Page 55 of Thorns of Deceit

Tyran snickered beside me. “He must suffer from amnesia.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Kyran, want to have another go at him? Or should we give the honors to Kingston?”

Before I even finished my sentence, Kyran was by my side with a knife in his hand.

“I can handle this one.”

I stepped back and watched with an indifferent expression as my brother worked him expertly. The screams bounced off the wall, and it took a mere ten minutes for him to spill his guts.

“It’s leaving Paris tomorrow morning,” he screamed. “It’s sitting at the private charter runway at Le Bourget Airport.”

“The registration number of the plane scheduled to transport my goods?”

He recited the numbers and I shot a glance at my brothers.

“We’re on it,” Tyran said as they left.

I pulled out my matte black Glock G19 and aimed, and in the next heartbeat, a shot rang out, echoing through the docks.

“Any chance you’re in the business of killing a Scot today?” I asked Kingston as I holstered my weapon.

“Not today.”

I kept my eyes on him, studying his stoic expression. “Even if I said money is no object?”

He shrugged. “I don’t need money. Got more of it than I know what to do with.” He wasn’t boasting either. “Duncan still blaming you for the death of his daughter?”

His daughter. Raven.My wife. The woman I failed to protect.

A heavy feeling settled in my chest as images flashed in my head. She was innocent and had barely started living when she was taken from me.

“Don’t answer that. Obviously, he is,” Kingston said. “None of it was your fault, Aiden. You must know that.”

Kingston was a man of few words, and he never minced words, so the fact that he offered platitudes now surprised me.

“I know,” I said in a cold voice, although deep inside, the guilt was impossible to shake off.

He nodded.

“I have to find a way to end this feud,” I declared. “Before it costs me all I’ve built.”

TWENTY

AIDEN

The next evening, streetlights bathed Paris in a soft, honeyed glow, flickering against the cobblestones as I neared the Marchetti venue where Reina Romero’s fashion show was set to begin. The night air was thick with the scent of distant jasmine, car exhaust, and that uniquely Parisian cocktail of aged stone and cigarette smoke.

My shoes clicked against the pavement as I neared the Marchetti venue, knowing full well that this was going to be a waste of my time, but I was doing it as a favor to my sister and her husband.

As the head of the DiMauro family, Luca had become a de facto member of the Omertà, but his bad blood with Enrico Marchetti had him sticking to Sicily and ruling from his island. I assisted him with Omertà relations while running the Callahan mafia, and in both cases, the only vow that counted was the one given to the mafia.

Over the last few decades, the Omertà had changed and adapted, allowing it to flourish. The five ruling families—Marchetti, DiMauro, Agosti, Romero, and Leone—haddeveloped a finely honed sense of loyalty among their citizens, but also made powerful alliances with the Irish, namely the Callahan mafia, through me. But that was not where it stopped. Alliances were also made with the Russians, Brazilians, Greeks, and, through Kingston—the infamous Ghost—with the Ashfords.

I stepped inside the venue and noticed that the show had already begun. Perfume hung in the air while music floated through the space and spotlights cut through the dim haze, highlighting the makeshift runway.

Picking an empty corner, I leaned against the wall, sliding my hands into my pockets and settling into the role of disinterested observer.

Young women strutted, showcasing the Romero girl’s collection. Blonde. Redhead. Blonde again. Each moved like they were born to be worshipped, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. There was only one shade that did it for me.