Page 68 of Irish Vice

“She told that wop where t’ find yer man. Donovan O’Keefe.”

Just the name is enough to make me picture the live video feed on my phone. Donny lashed to a chair, broken and beaten. Donny soaked with petrol, an Irish flag jammed down his throat. Donny writhing in flames, screaming for longer than I thought any man could.

Cold sweat coats my palms. When I remember how to swallow, all I taste is battery acid.

“Samantha didn’t hand over Donny.”

“Stop listenin’ t’ yer prick, boyo. Start seein’ th’ facts.”

I close my eyes, searching for the magic words that will make Ingram understand. I start: “I don’t know who’s been telling you stories.”

But it has to be Fiona. She had to tell him something about why I sent her packing. She had to justify my choosing Samantha over her.

“This isn’t about stories, boyo. This is about trust. And if I can’t trust one o’ my own captains?—”

“You can trust me,” I say through gritted teeth.

“IthoughtI could trust ya wi’ Fiona,” he shouts. “We had a plan!”

I wonder if one of his men is in the room with him. Maybe he’s embarrassed by that coughing fit, by what it took out of him. He has to prove he’s still strong enough to be general. That’s why he’s being so stubborn.

I purposely pitch my voice low, still hoping to calm him. Hoping he’ll let me end this feckin’ call so I can leave Samantha another voicemail and get her home where she belongs. “There wasn’t a plan,” I remind him. “I never said I’d marry Fiona.Yousaid that.”

“Well, I’m sayin’ this, too, boyo. Ya take care o’ yer one, once and fer all. Ya make sure she never talks t’ th’ feds. Can I trust ya withthat? Or is it time fer someone else t’ run Philly?”

It’s a fucking loyalty test. I kill Samantha, and I’m allowed tokeep the clan. I refuse, and someone else takes over the Fishtown Boys.

And Ingram takes out Samantha and me, both. That’s the bit he hasn’t said out loud.

“You don’t want to do that,” I say with false calm. “Not with all the attention on her now, the press about her car crash.”

“About th’ weans she killed? She’s poison, boyo. Get rid of her.”

“If something happens to her now, important people will ask a lot of questions. Questions that will attract too much attention.”

Attention from the FBI.

I think about saying that last bit out loud. But that might overplay my hand. I can’t sign my own death warrant while I’m fighting against Samantha’s.

Ingram says, “Don’t think I’m fergettin’ my Fiona. With yer side bit gone, ya can do what ya should’ve done th’ first time yer general gave ya orders.”

“Samantha’s not my si?—”

He cuts me off. “Do. It.”

He ends the call before I can.

Fingers shaking, I place yet another call to Samantha. I don’t care that it’s not the quarter hour. I don’t care about keeping my voice perfectly even. I don’t care about making her more angry, or frightened, or sad.

“Samantha,” I say when she doesn’t pick up. “Game’s over,piscín. This just turned life or death. Get your arse home now.”

27

SAMANTHA

It’s after ten by the time I get back to Thornfield. The second Mousetrap podcast has spawned more protesters and signs that weren’t there this morning:No One Should Die Like a Dog in a Ditch. Drugs Kill. No More Victims. John 3:16.

The knot of paparazzi sends out tentacles the moment my Mercedes comes into sight. Cameras flash, and the two most persistent reporters stake out positions directly in front of the gate.