Page 45 of Lucky Strike

Now

Things went well in Savannah.

I met with Dad’s old friend Kenny, who’s signed on to broker a deal between us and the owners of Doyle Whiskey. The Doyles are infamous; one of Savannah’s oldest, richest families. Originally from Cork, they made their fortune during the Prohibition era by bootlegging whiskey and running speakeasies throughout Georgia. When alcohol went legal, so did they, bringing Doyle Whiskey into the light.

Our families have run in the same circles for years. I have memories of trips down to Savannah with my siblings, of extravagant summer parties at the Doyle’s opulent, Spanish-moss-covered estate. They were filthy rich back then.

But decades of gambling and shitty business practices have tarnished their finances and their reputation. When Dad heard the Doyles were having money problems, he did what any old friend would do: he offered to buy them out. It was a generous offer, seeing as the Doyles owe us a shitload of money too, but Randall Doyle resisted. This trip was the first of many in what will be a successful, and hopefully not hostile, takeover. Randall is an unctuous motherfucker, and I don’ttrust him as far as I can throw him, but eventually he’ll realize we’re his best option.

As far as the whiskey itself, it’s easy to see why it’s popular. It’s smooth and warm, tasting of peaches, honey, and molasses with a hint of smoke from the aged oak barrels. I had a couple of bottles sent home so my parents and Tristan could sample it, but I’m confident it’ll be a nice addition to our brand.

I send a message to Dad, letting him know things look good, and then head to Savannah’s tiny airport. Two and a half hours later, I land in Boston. I make my way outside, where I find my brother waiting at the curb, arguing with an airport security officer who wants him to move. Pointless, but that’s Tristan.

His eyes flash as they meet mine through the open windows of his latest toy, a slick black-on-black Range Rover he had upgraded by a company that specializes in bespoke vehicles. “That’s him right there,” he says loudly, gesturing. “I told you he was coming.”

The security lady gives me a dirty look, snapping at us to hurry up before she moves on.

“Sometimes I think you thrive on conflict,” I tell Tristan, sliding into the front seat.

“I circled four times already,” he says, throwing up his hands. “I’m not gonna waste any more fuckin’ gas.”

Unlocking the hardback case I use while traveling, I retrieve my gun, loading it before sliding it into my holster. “Ever heard of the cell phone lot? You could just wait there, you know.”

“Sure.” Tristan merges into the traffic leaving the airport. “Listen, there are several things we need to address, Lucky. You want the annoying shit or the really annoying shit first?”

“Surprise me.”

“The Murphys want to have a sit-down.”

“Yeah, Heath reached out to me last night.” I rub my forehead, disgusted. “He’s acting like he’s concerned about Dad, but you know how he’s just waiting for his turn to be in charge.”

Twin spots of color appear on Tristan’s cheeks. “He’s such a clown. You gonna meet him?”

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Closing my eyes, I lean back on the headrest. “What else you got for me?”

“The Sokolovs might be making moves. Johnny saw ‘em on surveillance near the docks at Conley Terminal again, late last night.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Nothing really, just hanging on the street. Oh, and Angel got back to me. Wants to meet up ASAP.”

I rub my chin, considering. “Who do you have down at the docks today?”

“Andy and Malachi,” Tristan says. “The Blades. And a couple of cops doing the rounds every once in a while.”

We have more than a few of the boys in blue in our pocket, mostly patrol officers. They get paid to look the other way for the most part, but some of them keep an eye on the dock for us.

I send one text to Bria, buying time by explaining that I missed my flight, and another to Angel, asking to meet up at the garage. He must’ve been expecting my text, because by the time we emerge from the tunnel he’s replied.

The Necco Street garage in Southie is our default for meetups. We park on the lowest level, where Angel’s waiting a couple spaces down. Finn and Alex pull into a space across from us—out of sight, but close by if needed. Smoothing my shirt over my Glock 19, I get out of Tristan’s ride.

Angel gets out of his souped-up Lexus, his rugged face blank. We’ve had an efficient arrangement with the Blades for a couple years now, mutually beneficial, but now something’s come along to upset the apple cart. Someone.

“Ay, pana.” Angel smirks as we walk toward each other. His dark eyes dart to Tristan, who’s back at the car, before returning to me. “I’m surprised you’re out and about.”

“You said you needed to meet,” I scan the cars around us. Two of his guys are behind him, keeping a couple paces back. Another three, over by his ride.

“Yeah, but it’s Sunday. The day of rest.”

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