Page 47 of Irish Reign

Even if she offered something she has no right to give.

Trap Prince keeps the Diamond Ring close to his chest. The twelve of us men have secrets. We’ve seen things. Done things. He’s not going to open the door to just anyone, even if Samantha does the asking. She overstepped her bounds.

But I’ve got a little leverage I can apply.

So I tell Liam to take the day off on Monday. I drive Samantha down to the freeport myself. I see her safely settled in her office, and then I go off to find Prince. Some conversations have to be held in person.

He’s at the back of the property, watching a cement truck shite out the foundation for a new helicopter pad. I take up a position beside him at an orange mesh fence, watching the pour and waiting for a pause in the action.

Prince nods companionably. We supervise four men spreading the thick mixture across rebar. The wooden form for the pad is deep enough to bury a body.

The first truck leaves. Another one pulls into position. I wait for the back-up alarm to stop beeping before I remind Prince: “My boys helped you out of a jam last year.”

He winces and rubs his arm, as if it’s still bleeding. We lost the element of surprise that night, and Prince was shot up bad enough to need Doc Kelleher’s needle and thread.

Now he says: “To the tune of twenty keys.” That’s his way of reminding me I ended up with twenty kilos of high-grade cocaine at the end of the night.

“The newspapers never managed to catch my good side.” I can’t let him forget the owners of that coke got revenge. My name was splashed across every paper from here to County Limerick, connected with a bloody crime I had nothing to do with. No one believes a Mob boss when he says he’s an innocent bystander.

Prince looks over at me. “I assume this conversation ends with you asking for a favor?”

“Bring Antonio Russo into the Diamond Ring.”

“That Mafia motherfucker?”

I manage one tight nod.

Prince looks back at the helipad. “Russo’s not a client of Diamond Freeport.”

“He will be.”

Prince raises both eyebrows. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“Samantha extended an invitation last Friday.”

As Prince turns to study me, something happens on the pad. One man gestures with his concrete-covered brush, shouting at another in Spanish. There’s an extensive debate over who is responsible for what at the site. I catch enough to understand sisters are involved in the division of labor, and possibly mothers.

The first man points toward Prince. The second cuts off his shout mid-word. They both go back to work.

Prince glances at me, side-eye, and says, “Bringing Russo here is a shit-for-brains idea. From everything I’ve heard, the man’s a fucking psychopath.”

“Everything you’ve heard is right.”

“I don’t want Best cleaning up any more messes on freeport property.”

“That’s not the sort of mess I plan on making.”

Prince shakes his head. He watches the men diligently spreading concrete. He runs his fingers through his hair, and he narrows his eyes. But he finally says, “If Samantha brings him in, I’ll ask him to join the Ring.”

“I owe you one.” I mean it.

“If that jizzstain hurts her?—”

“I protect my own.” I’m hurt that I need to say it, and my words come out hot.

But Prince doesn’t give two shites about my feelings. He says, “I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing.”

I do too. But Samantha has a plan, and that’s good enough for me. So even though I want to tell Prince where he can shovehis skeptical concern, I manage to keep my mouth shut and turn back to watch the concrete flow.

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