Page 17 of Carry Your Debt

Any other year, and I’d be surprised to see Ghosts here in the flesh, what with how loud they are in their disdain for Underworld politics. Kado and his gang of Neutral mischief-makers tend to do their best work from the shadows, and outside of contracted jobs, theyveryrarely wade into the greater gangland cesspool.

It just further supports our theory that this evening’s opening address from the Arbiter will be a memorable one.

Milling about next to the merry band of floating skull visages is a group of disgruntled-looking 19th Street Disciple members, including their leaderFernando Luis Santos, 41.

Hmm. Another brow-raising addition to this year’s guest list.

Unless the order of things hasdrasticallyshifted on the west coast, the 19Ds don’t hold nearly enough sway to warrant receiving a black card on their own. In fact, the only way a small-time group like this particular Latin gang attends a Symposium is via sponsorship. From someone withactualpower and influence over our half of the Underworld pie.

And nobody in theImperiumsponsors out of the goodness of their cold mafia hearts. No, sponsorship meansquid pro quo.

Through that renewed lens, I start scanning the atrium again. My neck prickles uncomfortably as I begin clocking more and more representatives from mid-range Southern organizations.

The Nomads; a group of gun-runners led byHodan (29) & Mahmud Omar Dihoud (28), the brothers recent Somali transplants to the south-west.

Sal Rual Felipe, 38, and his Cuban Marielito gang out of Miami.

Even the Romano Mafia family is here, and they barely have control over their own city.

“Lots of charity cases this year,” I remark aloud, earning an affirmative grunt from Knox.

“Bottom feeders jumping at the chance to ride a brand new sovereign’s coattails up and out of the streets,” he snarks, careful to keep the scathing observation beneath his breath.

I huff, shaking my head. Whoever’s been promising all these weaker groups a seat at the Big Boy Table is playing a dangerous game indeed.

Side-stepping, I continue along the latest gridline. I feel rather than see Rhett and Knox moving with me, flanking me like obedient, hulking shadows.

As the crowd parts, I spot another head of prominent red hair, only this time it doesn’t belong to Medusa.

Michael Angus ‘Smiley’ O’Sullivan, 46. Sloane’s father and patriarch of the O’Sullivan crime family. The Mob boss appears to be engaged in an intense conversation withCashel Marcus Reilly, 34andConnor Ian Reilly,25,and everything about the sight has my brow pinching.

Before his death, the Green Knight’d not only ruled the Southern half of the Underworld, but he’d also been Head of all Irish-American Mob families operating within his Sovereignty. When it came time to annex the fallen monarch’s empire—with no apparent heir—the O’Sullivans and the Reillys had both sought claims on the Maker’s Bay estate and its assets.

Bloody claims, and with casualties on both sides.

And yet, here they were, not only on speaking terms but with each of the Irishmen wearing matching metal eye masks, differentiated only by the colors of their individual family crests.

It’s subtle, but a declaration nonetheless.

The previously warring Irish families are teaming up, and suffice to say, two such prominent mobsters joining forces would bode very well for a potential Crown bid.

My eyes dart over the group once more, looking for Sloane’s fiery mane, but there’s zero sign of the O’Sullivan princess herself. It’s unlikely she’d be allowed out of her father’s company at a gathering such as this, which tells me she’s more than likely not even here at all.

Which is very unexpected. I’d assumed now that his only daughter was eighteen—and with his designs on the Green Knight’s legacy—that Smiley would be busy trotting her out in an attempt to woo potential allies. Are the O’Sullivans closing ranks instead?

Unless…

My gaze slides back to the Reilly brothers.

Unless she’salreadypromised.

As much as I’d love to, I can’t spend too long watching a single group of targets when I only have a finite amount of time to catalog everyone here. So, after watching the Irish bosses bicker over the rim of my champagne glass for a few minutes more, I finally force myself to shift my attention elsewhere.

Almost immediately, it’s snagged by a group of dark-haired gentlemen, each one standing with their backs to the wall.

At first glance, their postures seem relaxed, open, their heavily tattooed hands grasped casually in front as they each observe the party.But as I continue to watch them, I notice their black eyes never stop roaming over the attendees.

Almost as if they’re looking for something.

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