Page 80 of The Councilor

Shane wasn’t known for being particularly violent but the Irish mob had all but wiped out an Italian crime syndicate decades before, long before Luciano Bernardi and his family had emigrated from Italy. That was their claim to fame. The bad blood still existed, their attacks on each other often vicious.

The Bratva had rarely had any issues with them, but the issue at the courthouse had a different feel. But the Irish? I seriously doubted they’d do anything that reckless, but it would be interesting to find out what they knew about Luciano and the deal made for his daughter.

“Where?” I asked.

“Just outside Hell’s Kitchen. Shane insisted.”

Just like with the Bratva, the Irish had a particular location in the city they considered to belong to them.

“I bet he did. Do you suspect anything?” At least Roman’s connection with one of Shane’s men brought some additional credibility.

“No,” Vadim sighed. He was obviously just as exhausted as I was. In the old days, leaders and soldiers fed off the bloodshed, reveling in destroying families and real estate. For the most part, times had changed and while neither Vadim nor I were old compared to our ancestors, we’d also found little need for constant, excessive violence. It was taxing both to lives and to wealth.

Plus, war was flat out exhausting.

“What time?” I asked.

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Text me the address.”

“Will do. You haven’t watched the news this morning. Have you?”

Chuckling, I finally headed back inside. I’d had enough of the ocean today. “I have been a little busy.”

“Well, you should turn it on, if you can get a decent station in Russianville.” He liked teasing me about the area he absolutely adored. I could see him holding court in front of some restaurant or coffee shop when he was in his seventies.

“Cut to the chase,” I barked more forcefully than I’d intended as I headed toward the kitchen. There was a small television nestled in the corner of a group of kitchen cabinets.

“Congressman Tillman was gunned down just this morning when he went out to get his paper from the lawn.”

There were still diehards who preferred a paper copy. Why the hell was I thinking about that? “What?” I frantically tried to find the remote, fighting to turn it on and find a decent news station. When I finally did, I stepped back and eyed the scene of the carnage. “Any idea who?”

“No, but get this. The paper was marked with blood, actual blood. A threat. And from what little I was able to find out from a buddy of mine at the police station, the shot came from one of the roofs of the taller buildings across the street.”

“A sniper. Shit.”

“Exactly.”

“Why the fuck didn’t they try at the courthouse?”

He huffed. “Maybe because he was surrounded by people who walked him to the waiting SUV. Bulletproof I might add.”

This fell into line with my gut instinct. “That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, well, that puts another layer of complexity to this.”

I continued to study the footage, which wasn’t pretty. The damn reporters had gone so far as to slink into the gated area, passing the police crime scene tape and yanking back the covering placed over the dead man to take several photographs. All the while, his wife was still wailing in the background, which is what had likely distracted the police.

Some people had no respect. Granted, the kill was huge news, likely going national. Even worse were the picket signs being held by at least two dozen bystanders. I could swear they’d known the man was going to be shot. Their signs were far too similar. They were even chanting ‘death to vicious criminals and those who defend them.’

“Interesting news coverage,” I said, still in awe that shit had been allowed to go on.

Now he was chuckling. “I did find out what was written in blood.”

“And?”

“Fumigating the city of roaches.”

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