Page 2 of Bargain with the Irish Devil

Slamming the door closed on him, I refuse to acknowledge the tiny part of me that wants to give in. Yes, I could write a check for twenty thousand without it adversely affecting my current finances. But I worked too hard for too long to give money away like it was nothing.

I’ve worked my ass off to have the life I do. Peter has never worked a day in his life. When our mother died from breast cancer, I was thirteen, and Peter was ten years old. At twelve, he began smoking everything he could get his hands on and skipping school. By the time he turned fourteen, he was sentenced to two years in juvenile detention with the hope it would scare him straight. It didn’t matter that he had already spent a summer in some sort of boot camp with the same thought.

I understood Peter was only sixteen when my father was diagnosed with lung cancer, and with me at college already, he probably felt alone. Yet, as our father grew ill and was dying of lung cancer, Peter didn’t help me take care of Dad. I had to beg himover and over to so much as warm up food for Dad or get prescriptions from the pharmacy.

Peter acted like he didn’t care if our father lived or died. He was already checked out and living with his best friend and his friend’s single mother. The mother said she understood what Peter was going through, and he’d always have a home with her. By the time Dad died after a week in the hospital, Peter was already moved in with his friend.

Despite being disgusted and resentful of how he let me and Dad down in the last few months, once our father died, I gave Peter my share of Dad’s small estate. Since I had just married Michael and didn’t need anything, it didn’t feel right keeping it. And considering the cost of the funeral and paying off the last outstanding medical bills—it wasn’t much.

He didn’t call or respond to my calls or texts to him. And he told his friend’s mom not to answer any of my calls or texts either. Suddenly, almost a year later, he was back begging me for more money. I knew he was lying about why he needed the money, four thousand dollars. Except I didn’t dare call him out in front of Michael—too embarrassed.

Michael wasn’t happy Peter was in our home again. He was still annoyed that I gave Peter all of the money after my dad died. At the same time, he made it clear Peter staying with us wasn’t an option. And the money was coming from me—not our shared account.

I warned Peter it was the last time. He swore he understood and he’d never ask me for money again. There were no calls or texts…nothing from him. I often wondered if he was okay. And I regretted what I said, sure he hated me for telling him that I would never help him again.

A few searches online brought up nothing on him. Once, I even considered hiring a private investigator. Michael reminded me that Peter was simply doing what I told him and that Peter was a user. Since I was of no use to him, then he wanted nothing to do with me.

It hurt because I knew he was right.

Then, one day, he appeared at my door with yet another need for money. He admitted those quiet years were spent in prison. At the time, my marriage was falling apart. I did my best to get Peter out of the house before Michael came home. I hadn’t succeeded.

I did what I became so adept at in the last year of my marriage—pretended nothing was wrong. Peter talked his way into staying for dinner which somehow turned into him staying the night. In the morning, Peter slunk out of the house with a shrug and a weak hug. I should have known he went too easily.

Almost a week later, I found out what my pride cost me. Over four days, Peter cleaned me out—he’d stolen almost sixteen thousand dollars.

A week from hell followed as I closed every single account I had. Michael also closed his own accounts—just in case. I got the silent treatment from him for weeks. Our marriage was over. There was no coming back from the things said when he finally started talking to me again.

Weeks later, Peter knocked on my door, smiling from ear to ear and with a roll of bills. It was only three thousand dollars. He seriously expected it to be enough to make up for everything he did. I took the money and told him that I never wanted to see him again.

Inside, I was devastated that I meant every word. Peter only shrugged and walked away. Now, here he was again, only caringabout what he could get from me. It shouldn’t hurt so badly, but it did.

Long after he’s gone, I’m stewing in bed, wondering where everything went wrong for us to get here. What did I do wrong to bring him to the point of using me as a… What, am I collateral?

The Irish mafia, the words don’t make sense to me. I didn’t know there was an Irish mafia. However, the more I think about it, it shouldn’t be a surprise. The Irish Republican Army used the resource of the second largest population of Irish in America here in Chicago to make money to buy arms for their cause. It wasn’t exactly a secret either.

This is Chicago, after all. The city was built on the backs of immigrants controlled by either the Outfit—the Italian mafia, or the Irish mafia. I thought the Outfit was the only thing like that still around. When I was young, I heard my dad and mom talking about a particular capo, Tony Sabatini, he liked and trusted. Dad laughed when I asked him if he was scared of Sabatini. If he was going to hurt my father.

Dad said not to worry. Since this is Chicago, he’d rather I get help from Sabatini than the police. If I went to the Outfit, I’d actually get something done—at a price. Cops were as bad as the bad guys, except they had badges to hide behind, my father said often.

Yet it was only one conversation he ever spoke of the mafia. Anything else I knew came from the news, more than I wanted to know.

Whatever. It’s over. Peter might be my brother, but I’m done. I’m not paying for anything, not now or ever. Fuck him, and fuck Declan Kelly.

A Week Later

Walking home from the El, I’m turning over the audit I worked on today in my mind. I’m nearly done and going through my mental checklist if there’s anything I’m missing. I wonder if I should simply finish it tonight since I’m so close to being done. After all, it’s Friday, and I’ll have a better weekend without it hanging over my head.

Lost in thought, I’m almost to my porch before I notice two men are waiting, blocking the door. One of the men is huge, well over six foot, with a large barrel chest, dark, curly hair, and brown eyes. He’s every bit as intimidating as he’s trying to be.

The other man is a few inches shorter and isn’t nearly as broad. He’s as fair as the other man is dark. His blue eyes are a light blue, a perfect match for the tousled, dirty blond hair.

The blond man is smiling. “Ms. Beckett?”

If I wondered if I was wrong, the Irish accent confirms my first thought. “Is that really supposed to be a question? It seems clear you know who I am. Declan Kelly?”

The blond man laughs and shakes his head.

“Then you work for him?”

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