Page 26 of Irish Reign

Boyle’s accent is thicker than mine. I don’t know the full story, but his da kept him in the kennel for years, a rank enforcer instead of on his clan’s council, where his last name should have put him. He’s got scars on his knuckles to prove he did his job, and rumor says he still carries his butterfly knife, pistol, and garrote wherever he goes.

He became king of New York around the same time I took over Philly, but we’ve never been exactly friends. Not enemies either—Boyle keeps his own counsel.

But I ask him: “What do you hear from Boston?”

He shrugs, a mountain threatening a landslide. “There’ve been ructions since Ingram’s girl got home.”

“Who’s been fighting?” I want to know if his sources match mine.

Another shift of those shoulders. “Rumor says the girl’s staking a claim. Her uncle too, her da’s Clan Chief. And Ingram’s Warlord’s weighing in.”

“Jaysus.” I hear myself slip into his brogue.

He pins me with a flat gaze. “I expect your Warlord’s told you the same.”

Fair play to him. He knows Patrick is at Fiona’s side.

In reality, my so-called Warlord has only texted a couple of times. Herself’s still rough, Patrick says. Ring if I need him home. He can be at my side in hours.

On the homefront, Rory O’Hare is working his old boss out of a job. And keeping a man up in Boston means I’ll know if—when?—Ingram’s crew remember they want my blood. So I haven’t ordered Patrick home. Yet.

I salute Boyle with my glass, twitching my lips like I don’t care what happens north of the New Jersey state line. “Boston’s far from Philadelphia,” I say.

Boyle nods, as if those words are profound. “Far from New York, too.”

As long as we’re still talking, I give another push. “But the Union covers all.”

By tradition, a new general is only named one hundred days after the death of an old one. That’s over three months for a questing man to gather votes. No one has yet knocked on my door for support. But Boyle says, “I hear Reardon’s getting restless.”

“Out in Chicago? I’d expect him to let the First Four handle this.”

Chicago’s a wean, compared to the East Coast dynasties—Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore. The Union general has always come from one of the old families.

“Boston’s a holy show right now,” Boyle says. “I’m still proving a second son can do the job. You’ve got that goombah prick breathin’ up yer arsehole, so you don’t have a chance in hell. Reardon must think he has a chance against Baltimore. New Orleans and San Francisco will fall in line.”

It’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard Boyle make.

And it’s the first I’ve heard that I don’t have a chance in hell.

Until this moment, I can honestly say I haven’t thought once about taking a run at General. Between Thornfield burning, Madden dying, and Russo plotting… Boyle’s right. I’ve a lot on my plate.

But as the silence stretches out between us, I let myself imagine life without a general grabbing ten percent of everything I earn. How it would feel to be my own man, free and clear at the top of the Union…

And suddenly the idea of bending a knee to Mickey Reardon makes my Jameson taste like piss.

If Boyle’s realized I’m thinking too much, he doesn’t give a sign. Instead, he looks across the clubhouse, where Prince is calling us all over to the bar. We cross the room together.

Prince has prizes for the day’s outing. Rider lodged the lowest score, no surprise. Best told the filthiest story on the back nine. Torrington landed the most business. Everyone laughs, and the winners stand us another few rounds.

Now that I’ve thought about trying for General, I can’t stop tallying my chances. Sure, money’s tight right now. But the Fishtown Boys are more profitable today than they were when I took over from Da. The other clans’ll see the value in that. Or they will, once my cash flow is adjusted.

The best thing I could do to raise my chances? Get rid of Antonio Fucking Russo for good. Destroy Philadelphia’s Mafia once and for all. The Union couldn’t ignore that.

And while I’m at it, I can cure cancer. And generate world peace. After all, I’ve got almost three months before the captains vote.

I’m not going to reach a decision about running today. So I might as well relax and enjoy the top shelf booze. I just played the most exclusive golf course in the world. Samantha’s waiting for me at home. I’m certain she’s fretting that I’ll never put herback in her collar, which limits my options for tonight but will pay off well down the road.

I’m good at playing the long game. Always have been. So I order another whiskey. And I laugh at someone’s bad joke. And I tell myself Boyle’s flat-out wrong when he says I don’t have a chance in hell.

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