Page 62 of Irish Vice

“Ya hurt my Fiona’s feelin’s, boyo.”

“She shouldn’t have been surprised. Not if her eyes were open. Not if she paid an ounce of attention, the entire time she was here.”

“Ya have one chance t’ make this right.”

“Don’t bother giving me a deadline, old man. I won’t play your game. I’ve struck out on two wives, and I won’t try a third.”

“Ya seem t’ think I’m askin’.”

“Youseem to think I’m one of your Boston boys, pissing my pants every time you start to roar.”

“They call it a union fer a reason, boyo!”

“Because that’s how they do things over in Dublin. Because that gives you a chance to lord it over the rest of us. Because that’s how you make your fucking money, tapping your Captains to pay up their tithes, like scared little boys topping off the collection plate. I’m not scared, Ingram. I’m not little. And by Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m not a boy.”

He starts coughing when I’m only halfway through, and hehasn’t caught his breath by the time I get to the end. I could wait for his threats, for his telling me to watch my back, for his twin demands of obedience and tribute.

But nothing he can say will make me take back my words. I’m tired of bending a knee to an old man whose days are numbered. So I tap the call done before he splutters another word, and head off to my meeting in Fishtown.

I get there first. There’s a coffee shop on the corner, and they’re doing good business, which would ordinarily please me, because what’s good for the neighborhood is good for the Boys.

But every time someone opens the shop door, the smell of coffee wafts to where I’m waiting. Of course, that makes me think of Samantha, and that makes me think of the feckin’ disaster I left at breakfast and that makes me wonder what the hell I’m actually going to do about Birte.

Because Samantha is right: Birte’s getting worse. Maybe she’s overwhelmed by spending time outside of the attic. Maybe Easter was too much for her religious sensibilities. Maybe…

I don’t have a feckin’ clue.

Then call a doctor and get one.

I need Samantha out of my feckin’ head.

My phone rings, and I know the boys would laugh if they saw how fast I take it from my pocket. It’s not Samantha, though.

It’s Liam. And he starts off apologizing, which can’t be good. “I’m sorry, Boss.”

I sigh. “What’s she done now?”

He hesitates a moment, but not too long because he’s one of my best men. “Took her Mercedes,” he says. “I tried to go with her?—”

I interrupt him with a curse.Truth be told, I forgot Samantha’s car was in my feckin’ garage. “Just pull up the tracker. Keep an eye?—”

“There isn’t a tracker, Boss.”

I pinch my lower lip. Of course there isn’t a tracker. When Ihad the car brought to Thornfield, Samantha and I had already had ructions about my selling off her condo. It wasn’t worth another fifteen rounds over the Mercedes. I figured I’d sell it soon enough, after she had a chance to settle in. No need to add the tracker I put in all my cars.

“Did she say where she was going?”

“No, Boss.”

Did she take a suitcase with her?I can’t make myself ask it. Part of me doesn’t want to know.

I force more confidence into my voice than I feel. “Let me know when she’s back.”

“I will, Boss. I’m sorry. I didn’t think she’d go like that. I should have forced her to stop. I should have dived in front of the car. I should have?—”

“We’ll talk after she’s home.”

I end the call while he’s still groveling.