Page 22 of Irish Brute
“What did he do?”
“Firebombed three of my clubs.”
She takes the news like a body blow. I had my men do a little digging after my feckin’ proposal. Her parents were killed by one of Russo’s bombs. So I’m not surprised when her fingers go to the edge of her hair above her right eyebrow. I saw the scars there when we kissed. She whispers, “Where?”
“Fishtown. Kensington. Pennsport.”
“What sort of clubs?”
She’s not naive. She knows what I do for a living. But I spell it out for her anyway. “Gambling on the ground floor. Girls upstairs.”
“How many…clients were hurt?”
It’s the right question. Russo will buy off law enforcement, shift the blame to Philadelphia Gas Works, do whatever is necessary to get the investigation tabled. He couldn’t do that if civilians died. Grieving widows have a way of staying on the front page far too long.
“None,” I say. “At three thirty in the afternoon, no one’s in the clubs. Just the girls, sleeping upstairs. Russo was sending a message straight to me. And he used our fucking wedding as his alibi.”
“Jesus,” she swears. And then: “This is my fault.”
I knew she’d go there. I’m just a little surprised she arrived so fast. “No,” I say. “This is Russo’s fault, because he’s a fucking cunt who’s willing to kill innocent girls instead of fighting like a man.”
She closes her eyes. “I want my life back. I want everything to be normal.”
I cross to the fridge and grab a bottle of water. The plastic top cracks like a bullet as I twist it free. The water feels like ice on my parched throat, freezing away the stench of fire.
“This is normal now,” I say when the bottle is empty.
“I’ll file a complaint in civil court this afternoon. Trespass, of course. Property damage. I’m pretty sure there’s a separate count for criminal mischief in Pennsylvania, for using fire or explosives intentionally, recklessly, or negligently.”
Her caramel eyes shine, and the frowning line between her brows smooths out. Her chin lifts and her shoulders square, showing off the bright white neckline of her wedding gown. I say, “You’re gorgeous when you’re scheming.”
“Thank you.” She blushes, and I wonder when she last had someone feed her compliments. I also wonder just how far that blush extends. But then she’s back to business. “I can check the wording on Westlaw. I just need a computer; I can log in from anywhere.”
“You’ll not waste your time.”
“Waste—”
“No one’s stopping Russo in court.”
“I’m a lawyer, Braiden. This is what I do.”
“So let’s say you file the complaint. Russo hires his own lawyer. The two of you go at each other in court for what? One year? Two? They’ll play dirty, fighting you every step of the way, and you have to hope the judge is more afraid of me than he is of Russo. One of us wins and the other appeals. That’s another year, maybe two. How many judges will I have to buy on the court of appeals? How much to make sure they stay bought—because Russo will be playing the exact same game.”
“That’s not the way?—”
“So three years later, maybe four, and I might get justice. Four years after I’ve buried my girls. Thank you, but I’ll play a different game.”
“What game?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Idowant to know. How will you get back at Russo?”
“He killed three girls. I’ll kill six.”
“You can’t do that!”
I rub a hand down my face. I’m too tired to have this conversation now. I should have left her here until I slept a couple of hours.
