Page 58 of The Cat's Mausy

Fergus felt his heart stop, lowering his hands to stare down at the photo of three men. “Finnegan Ian O’Riley,” he breathed, taking the photo in shaking fingers and staring at the face of a man he had called his friend for nearly forty years. He had known Finn and Lu-Lu had been fighting. Fuck, he had stopped Lu-Lu from gutting Finn the day- “If he has taken Issac,” he said, “then-” he dropped the photo before he crushed it.

“Declare open season, Fergus,” Tony said calmly. “Our people will get the boy back. Gatto’s Snake has already located him.”

He took a deep breath and set the photo in the ashtray, carefully putting the cigarette out on the smiling face of the man who betrayed him and the Mauses. “It is open season on Finnegan O’Riley and any Clover that tries to protect his traitorous arse.” He opened the app created nearly five years ago for this purpose, one he had always hoped he would never have to touch. “I will send the word. No one will get in your people’s way.” He breathed in slowly. “Ask Gatto to make it hurt from me.”

* * *

There was a bitter taste in Issac’s mouth and a throbbing pain in every part of him as he stirred. He took a breath and felt a stabbing that made him gasp which brought on another stabbing pain. That’s a vicious cycle, he thought, holding his breath for a moment as he tried to sit up and slowly opened his eyes.

There was a kid sitting across from him and Issac remembered the driver. He couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen years old, with fiery red hair that curled across his freckled face. He was dressed in a green hoodie, jeans, and sneakers so dirty that the white fabric had turned brown. He was also sound asleep, sitting backwards in an office chair with one arm tucked under his cheek and the other stretched out in front of him as he snored softly. Issac could see a bandage just under his sleeve that looked new.

Why the fuck is he here, Issac thought, frowning as he slowly looked around the familiar room. The last time he remembered being in this office… His dad had put him in here, angry and telling him to stay put as he turned on a little radio that was no longer there. A bluetooth speaker had replaced it, the light blinking faintly. Everything else looked more or less the same.

He could hear men outside. The crack of a pool game, the clinks of glasses, the smells of fried food, beer, and cigarettes. It was like someone plucked a memory and played it out for him.

Twisting his wrists, he felt hard plastic cut into his skin. Zipties held his wrists together through the arms of the chair he was sitting in, more attaching his ankles to the front legs. Even if he could find the breath to try to struggle free, he was more likely to knock his chair over than break the plastic. He remembered them taking his phone; if they were smart then it had been tossed out the rolled down window. Wiggling his fingers, he could feel the smooth band of his watch.

The kid sighed softly in his sleep, shifting his arms as he snuggled into them, and settled in again.

Issac stared at him. He had to be in high school. He should be at home, worrying about homework or a test or some other stupid teenage problem. But… thinking back, Issac remembered others like him around Finnegan and the pub. As a child, he never gave it much thought; the older boys that did whatever Finnegan told them to. But as an adult, it made his stomach twist. Felinus said that minors were off-limits. The kid in front of him clearly showed that Finnegan hadn’t gotten the memo, or, more likely, he just ignored it and somehow kept others from finding out. Even if the kid woke up, he wouldn’t be able to help Issac. He was just as much a prisoner in all of this as Issac was. The only difference was his bondage probably had to do with that bandage on his arm rather than zipties.

Footsteps drew closer and Issac carefully dropped his head back to his chest, feeling dizziness take over for a moment as he closed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly.

“Stupid, useless boy,” Finnegan’s voice snapped. There was a crash and a thud as a cracking voice yelped. “I give ya one simple job and ya can’t even do that right!”

“I-I’m sorry,” a small voice said at first coming from the floor then higher up as Issac assumed he stood.

“Go get behind the bar and tell Jake to put ya to work,” Finnegan snarled, his boots making it easy to track him as he seemed to circle the kid.

“But I- The time-”

“GET!” Finnegan shouted, and there was another thud. Sneakers squeaked on the ground as the boy ran. The office door slammed shut.

Issac’s fingers had tightened into fists as he listened to Finnegan abusing the kid, but didn’t move otherwise. Listening to the sound of those boots approach he focused on maintaining the slow, sleep-like breathing.

Finnegan stopped, so close that Issac could feel heat against his knees. “Yer Da always did fall for ya pretending to sleep.” Finnegan almost sounded friendly from above him. None of the rage he had just leveled at the kid was there and that was terrifying. “Not me though. I could always tell when ya were fakin’. Just like yer fakin’ right now.”

Issac thought about holding out, letting Finnegan get worked up again to show his real face. But his head throbbed and his ribs stung and he didn’t want to think about pain worse than this. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and starting with those heavy boots, he looked up over Finnegan’s dirty jeans, a plain black t-shirt, fading green clover tattoo, and finally his face.

Finnegan smiled down at him. “Tha’s yer Da’s glare for sure,” he said, lowering himself down so they were at eye level. “Doesn’t quite work right when yer this skinny. What did those bastards do to you?”

“The only bastards who have done anything to me,” Issac breathed, “are you and your men. Do you have any idea how fucked you are?”

A hand grabbed hold of Issac’s jaw, squeezing so hard that Issac thought the bone would break. “That’s yer mum’s tongue,” he snarled. “I’d curve it back behind yer teeth if ya like them in yer head.” He let go and smiled again, his fingers stroking Issac’s cheek.

Issac tried to twist away from it.

“I didn’t do anything to ya or yer parents. Don’t make me change that.”

“Fuck you, Finnegan,” Issac snarled, the effort causing him pain and Finnegan’s hand tight around his neck. “You shot at Little Volkov,” he told him. “You broke the off limits. You and your men are dead.”

“Little Volkov shot at us first while we were having a friendly chat outside the locker rooms,” Finnegan said, almost sounding regretful and concerned even as he continued to squeeze Issac’s throat until his vision tunneled. “I had ta protect myself and my men, not ta mention you. I only meant ta fire a warning shot ta scare him. But I couldn’t wait for the Russians to explain my reasons. I had to make sure ya were safe. In all the confusion and chaos, ya aggravated wounds that ya got at the hands of the Italian Cat and God knows what Little Volkov’s done to ya.” His fingers stroked Issac’s neck, over the bruises that hadn’t faded from Felinus’s fingers and the painting of hickeys and love bites. “Poor lad,” he murmured. “Ya’ve been through a hell of a time, but now yer back home wit yer family. Where ya belong.”

Issac’s stomach dropped as he stared up at Finnegan. He had always thought himself a better liar than most people could even dream of, but Finnegan? Finnegan was a master of the craft. “No one is going to believe that,” he breathed, already knowing that wasn’t true.

“I only need one person to believe me,” Finnegan said, smiling at him. “An’ with all these bruises, plus ya lying to ‘im about yer Da’s name, Fergus will be so relieved to ‘ave you back and so angry that ya’ve been harmed that he won’t question me one bit.”

“I’ll tell him the truth,” Issac said feeling his voice quiver as Finnegan tilted his head at him.

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