Page 89 of Irish Reign

Dowd interrupts: “As you know?—”

Jockeying between the three of them goes on like that for a while, until Mickey Reardon pounds the table with his fist. “All right,” he says in his broad Chicago accent. “We’re all here for the same reason—to select our next General. So let’s skip the greetings and the gossip and go straight to what matters. I’m stepping forward to serve.”

To an outsider, what Reardon says might make sense. He’s the oldest man at the table. Running Chicago, he’s proven he can match wits with the Mafia, and with the Russian bratva that’s made its way into the Windy City. His territory is huge, so he’s got money to burn. The feds have been digging into his operations for years now, without finding enough to build a case.

But none of that keeps me from saying, “It’s good of you to volunteer, Mickey. But I’m thinking I should be our next General instead.”

Aran Dowd explodes beside Fiona. “You’re the reason we’re here today, boyo! You fucking murdered Kieran Ingram.”

“I’ll ignore that accusation,” I say without raising my voice. “Seeing as you’re under so much stress, Dowd. It must be exhausting, trying to convince your crew you’re fit to lead them, instead of a girl.”

“Ya knocked Ingram on his arse at Fenway!” That’s from Rivers.

I study him coolly. “Has Boston ever chosen a Captain who’s blind? I never set a finger on Ingram at the ballpark. Any man with one working eye will tell you the same.”

He splutters, but it’s too early in the day for us to come to blows. I surprise a tiny smile on Fiona’s lips, before she lowers her eyes to her crimson fingernails. Patrick gives me one slow nod, as if he’s keeping score in a high-stakes game of darts.

Truth be told, I could have kicked the shite out of Ingram in the middle of Boston Commons, and half the men here would line up to shake my hand. Ingram made sure to take his tithe on legitimate income—whores, gambling, waste management contracts, and the lot. But all too often, he demanded a taste where he didn’t have a right. He regularly hit me up for profits from Kelly Construction, and once the word was out about Boyle’s green energy venture, Ingram developed a healthy appetite for that cash cow.

Plain and simple, the old man got greedy. So no one at this table is shedding too many tears that he’s gone. Including, I suspect, Fiona, Dowd, and Rivers.

Reardon clears his throat, lumbering to his feet as he wrests back control of the meeting. “I hardly need to remind you,deartháireacha, what I bring to the Union.”

So now we’re all his brothers. He spreads his meaty hands wide on the table, leaning forward like he’s sharing the best way to butcher a hog. Because he’s the most senior man present, and because he’s charmed by the sound of his own voice, he proceedsto tell us—at near interminable length—why we should vote for him.

He outlines every deal he’s made in the past twenty years. He catalogs every elected official he’s got goods on in the state of Illinois. He points out the size of his territory, the number of small towns in the upper Midwest that already pay him tribute.

It takes him more than an hour to go over all the ways he’ll serve us. I keep one hand on my wallet the entire time he talks because I’ll be paying through the nose if he gets the Union’s vote.

In the end, he stops just short of saying Jesus, Mary, and all the saints would vote for him, if we just gave them half a chance. When he finally takes his seat, his Clan Chief leans forward to whisper congratulations in his ear, nodding so hard I think he might concuss himself.

Fiona—God bless her—visibly swallows a yawn. “Braiden?” she asks.

I dive in before Rivers and Dowd start mewling that she has no right to run the meeting. “I’ve shared the Jameson with all of you over the years,” I say to the table. “You know I’ve run a tight ship since I took over from my da. I’ve always paid heed to the Union, playing by its rules even when that’s cost me dosh. I’ll take a stand for the GIU against anyone who means us harm—Mafia or bratva, yakuza or the law. By now, you all know what happened to Antonio Russo. And I suspect you’ve heard what I did to my own brother when he turned traitor on us all. I respect the Union. I respect you. And I’ll be your next General.”

I’m aware of Samantha behind me, every molecule of my body tuned in to our unique frequency. Of course I know she’s the one who executed Russo, and I’m not afraid to tell the truth to anyone who asks. But she and I agreed that it madestrategic sensenot to complicate the matter for the Union. Samanthacan accept their believing I’m the one who blasted his bollocks through his brain.

Fiona realizes I’ve finished my pitch before anyone else does. “All right, then, Captains of the Grand Irish Union.”

But before she can call a vote, Rivers interrupts. “Anyone else putting his hat in the ring?” He glares up and down the table, as if it’s a personal insult that no one else is going for the title.

Fiona repeats herself, “All right, then, Captains of the Grand Irish Union.” Before Dowd can figure out a reason to cut in, she says, “Following our tradition, Boston votes first. Then, we’ll proceed in increasing order of seniority.” Riding the wave of her own momentum, she announces, “Boston votes for Kelly.”

Dowd and Rivers’ protests can probably be heard all the way over in Dublin. Rivers is foolish enough to set his paw on Fiona’s shoulder. That gets Patrick involved, which puts the other Boston seconds on their feet. Even though no one’s carrying visible weapons, I’ve seen Patrick kill men with his bare hands, and it looks like he’s ready to add to his total.

I’d let Fiona get out of the fix herself, but I have a point of my own to make. I’m fairly sure I’ll regret the immediate fallout, but I’m playing a somewhat longer game. I wish I had the option of talking to Samantha, of seeing if she sees things the way I do. But ultimately, a Captain needs to take his own risks.

“Shut it.” I don’t try to make myself louder than the Boston scrum. Instead, I cut beneath the chaos—sharp enough and cold enough that every one of them feels the land collapse beneath his feet.

The sudden silence vibrates like a tuning fork.

“Today isn’t about Boston,” I say. “We aren’t here to decide which of you has the better claim. That’s a question for your own clan to debate, for your own men to manage. But none of us leaves this room until we’ve decided on a General. So each ofyou state your choice. Boston’s vote is the majority, between the three of you.”

I look around the table, measuring reactions. I hear Samantha behind me, tension tightening her breath. She’s smart enough, though, to stay quiet. “Reardon?” I ask the Chicago boss. “Fair enough for you?”

He’s done his own calculating. “Fair enough,” he agrees with a slick smile that turns my stomach. And then, because he wants to look like the solution is his own idea, he says, “Dowd? Rivers? How do you vote?”

Dowd forgets to tailor his glare for me. He stares down the entire table before he says, “Reardon.”

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