Page 11 of Mob Knight

“Obviously, hewantsus to leave without giving anything up to us. But he’swillingto way outbid Maks for that textile factory in Bangladesh if we get out of the neighborhood altogether.”

We were going to make an offer on it just to fuck the bratva over. We don’t really want another overseas factory, but the Kutsenkos do. Helping us fuck over the bratva at the Cartel’s expense works for us. Our racket was going to end eventually, so the money wouldn’t come in forever from that neighborhood. Losing future income there is less than what it’ll cost Enrique to get that factory.

But for him, it’s more about saving face and hiding that a rival swooped in and took over one of his neighborhoods. He’llpay out the arse to keep that quiet. He’ll also make sure the shop owners know they erred not going to him. He’ll make sure they pay him back for what they should have tithed to him, and he’ll make sure they understand silence is golden.

“When’s he going to put in the offer?”

“Tonight, at eleven. It’ll be nine tomorrow morning there.”

“Maks should be having a hissy fit to rival his twins by nine-ten. If only I could watch.” Dillan chuckles, and I laugh along with him.

“I’d bring the popcorn if you’d bring the Twizzlers.” We’ve been doing that since we made up over the Lego set that wound up with us both getting nursemaid’s elbow.

“Tell your brother to bring the grape soda. And none of that organic popcorn shite you tried to slip in last week during the rugby match. Tasted like newspaper soaked in misery.”

“Woe is you. You wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t seen the bag when I popped it.”

“As though the popcorn weren’t bad enough. You insist on that vegan imitation butter shite. Nana and Granny are crying in heaven. Irish men eat Irish butter.”

“Feck off. Tell Sean to keep an eye on the Cartel’s accounts and Maks’s emails.”

We all hack one another’s bank accounts and emails, but having a cousin with a graduate degree in national security comes in handy since we hide our shite the best. We spread so much misinformation, the other syndicates think we’re the impoverished ones when we have more than all three—the Mafia, the bratva, and the Cartel—have all together.

And that’s saying something, considering Enrique Diaz is one of the most powerful men in the world. No drugs move in the Western Hemisphere without him knowing about them. It’s not worth his time, effort, and money to stop the other three syndicates here in NYC.

But just about every other syndicate on this side of the world pays a tariff to him for the privilege of doing business. He insists everyone knows his family is the Cartel with a capital C, not to be confused with low-level competitors like the Mexicans or Guatemalans.

He’s as bad as theCosa Nostra, who lose their shite whenever someone who isn’t Sicilian is called Mafia. They like to make sureeveryoneknows they’re the “real” Mafia, so they get a capital letter too. The Ivankov branch, run by the Kutsenkos, couldn’t give two shites if Americans capitalize bratva or not. It should be, but that’s not the hill they’re dying on.

And we don’t give a rat’s fart whether we have a capital M for mob because everyone knows the O’Rourkes arethemob pretty much any and everywhere. Some of the other syndicates—like the Poles—want the recognition, so they call themselves the Mob. If they cared less about proving they’re big bad mobsters and spent more time actually being mobsters, they might be relevant.

“Do—” Dillan hesitates. He never hesitates. “Do you want Sean to let you know if Jocelyn talks to any witnesses tomorrow?”

“She’s a social worker in that community. She’s bound to be there tomorrow or another day this week or next. We can’t assume she’s there for any other reason than her job. If her name comes up, let me know. But I don’t want Sean invading her privacy or her clients’ when there’s no reason to.”

That feels worse than telling Dillan why Pablo terrifies Joey. If she found out, she’d never forgive me. That might crush me.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does this matter to me?

I’m acting like I’m going to see her again. I’m acting like she’d care whether she sees me again.

“All right. Do you think she knows anything useful?”

I’m sitting in traffic—shocker in New York—which irritates me. Now this conversation is too. I try to keep the frustration out of my tone.

“I’m certain she knows plenty of useful things, but I doubt any of it matters to us.”

I failed at that. I sound like a dick.

“What’s the deal with you?”

Dillan could sound accusatory, but he’s being patient with me. That’s almost worse. I’m not looking to pick a fight, but it makes me feel shitty that he’s patient when I’m testy.

“It’s been a long day, and that was before getting shot at. I ripped my suit, and my ribs hurt like a mother. I nearly crushed a woman today who felt she needed to protect me. And I had to deal with Pablo. As though that last one isn’t bad enough, I’m stuck in traffic on the bridge.”

“You’ve been shot at before. Hell, you’ve been shot.”

“And I’ve ripped suits before and bruised my ribs before. But I usually don’t get stuck in traffic right afterward.”

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