Page 95 of Irish Vice

“She’s with Fairfax. He’s taking her back to his cottage.”

He nods once before he says, “You don’t need to see this.”

“I do.”

He won’t argue. He never does. He’ll just issue a single command—no—in that tone I can’t resist.

But he doesn’t do it. Instead, he says, “Close the door. If you need to boke, there’s a trashcan in the corner.”

Madden lies naked on the paper-covered table. Medical scissors and clumps of blood-stained cloth tell the story of someone cutting him free from his ruined clothes. Vinyl cuffs are buckled around his wrists and ankles, holding him fast.

The restraints didn’t come easy. Seamus is shaking his right hand; his knuckles are split. A spray of blood paints the floor. There’s a smear of handprints on Madden’s heaving chest. The mess that used to be his face pulses with every breath he gasps.

Drawers stand open, and cabinets gape. One counter iscovered with bandages and sutures, syringes and vials of drugs. Another is lined with the sterile blue of a freshly opened surgery pack. Stainless steel tools gleam in the cold bright light—forceps and clamps, retractors and scalpels, heavy-duty tweezers and a bone saw.

Madden’s moaning is a constant low rumble. His lips are the color of liver.

Braiden selects the forceps and runs his thumb along its ridged jaw. “Let’s go all the way back,deartháir. When did you first meet with Russo behind my back?”

Madden barely sounds human as he spits, “Go to hell.Deartháir.”

Braiden strikes like he’s delivering a boxing jab, stepping between me and the table. I can’t see what he does with the forceps, but Madden’s keening is loud enough that I want to cover my ears. The cry goes on, longer and louder than I ever thought possible. The smell of piss is sharp in the air.

Braiden drops something bloody onto the floor. Madden pants, “Thank God we live in Philly. City of Brotherly Love.”

Braiden shifts his grip on the forceps, holding them just above Madden’s ruined face. “How much did he pay you to save his fucking cars?”

“Why,deartháir?Need a loan?” Madden asks, the words pulled and twisted through blood.

Another strike from Braiden, but this time he holds on longer, and his shoulders shake with the effort. Madden’s screams turn my stomach to fire-washed stone. The reek of shit floods the room. Both men are gasping like beached sharks when Braiden finally steps back.

I can’t watch. I can’t leave. I look at Seamus to see how he can bear this, but he’s leaning against the wall, shoulders back, studying his thumbnail like his cuticles have done something to offend him.

Braiden drops the forceps on the floor. As he moves to select a scalpel from the counter, I can finally see Madden’s newlyravaged face. I swallow hard, telling myself I don’t need the trashcan in the corner. I’m stronger than that. I have to be.

Madden opens his eyes as Braiden moves back into position. I can’t see where Braiden presses the scalpel—on his brother’s chest or his belly—but I watch Madden’s lips stretch tight.

Braiden demands, “How much did you get for Donovan O’Keefe, motherfucker?”

“Didn’t…fuck…my…mam.” Madden fights for each word. “Fucked…yours.”

I expect Braiden to make one quick cut but he doesn’t. Instead, his shoulders tense and his arm moves slowly—inching, inching, inching his way down Madden’s body like he’s sculpting a masterpiece.

Madden’s shriek would shatter glass, if there was any in this torture chamber. Tears stream from his eyes into the mangled hole where his nose used to be. Every muscle in his body convulses; he strains so hard I’m certain he’ll break his bonds. I wait for the table to collapse.

But the buckles hold. The straps too. The table stands.

Madden pants through his teeth, foul air whistling out of him. He tosses his head, and I wonder if he can still see, if he’s still able to hear. I can’t imagine how much more of this he can take.

But before Braiden can ask another question, Madden’s thrashing stops. His eyes open. He turns toward me and grasps with his near hand, as if he wants to feel the fabric of my suit.

When he speaks, he seems to have found some new well of strength. His words are slurred because his face is shattered, but he manages complete sentences, gasping just a little, every few words.

“Thanks for leaving…my cock,deartháir. I need it…to fuck your guinea whore…up the arse.” He purses his lips in parody of a kiss. “Russo’s waiting, Giovanna.”

Braiden doesn’t shout. He doesn’t strike. He doesn’t falter.

He simply swipes beneath Madden’s body, filling his handwith an unholy mess of piss and shit and blood. He shoves his palm against his brother’s bleeding mouth. He swipes his fingers through the ruins of Madden’s nose and cheek.