Page 8 of Irish Vice

BRAIDEN

I’ve kept Kieran Ingram waiting for longer than any sane man would dare. But in for a penny, in for a pound. “This isn’t a good time,” I growl into my phone. But I’m not suicidal. I add his title at the end of my complaint: “Boss.”

“If I waited fer ya t’ tell me when th’ time is good, I’d be a carcass rottin’ underground.” The General of the Grand Irish Union sounds like he’s gearing up to take a hit out on me. Ingram is in charge of Boston’s Mob, but he’s also the head of us all—New York, Philadelphia, Chicago and all the rest.

My wife is freezing her arse off in the garden, singing songs to herself and staring at the sky. The woman I love just traded my bedroom for the feckin’ pool house so she won’t have to put up with the likes of me. The child I’m responsible for is nowhere to be seen, and I can only hope she’s being cared for by the drunk I’ve hired to do the job.

My life’s in the jacks, so it doesn’t seem like much of a risk tosay, “I’ll call you from the office tomorrow, Boss. When I can talk freely.”

I don’t bother filling him in on the details—the office I worked out of for years is wrapped up in yellow crime-scene tape, while Philadelphia’s finest drag their feet investigating who burned it to the ground.

I know who torched the Hare and Harp. The same man who stole a quarter of a billion dollars worth of cocaine from me five weeks ago. Antonio Russo. It’s always fucking Russo.

Not that Ingram gives a shite. “Ya’ll talk t’ me now, boyo, or I’ll put someone in Thornfield Hall who understands th’ way things work.”

His threat ends with an explosion of coughing. The gombeen smokes three packs a day, and his lungs have turned to porridge.

Waiting for him to catch his breath, I remind myself that Ingram’s never made an idle threat in his life. When he can breathe and I can talk without a sarcastic sneer, I say, “What can I do for you today, Boss?”

“Fiona’s arrivin’ at noon.”

Fiona. His daughter. Ingram’s used her as a weapon against me before. “Arriving where?” I ask, even though the stone in my belly says I already have my answer.

He ignores my question, as well he should. “Ya’ll show her how ya run things there in Philly.”

Issuing his order triggers another coughing jag. While Ingram hacks up half a lung, I review my sorry options.

I’m a Captain in the Irish Mob. I rule Philadelphia, same as my da did before me, and his da before that. I choose my men, from my Clan Chief to my driver. If I don’t trust someone, he doesn’t sit at my table.

And I don’t trust Fiona Ingram. She’s a schemer, a spy intent on proving herself to her dry shite of a da. Ingram sent her down here a month ago to broker a peace with Russo, and the chaos coming out of that meeting nearly cost me Samantha.

Samantha. The woman I took a bullet for less than twenty-four hours ago. The woman who just moved into my pool house because my life’s a fucking mess.

Kieran’s finally breathing again, so I take the opportunity to bargain for more time. “Noon is too soon,” I say. “I’ve…complications to attend to.”

“Yer whole life is complications, boyo. Let Fiona help with that. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

Not for the wreck of my home life. And I’m not about to open up every corner of my business to Ingram and the Grand Irish Union. I’ll hand things over to Russo first.

So I shoot in the dark. “What does Fiona say about coming down here?”

“She’ll do as she’s told. Always has. Always will.”

Rumor has it that in the past, Fiona’s been told to kill four men. She’s added to the list herself; her total’s closer to seven.

And after Fiona’s explored my Fishtown business inside and out, she won’t hesitate to make it eight. Take over Clan Kelly once and for all. Name herself first woman Captain in Philadelphia’s history, and any of my lieutenants who don’t like it can answer to her and Ingram both.

“Do we have an understandin’ boyo?”

“Yeah,” I lie. I understand. I just have no intention of obeying. I can’t keep Fiona out of Thornfield, but I don’t have to give her a glimpse of my business operations.

“What’s that?” he presses.

“Yes, Boss.”

“Treat Herself proper,” he says. “Like ya’d treat me, if I came down there.”

He makes me scrape and bow a few more times before he ends the call.