Page 13 of The Irish Redemption

To an extent, we were right. He’s alive and happy. He just doesn’t remember he has a huge family that loves him.

“Perhaps it’s a blessing,” Mom says as my silence drags on. “It would break his heart to know about Brenden.” Her voice cracks, and my heart follows with a sharp pain that lances right through my ribcage. I’m heartbroken, and the shards scatter around my insides with every angry beat of whatever is left.

“Brenden would understand,” I reply tightly. “He knew better than anyone how much of Dad was just a ghost.”

“I want their head, Cormac,” Mom says, and the cracks keep forming in her words. “I want their head on a platter, you understand me? I need—” She cuts herself off and distant sniffling carries through the phone.

I tighten my grip on the device until the plastic begins to crack and the ridges cut painfully into my palm. I share the same fury. It sits like a knot in my chest, tightening with each passing minute that my brother’s killer walks free. I want to soothe my mom, to comfort my siblings, and break the skull of the bastard who is causing such pain to everyone I love.

But I have no idea who it is, so that anger has nowhere to go. I’m going to drown at this rate.

“I need to go and deal with a detective, Ma. But if you need anything, you call me, alright?”

“Be safe,” she says, her voice thick. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Ma.”

After ending the call, I throw on a shirt and take the stairs down to the lobby of my apartment building in an attempt to burn off some of the rage locking up my muscles. It helps for a few minutes as I arrive breathless and find my younger brother and sister, twins Saoirse and Cian, waiting for me.

“Did you sprint down here?” Cian asks with a snort, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest and straining his shirt to the point that the buttons are holding on for dear life.

“Gotta keep in shape, little brother,” I reply, bouncing up to him and ruffling the tight collection of dark curls on top of his head. “Can’t have you beating me.”

“Fuck off.” Cian slaps my hand away. “I’d beat you any day of the week.”

“Time and place,” I challenge.

“Right here.” Cian starts to roll his sleeves up but stops when Saoirse elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“Put your fucking dick away,” she snaps, then she moves closer to me and pulls me into a tight hug. “How’s Ma?”

“About as bad as you can imagine,” I reply, hugging her back with one arm and dragging Cian in under my other. He fights me for half a second and then melts into the hug with a grunt. “She tried to call Dad.”

“And?” Saoirse looks up at me with old hope in her sparkling eyes. It fades the second I shake my head. “Figures,” she mutters.

“What you got for me?” With the intimate moment over, we step back from one another and the sibling bonds melt away, replaced with the bonds of loyalty. Brenden’s death catapulted me into the position of Captain, which had ripple effects on the entire hierarchy. Saoirse is now my underboss and Cian steps into her shoes as a General. In the space of a day, our lives and the entire layout of the Irish Mob changed.

Keeping a lid on her pain, Saoirse purses her lips and places a hand on her hip. “The Italians reached out. Matteo Barati, to be exact.”

“He didn’t send his son?” Cian snorts.

“Rocky’s probably too balls deep in some poor hooker to give a shit about what’s going on here,” Saoirse retorts. “But Matteo offers his sympathies and resources. He claims it’s in his best interests to get this matter resolved as quickly as possible.”

“You think he’s speaking out of guilt?” I ask. Saoirse’s analyses have proven invaluable over the years, so when she shakes her head, I trust her implicitly.

“He didn’t sound guilty. If he was, he would have sent one of his generals to offer sympathies rather than calling himself. I’m not ruling him out, but he’s not at the top of my list.”

“What would he even have to gain?” Cian remarks. “If he’s behind this, the peace treaty he signed with Brenden would go up in smoke. No guns for them, no drugs for us. And only one of those wins a war.”

Cian’s right, but it doesn’t soothe the growing itch under my skin to have a name and face I can pulverize. “One glance at our history and you can see how often someone fucks over something good for some small slight.”

Cian grumbles under his breath. “Fair.” Then he straightens up. “The Russians offered their own condolences in their own weird way. Flowers.” He wrinkles his nose. “I’m not even fully convinced they came from Anastasia.”

“Doubt it,” Saoirse replies. “Anastasia took over what, four months ago? The entire Remizova clan has been in uproar ever since her father died, and it’s no secret they hate having a woman in charge. Someone’s probably trying to undermine her by sending flowers because that’s what a woman would do.” Saoirse dramatically rolls her eyes. “As if Anastasia isn’t as fierce as they come.”

“Undermine her enough to kill?” I ask.

Saoirse meets my gaze. “Maybe.”

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