Page 4 of Irish Brute
“Vaffanculo a chi t’è morto,” Antonio says, a foul Italian curse.Go fuck your dead family.
“Della nostra morte,” Eliza finishes.
And my ear is filled with a massive explosion, a monstrous sound followed by a rasping, demented laugh. “No one’s fucking that cunt now.”
He used his gun.
He raped my cousin with his gun and then he shot her.
I start to shout Eliza’s name, but terror and revulsion freeze my throat. I drop to my knees in the sterile lobby. I cross myself, something I haven’t done in years.
And my blood turns to sludge as I hear jostling. As someone’s heavy breathing comes into range of Eliza’s phone. As Antonio Russo snarls, “Giovanna? Giovanna Canna? I’m coming for you next.”
2
BRAIDEN
Staring out the glass doors, I roll my shoulders and wait for Samantha to finish her phone conversation. It’s pure snow out there now, the wind blowing hard enough I can’t see through to the road. It took me two hours to get to this feckin’ meeting. It’ll be four or more, heading home.
At least I brought the Jeep. The Aston Martin is shite on snow.
Whoever Samantha’s talking to—Eliza, I heard her say—they’re giving her an earful. I didn’t think anyone could cut Samantha off when she wants to make a point. She certainly put down those gobshites upstairs.
Notice of tax delinquency, my Irish ass. Someone wants to corner me, Al Capone style. Make a major score against the Irish Mob and my Philadelphia-based Fishtown Boys.
Bureaucrats like the morons upstairs don’t have a feckin’ clue when they’ve been beat.
My gallery at Diamond Freeport has paid for itself a dozen times over. I’ve got a tax-free warehouse that’s willing to work with me on…creative descriptions for domestic and international bills of lading. Plus, there’s access to a lady lawyer to back me up when things go arsewise—a perfect arrangement.
Samantha Mott is creative with a contract and fierce at the negotiation table. I haven’t needed her in a courtroom yet, but her services are part of what I pay for at the freeport.
And I’m enough of a bogger to think of other “services” she could provide… On her knees… That thick black hair wrapped around my fist… Her full lips open to?—
“Ma’am? Ma’am!” The security officer’s voice breaks as I whirl around from the storm.
Samantha’s on her knees, but not the way my twisted mind imagined just seconds ago. Her hands are splayed in front of her and she’s gagging like she’s hammered. Her face is whiter than the government-issue floor tiles.
I catch her against my side, half-dragging, half-carrying her through the glass doors. The heat of her body sears through my winter-weight suit. I barely have time to snag her hair from her face—again, not the image I was going for a moment ago—when she doubles over in the snow and pukes up a steaming cone of the swill that passed for coffee upstairs.
I shift my shoes out of the way and get a better grip on her hair. She plants her own hands on her knees, trapping her phone between fingers that look like ice lolly sticks and trousers that must have cost a month’s wages for the government idiots she outsmarted upstairs. I square my shoulders, trying to give her a windbreak as she bokes again.
The kid in the security uniform shoulders the door open against the storm. “Is she okay?” he asks, like I’m wearing a white coat, with a stethoscope around my feckin’ neck. “Should I call 911?”
Samantha moans at the three numbers. I don’t know what an upright member of the bar like her has against emergency assistance, but I’m always happy to avoid an arsehole with a badge. “She’s fine,” I tell the kid. “Can you get us a bottle of water?”
The door slams closed behind him, forced shut by the wind. Samantha leans over to retch again, but this time nothing comes up. Her whole body heaves, violent enough that I have to step forward to maintain my block against the wind. Her grip tightens on her phone.
“Here you go, Mister,” the kid says, fighting to open the door again. I want to order him to bring it to me, but I’m pretty sure he won’t be able to get back into the building under his own power.
Instead, I wait for Samantha to gulp some air, to nod. “I’m okay,” she says. Needs must, but I hate leaving her exposed to the storm, even for a moment.
“You’re sure—” the kid asks as I take the water from him.
“We’re fine,” I say.
“But—”
“We’refine,” I repeat, and this time I let my Captain voice off its leash. He jumps back inside so fast he looks like he’s being devoured by some movie monster.
