Page 82 of Irish Vice

I’m Captain of the Fishtown Boys. I make hard decisions every day.

But in my heart of hearts, I know I acted too fast with Samantha. I said things no man should ever say. NoDomshould ever admit.

I can afford to slow things down with Madden. He’s mybrother. I can wait through the weekend. Till Monday even.

And if he hasn’t come to his senses by then, I’ll do what has to be done.

34

SAMANTHA

Thursday. I check out of my hotel room before dawn. It might be safe to spend another night there. Maybe no one’s looking for me. But it feels smarter to move to another chain hotel, to book another room. It’s easy enough to flee when I can pile all my possessions on the passenger seat of my car.

Friday. The third Mousetrap podcast drops. They’ve interviewed people who attended the graduation party, witnesses who say I was drunk, I was high, that they tried to stop me from leaving. I don’t remember any of the names; I don’t know if they’re telling the truth or trying to bask in the glory of podcast celebrity. The episode ends with the sound of tires squealing on a road, followed by an ominous thud.

By noon, someone has tracked down my freeport email address. Truth be told, I’m surprised it’s taken this long. Within fifteen minutes, my inbox is flooded with the worst kind of trash:U should B dead 2. Die, bitch, die. Choke on this—that last one with a dick pic attached. I delete the first dozen emails before I realize Ineed to save them as evidence in case someone takes so-called justice into their own hands.

Traffic only picks up in the afternoon. IT says the servers can’t handle the load. I sign off on an emergency spend for cloud storage. Trap authorizes more money for a team to filter the foul stream, to make sure client matters actually reach my desk. I work until midnight, just to catch up. And to avoid my sterile hotel room.

Saturday, finally. I change hotels and, after an icy shower to drive away the worst of my fatigue, I’m back in the office by seven. I feel like a soldier marching miles from dawn to dusk. A dull headache pounds between my eyes, radiating through the scars along my hairline. I catch myself rubbing my wrists, as if they’re raw from handcuffs.

Sunday. New hotel. Sunrise at the freeport. A dozen messages on my office telephone, another ten on the cell I turned off for the few hours I tried to sleep. My email inbox continues to overflow.

The Philadelphia Enquirerhas turned my life into a full Sunday feature. Someone’s talked from my old neighborhood. There’s a photo from my first communion, and another of Eliza and me in our school uniforms. The newspaper raided my senior yearbook to get black-and-white smiles: Me, Eliza, Giorgia, and Gianni. There’s a four-column-wide view of the twisting mountain road, of the ditch yawning like the mouth of hell. And there’s a snap from Monday night, when I fled Thornfield—overexposed, my face pale, my eyes wild as I gripped the wheel of the Mercedes.

I don’t have to worry about Mousetrap anymore. TheEnquirerhas scooped them. It’s there, all of it: My “family association” with Mafia capo Antonio Russo. My flight to New York and my adoption of a new name. My marriage to Irish mob boss Braiden Kelly; my fleeing the marital home after midnight.

I look desperate. I look like a criminal. I look deranged.

Sonja leaves a message. “This is a fucking nightmare,” shesays. “I strongly recommend that you retain counsel and consider suing them for defamation.”

But truth is a defense to a claim for libel. There’s nothing theEnquirerhas written that isn’t true. Sure, they’ve built up the drama. They’ve made my life look like every gangster movie ever filmed. But they’ve researched their facts, and they’ve sprinkled in the word “allegedly” when absolutely necessary.

There’s nothing I can do.

I’m preparing my letter of resignation for Trap when he sends a text:

Trap

Don’t even think about it.

I try to follow his orders. I try not to think. The only thing that can begin to make me forget the hell of my current life is work. I stay at the freeport till two in the morning, trying to make up for everything I’ve ever done wrong in my entire life.

Monday. Change hotels. Cold shower. Strong coffee. Work.

The office feels like a funeral home. Everyone speaks in soft tones, and no one—not even Mary—meets my eyes. I keep my office door closed, trying to make it easier for everyone.

Asher calls at 4:59.

“Tell me you’ve got proof it’s Russo,” I say.

He sighs, and my memory supplies the cigar stench wafting across my office. “You aren’t going to like this.”

No shit. We’re talking about the man who tried to kill me.

But I keep my weary response to myself. Asher goes on: “There’s no record of Russo or any of his soldiers being in contact with King. No one from the East Falls Crew traveled to Dover. There’s no indication that King ever went toPhiladelphia. I checked phone records, bank records, traffic cameras. Nothing.”

Asher is wrong. Russo has to be involved. It’s the only thing that makes sense.