Page 61 of Irish Vice

I slide behind the wheel of the Mercedes and punch the ignition button. The engine purrs to life, perfectly maintained, because everything is flawlessly managed in Braiden Kelly’s domain. That’s what he’s purchased with his billions.

Fucked anyone worth half a dollar…

Stabbing at the screen for the radio, I crank a classic rock station so loud my ears bleed. Liam’s standing by the passenger door, saying something I can’t hear. He reaches for the handle, but I peel out of the garage before he has a chance to open the door.

Approaching the gate, I blare the horn. Liam hasn’t thought to call down to the guards yet. I’ve always been such a good little prisoner. Always done exactly what I’ve been ordered to do.

She spied for a wop…

The gate grinds open. The instant I can clear the iron bars, I gun the car through.

The paparazzi are taken by surprise; they barely jump out of the way in time to avoid being hit. The protesters scramble too. A few shake their signs, but most of them are still fighting to display their hateful words as I roar past.

I take turns faster than I should, getting to the main road. For one quick moment, I consider driving down to Dover. It’s a work day. The freeport needs me.

The hell with work days. The hell with Dover. The hell with anyone and anything telling me what I’m supposed to do.

I skid onto the on-ramp for the freeway, heading northbecause that traffic light is green, and I don’t want to stop. Maneuvering into the fast lane, I rely on my mirrors to know the coast is clear.

My tires thunder over dividers in the road, falling into a rhythm that matches the doggerel in my head.

Gave away the whole shop…

As I near Trenton, a bright green sign announces that New York City is 61 miles away. Blue signs point me toward rest areas. The traffic is moving fast—ten miles over the speed limit, fifteen, twenty.

Shoot her now, before she can holler.

I press down on the gas pedal, trying to outpace the limerick in my head. I never make a conscious decision. I never tell myself the truth. But in my heart of hearts, I know I’m driving all the way to Boston.

BRAIDEN

In the past, when I needed a break from Thornfield, I drove downtown to the Hare and Harp. I drowned my sorrows in a glass of the black stuff. I called my Council to meet in my private office at the back of the pub.

But that isn’t an option today. It hasn’t been for over two months—since Russo burned my bar to the ground.

Time for that to change.

I place three calls as I drive downtown. The first is to Seamus, my Quartermaster. He manages the clan’s finances—dozens of bank accounts spread out across the city, along with the off-shore dealings we need to keep things craic. I tell him to meet me at the corner of Frankford and Master.

My second call is to Patrick, my Warlord, back from Ireland nearly two weeks since he collected the Book of Skreen. Technically, he’s my chief enforcer, in charge of all the muscle the clan can wield. But at forty-eight, he’s my oldest advisor, the one I trust most to tell me when my arse is showing. Plus, he’s lived inPhiladelphia for thirty years, and he knows every block of downtown like a priest knows the Bible.

My third call is to Madden. He’s still my Clan Chief, my second-in-command. His driving off with Fiona yesterday didn’t change that, any more than my breaking his jaw did, weeks back.

I’m his Captain. And his brother. We need to talk. Clear the air. Get back to doing what we do best—making money for the Fishtown Boys.

When he doesn’t answer his phone, I leave him a message: “Call me when you get this. I’m settling on a new place for the Hare this morning, and I’d like your input.”

See? I can be perfectly reasonable, when people around me aren’t doing their level best to drive me mad.

Before I can put my phone back in my pocket, it sings out “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” So much for not driving me mad.

“What?” I snap when I answer the call.

Page 61 of Irish Vice

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