Page 63 of Irish Vice
Liam’s sole job was keeping an eye on the woman I call my wife. I want to hang him from the ceiling by his bollocks.
But I want her home more. And if there’s a chance she’ll call him from the road… Better to keep Liam on my side. For now.
Samantha’s been driving herself around for well over a decade. She’s a responsible, capable woman. She keeps her head in challenging situations; she’s a capable enough fighter that she bloodied Madden’s nose.
But she’s never been out in Philadelphia with so many enemies on the streets.
We still don’t know who sent the man—Terrence King—to attack her at the freeport. I’ve done my digging, and Prince has too. Even Best has gotten in on the game. But whoever hired that piece of shite could be planning another attack, this very moment.
Russo’s been quiet since he made out like a king at our Rittenhouse summit, but I don’t trust that peace to last muchlonger. Once he wakes, he’ll be loud, and if he decides to settle all of this, once and for all…
There’s Ingram, too. I declared open war with him yesterday. This morning’s skirmish only proves I’m not backing down. I assumed getting rid of Fiona would cost me money, maybe even some territory. But if Ingram’s angry enough to hand the Fishtown Boys over to a man of his own choosing, he’ll start by hitting me in my soft bits. And there’s nothing softer than Samantha…
Christ. Even Fiona could work her own scheme. She acted calm yesterday, but my rejection had to sting. She’s a viper in her own right—seven men she’s taken down. If she decides getting at Samantha’s the way to even things up with me…
And there’s Madden. He’s bullin’ at me, but he’s not eejit enough to touch Samantha. Unless Fiona puts him up to it. Unless he’s ready to make a break with the Fishtown Boys… Unless…
He can’t. He won’t. Despite all the shite over the last four months, we’re brothers.
But the Mafia, the GIU, a woman scorned, and an enemy I can’t begin to name? Those are more than enough reasons to get Patrick back on the phone.
“I’m five minutes out, Boss,” he says. “Just parking now.”
“Change of plans. I need four men with me, here in Fishtown. Now.”
“Did someone?—”
“And once I’m home, I want them backing up the guards on the gate. With machine guns. Walking patrols at the fence. Visible.”
He doesn’t waste time arguing. “My best men are on their way. You’re safe until I get there?”
I want to believe I’m over-reacting. I’m putting on a show here in Fishtown and protecting the piece of property I call home because I can’t get a man to Samantha.
But glancing around, I realize that a late-model Ford hasbeen idling in the loading zone across the street since before Liam called. And a man hurrying down the sidewalk—shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets—is heading on a straight line to me. And that woman going into the coffee shop could be reaching for anything in her ragged, stained backpack.
My scarred forearm burns, and I’m back in the closet, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for a storm of bullets to tear me apart. I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to be brave. But I’m six years old and I’m pissing my pants as Sister Mary Margaret dies.
The car pulls away. The man veers into a drug store. The woman comes up with a wallet, even more worn than her pack.
Patrick’s still on the line, professional enough to have kept his silence while he waited. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.” But I add, “Hurry.”
Patrick arrives in under two minutes. He’s got one hand tucked into his jacket; fingers on the Glock he keeps in a shoulder holster. “Boss,” he says, his eyes sweeping the street with steady concentration.
Seamus saunters over five minutes later. It only takes him a moment to pick up on Patrick’s tension. He studies the rooflines above us like he’s thinking about funding an award for urban architecture.
“Forget about walking Fishtown today,” I tell them. “But I want a list of possible properties for a new Hare and Harp on my desk by Friday.”
I give them my specifics—square footage, ideal location, a basement I can outfit the way I need. Chances are, the place will already be occupied, but Seamus is an expert at manufacturing financial incentives. And Patrick can pick up the slack if anyone makes the mistake of being unreasonable.
Patrick’s men show up as I finish outlining my expectations. All four enforcers are big enough to offer intimidation just on sight. Two have shoulder holsters. Another has a pistol in thesmall of his back. The fourth looks like he’s got a gun strapped to his ankle—not my choice, but it’s a free world.
If they’re Patrick’s best, they’ve also got weapons I can’t clock, which is fine with me. They’ll pick up machine guns from the stash at the house.
One of the men climbs in the Aston Martin with me. The others go with Patrick and Seamus. Opening the throttle once I’m back on the freeway, I call Fairfax, and he says the house is quiet.
Thornfield is safe.
Birte and Aiofe are safe.