Page 96 of Irish Vice

Only when Madden is gagging, when his chest is heaving, when his belly is rising and falling like he’s about to give birth, does Braiden jam the scalpel deep into his groin. He twists. He carves. And he jams the resulting link of flesh past Madden’s filthy lips, choking him on his own cock.

It takes Madden a century to die.

When it’s finally over, Braiden hangs his head, breathing like a bull. I’m pretty sure he didn’t intend to kill Madden—not so soon, not without getting at least one honest answer to his questions. Madden goaded him on purpose, ending his torture by pushing Braiden past reason.

Braiden drops the scalpel between his brother’s mutilated legs. He strips off his shirt and uses it to wipe his hands, sponging up as much of the muck as he can with the white cotton fabric. He drops the ruined shirt on Madden’s body and crosses to the surgical sink. Lathering up like he’s scrubbing in for surgery, he washes all the way up to his elbows, taking care to soap between each finger, under his nails, around the sinews of his wrists. After he finally rinses, Seamus pushes off from the wall and hands him a towel.

“Thanks,” Braiden says, as if he’s just been passed a cocktail napkin.

“Where should I take him?” Seamus asks.

Braiden says, “Leave it for now.”

It. Madden is gone forever.

Braiden goes on. “We’ll send pieces to Russo—put them in that fucking McLaren and leave them at his gate. But we all need sleep first. There’ll be pushback once this gets out.”

Seamus shakes his head, keeping his voice mild. “Russo doesn’t give a shit about that guy.”

“He’ll bite. I took his toy away.” Seamus still wants to argue, but Braiden interrupts. “Not a word to anyone. Not until I say.”

“Not a word,” Seamus agrees after a few heartbeats.

“Go on, then,” Braiden tells him.

Seamus barely glances at me before he opens the infirmary door. His head is high as he takes the stairs. He doesn’t look back.

So there’s no one to see what happens, when Braiden finally turns to me.

45

BRAIDEN

Ican’t take my eyes off Samantha. She’s my bridge to the future. She’s the way I leave behind the butchered animal on the table and come back to the world of men.

But she has to know the truth. She has to understand, or anything else between us will be built on lies.

I show her my hands—still flushed from my scrubbing. My fingers spread wide, not a hint of tremor. “I won’t apologize for this,” I say. “You’ve seen who I am. What I’ll do. You have to know that.”

“I see.” Her chin trembles a little as she says it but her eyes meet mine. “I know.” And then she takes a deep breath. “Braiden—” But she cuts herself off. “Please. Can we talk somewhere else?”

I’ve made my point, so there’s no reason to stay in this stinking hellhole. I gesture for her to leave first, but I take time to lock the door behind us. The last thing I need tonight is Aiofe stumbling on her uncle’s mangled body.

Samantha begins to relax the instant the door is closed. Her shoulders come down from around her ears. The lines on her forehead ease, the ones that look like she’s fighting a migraine.

I want her in my bed.

But I take her to my office.

From the windows, I can see two firetrucks left on a driveway pocked with puddles. A few men in turnout gear explore what’s left of the garage—blackened timbers and stone tumbled around the carcasses of cars. More stand around, drinking from foam cups. Fairfax is talking to someone who seems to be in charge.

Of course Fairfax has the situation under control. He always does. Nevertheless, I should get out there.

But Samantha starts again, matching her tone precisely to the one she used in the surgery. “I had to come here, Braiden. I hired an investigator, and he made his report tonight. That’s how I knew Madden was working with Russo. I had to let you know, even though… Even with… Even after we…”

Jesus Christ. She thinks I’m going to throw her out. She thinks I don’t want her here.

“Stop,” I say.