Page 11 of Irish Reign

I can’t tell if my watering eyes are due to my scorched corneas or the color Madden chose for his substitute cock.

“Did you have to kill him to get it?” I ask casually.

Seamus knows the truth; he saw every last thing I did to my brother in the Thornfield infirmary. But the men still poring over screens and documents—the ones building barriers against Russo and whatever Boston sends our way—they don’t know how handy I am with forceps and a scalpel.

Liam shakes his head. “I paid for some time with two of Mimi’s girls. The ones she gave Madden when he did the milk run last week.”

Plenty of people know Madden collected my accounts four days ago—everyone who handed over an envelope. But Fiona Ingram is the only person who knows Madden stole my money. Everyone else thinks he was just a loyal soldier, playing the game as it’s always been played.

This is the first I’ve heard of Madden taking a ride as he collected the money that should have been mine. I think of Fiona’s broken, bleeding face. I wonder how long Madden made her wait while he had his fun with Mimi’s girls.

I wave Liam over to the bar Fairfax outfitted at the far end of the living room. Blinking hard, I pour him a few fingers of Jameson, waving away his thanks as I ask, “What did the girls have to say?”

“Madden threw some cash around before he left. Said he’d make it back at Darragh’s executive game.”

Darragh McCarthy runs my high rollers game out at the Avalon, the last three days of every month. It’s exclusive enough that everyone—even my second-in-command—has to wait for a seat at the table, sometimes for weeks.

The attraction isn’t just Darragh’s top-shelf booze and the New York call girls he brings down for the night. It’s the no-limit betting.

And Madden was there as often as Darragh let him darken the doorstep.

“So you traced the fecker to the Avalon.”

“He booked a suite, Monday through today.”

Of course he did. To a casual onlooker, that suite proved Madden was at the Avalon for three days straight. He had a place to take a shower, maybe grab half an hour’s kip between hands.

Darragh’s game is strictly confidential. Every man at the table is sworn to secrecy about who attends. Any player who gabs outside of the room will never be invited back.

But I’m willing to bet Darragh will tellmethat Madden got there early and lost big on his first few hands. Maybe Darragh gave him a bottle of the Macallan 25, just to make sureIdidn’t have any beef with how the game was run. Darragh will assume my brother stumbled back to his room, slept off his shite luck at the table, and spent the rest of his time nursing an unholy hangover.

I can tell a different story. I don’t have proof, but I know it’s true. I can feel it in my bones.

Madden took a cab home, paying cash, so there’d be no record. He beat the shite out of Fiona. And then he took another cab to a little side street, two blocks from Thornfield. He opened a triple-locked gate that leads to a water overflow pipe, one that only he and I knew about. He crawled through the muck, like we both did as kids. And all the while, he planned how he’d get rid of me, how he’d hand the Fishtown Boys to Russo and settle in to the golden life of a Mafia capo.

Fucking traitor.

For public consumption, I’m still working the angle that I have no idea where my brother might be. “So Madden was still at the Avalon?” I ask Liam.

He shrugs. “His car was. The valet left it in the front circle, with all the other supercars.”

That’s what hotels do—show off big-spending guests to all the jackeens stopping by for the night. It makes everyone feel important. Plus, it guarantees no minimum-wage attendant will ruin a custom paint job on tight corners in a garage.

Liam says, “I waited for the valet to take his smoking break. Talked to him outside the employee entrance.”

“Risky, that.”

Liam shrugs. “I made sure he was the one facing security cameras. Plus, I wore a baseball hat. Hoodie. Jeans. Coppers won’t have much to go on.”

“Until your man sits down with one of those sketch artists.”

A rude sound lets me know what Liam thinks of Philadelphia’ finest. “I was ready to go as high as ten thousand for the keys. But the eejit only asked for a grand.”

I shake my head. “Almost makes you feel sorry for the man.”

“I hit him hard enough to make it look real. A real pistol-whipping. He might even keep his job.”

“Not likely. Not after hotel security put one and one together.”

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