as he says, “Too bad we can’t talk to the asshole. Get more information from the horse’s fucking mouth.”

“Don’t start,” I warn.

“Don’t drop any more bodies at my freeport.”

We stare out at the baseball game. They’ve started the second inning.

“We’re okay?” I finally ask, after the pitcher throws a monster curveball. Because Prince has a point. I should have waited before I killed the guy.

“Don’t let anything happen to Sam.”

“You know I won’t.”

We shake on it.

After that, I make my rounds, checking in with other members of the Diamond Ring. For most of them, that adds up to a handshake and a couple of questions about how business is going.

But when I get to Connor Boyle, it’s time for a more cautious conversation. I want to know if the Grand Irish Union is pushing for control in New York, same as in Philly.

Boyle rolls his shoulders in a massive shrug. “I won’t speak ill of the General,” he says, which lets me knowillis on his mind. But then he adds, “That daughter of his is a real stunner.”

I take a chance and say, “Thinks she’ll be running Boston before she turns thirty. And the Union a year or two after that.”

“From what I hear, she’s got her heart set on your corner of the world.” Boyle’s eyes are sharp over the rim of his glass.We’re not just acting the maggot anymore. This is a serious discussion.

“Then she’ll learn to live with disappointment.”