Page 6 of Irish Reign

I sent Patrick to break the news about her father when I couldn’t go myself. When I had Madden to manage.

Closing my eyes now, I hear Patrick say, “Condolences, Boss.”

I don’t know how much he’s heard—about Birte, about my eyes, about Thornfield. But I choose to believe he’s talking about stone and mortar, because that’s easier than the rest. “We’ll knock it down and start over,” I say. “For now we’re at the Rittenhouse, Presidential Suite. Liam’ll get you a key.”

“About that, Boss… Herself is… Madden did a lot of damage.”

My fist folds in the sheets. I don’t have any regrets about how my brother died. But I’m starting to wish I tortured him for longer before that final blow. “How bad is it?” I finally ask.

“She shouldn’t be alone right now. Not with her da gone and things gone arseways up in Boston.”

Fiona once told me her da meant for her to take his place when he died. But those Boston boyos are old school. They’ll never let a woman be in charge. Not without a fierce battle, one I’m not sure Fiona can win.

I’ve known Patrick Moran my entire life. He was my father’s Warlord before he was mine. So I hear all the things he isn’t saying, all the secrets hiding behind his spoken words.

“You’re taking her up to Boston, then,” I say.

“If you’ll let me, Boss.”

Jesus Christ. Another Fishtown Boy, fallen to Fiona Ingram’s feckin’ magic. If she could bottle what she has, she’d take over the world, one horndog eejit at a time.

Patrick’s myWarlord. I need him here more than ever.

But it’s not a bad idea for me to place a man in Boston. To find out how serious those jackeens are about revenge. To have someone on the ground if things go seriously pear-shaped with Ingram’s clan.

“Go ahead,” I tell him. “But don’t let me be surprised by anything going on up there.”

“You won’t be, Boss.”

I trust him. He’s my best man.

He even knows to wait a respectful moment before he says, “Speaking of surprises… I’ll be taking Fiona round to collect her things before we leave. Any idea if Madden’ll be there to give us trouble?”

Any chance you murdered your cunt of a brother last night?

That’s the question Patrick knows better than to ask out loud.

Before I carved Madden into dog food, the gobshite confessed to working with my archenemy, Philadelphia’s Mafia capo, Antonio Russo. The goombah prick has been squeezing my territory for the last two months—plus, he has a history of threatening Samantha.

It’s time to do some housecleaning, mob-war style, but I don’t have a lot of weapons I can leverage. Not with my operations in disarray, my income seriously down, and my home destroyed. But maybe—just possibly—I can use the fact that no one knows Madden is dead.

I might send a false report to Russo. I might…

Shite, I don’t know. My eyes hurt too much for me to think.

But I’m not admitting to anyone that I killed Madden. Not yet. Not while that fact might still be a tactical advantage. So I say: “He was at the house last night. Blew the garage to smithereens. But no one caught him on the grounds. The boys couldn’t find him.”

That’s the truth.

Just not all of it.

I picture Patrick’s dark eyes narrowed, the silver in his hair catching the light as he nods. “I’ll let you know if we see him then.”

“You do that,” I say, as if I believe it’s an honest possibility.

“If you need help while I’m gone, you could do worse than asking Rory O’Hare.”

Rory. Patrick’s second. “Thanks,” I tell him. And then with a reluctance I won’t admit out loud: “Save travels.”

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