Page 49 of Lucky Strike

But when he had heart palpitations during Mass, he knew something was seriously wrong. He had Mom drive him to the hospital right then and there, and after a battery of tests over the next few days was diagnosed with Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. Basically, the muscle in his heart’s left ventricle had thickened. They weren’t sure what had caused it, but it can be genetic.

Thankfully, it was determined that his case was mild, so his doctors put him on beta blockers and told him, in a nutshell, to chill out. He switched from running to yoga, ate more salad, and seemed to bounce back. Until last March, when some of the old symptoms began creeping in.

Dad had been getting yearly physicals since his last scare, but this time the results confirmed what we already knew—the cardiomyopathy had intensified. Hearing that he had to go through additional treatment sucked, but this time around, we were more prepared. We knew what to expect, and we knew that we were in this fight together. Few men are as strong as my dad, and if he beat this shit once, he could do it again.

“How’d the tests go yesterday?”

“Eh. We’ll see. We get the results back in a couple of days.”

“You got this, Dad. You’re gonna be fine.”

“I know I will,” he said, his voice thick. “Say a prayer for me anyway, huh?”

“Always,” I say. “Listen, Heath Murphy reached out. We’re sitting down to talk tomorrow. Anything you want me to say?”

Dad chuckles. “Just hear him out, Con. You know how he is.”

Heath, one of my father’s contemporaries, is head of the Murphy clan. They’re the Boston syndicate’s number two family, after ours, something they’ve been salty about forever.

“It’s been decades,” I grouse. “Time to move the fuck on.”

“Would you move on? If your father was passed over, and then you?”

This is why Dad’s a better man, a better leader, than me. I’m happy to leave someone to their own petty devices. “I don’t know,” I admit. I’ve never known anything but being number one, from this city right down to my own family.

“Heath and I aren’t so different?—”

“I beg to differ.”

“Don’t interrupt me, you little shit. I’m trying to explain that Heath and I both want our sons to pick up where we left off. When I officially step down as Boss, Saoirse will have to vote on who steps up.”

His words fall on me, heavy as bricks. My father has been Boss for nearly two decades, and the mere thought of him being unable to continue is daunting. I've always known that someday I would have to step into his shoes as head of our family, but not the entire syndicate. And not under these circumstances.

Breathe in. Breathe out. “I understand.”

“Good. Let me know what Heath says.” He clears his throat. “Keegan told me about the missing guns, by the way. Said there might be some trouble with the Sokolovs. When were you planning on telling me?”

Of course, Uncle Keegan told him the latest. This has been their business longer than me or any of my men have been alive. “You know, it’s okay to take a break, Dad. Focus on your health.”

“Don’t patronize me, Conlan. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Johnny caught a couple of Ivan’s guys on the dock’s surveillance footage, casing the place. And they’ve been talking to some of Angel’s guys, trying to get them to flip.”

“Trying? Sounds like they succeeded.”

“Yeah, well, Angel’s dealing with it.”

Dad grunts. “Guess we should’ve seen that coming.”

“Money talks, I guess. People aren’t as loyal as they used to be.”

“Who, the Blades? I was talking about the Bratva, but your point stands. Money does talk,” he says. “It’s no secret we do well, and when you’re on top, vultures tend to appear.”

I take a long pull of my beer.

“Did Angel give details?” he asks.

“They’re sampling the goods. They want the Blades to get specific info on shipment times, where they leave from.”

---