Page 68 of Irish Brute
BRAIDEN
Icall Madden before we’ve driven past City Hall. “I’ve got you on speaker,” I say. “Samantha’s here.” And before he can reply: “Put all our men on alert. Russo will be moving against us.”
I hear a woman’s voice in the background on his end. He swears and says, “Hold on.” I assume he’s moving some place where he can talk without being overheard. “What’s going on?” he finally asks.
“Russo’s Lamborghini just ran into my baseball bat.”
Madden laughs. “That sounds more like my type of sport than yours,deartháir.”Brother. Madden and I have always been closest when I’m stirring up shite.
“He won’t take it kindly,” I say.
“Should we bring in a couple of his associates? Maybe host them downstairs at the Hare to have a bit of leverage on hand?”
He’s talking about the bar’s soundproof room. The one with the drain in the middle of the floor. But if we take hostages, this thing with Russo will go nuclear.
“Not yet,” I say. “Meet me at Thornfield, and we’ll figure out our best approach.”
“I’m on my way.”
“And call Doc Kelleher,” I say. “Have him meet us at the house.”
“What did that fucker do to you?”
“I’m fine. It’s Samantha he went after.”
Madden offers up a fine speculation on Russo’s parentage and the diseased little boys he diddles, bouncing from English to Irish and back again. I figure half of it goes over Samantha’s head, but there’s still enough to send her eyebrows into alarmed peaks.
“I’ll see you in twenty,” I say when he winds down.
“Make it an hour,” he says. “I’m not home.”
There’s no law on earth that says my brother has to stay within the Fishtown limits. But I’m annoyed the fecker has wandered, tonight of all nights. “An hour,” I say, grudgingly. “But get Kelleher there now.”
The good doctor is waiting outside the gate by the time Samantha and I pull up—his second visit to Thornfield in twenty-four hours. I wave him through security, and he follows us up the drive.
The three of us make enough noise going to the surgery that Aiofe opens the nursery door. She clutches at the little gold cross around her neck when she sees Kelleher. She doesn’t like doctors.
“It’s craic, lass,” I say. “We’re only checking Samantha’s arm. She hurt it tonight, and I want to make sure it’s nothing serious.”
Aiofe transfers her worried attention to Samantha. The child steps into the hall in her nightgown, clutching her stuffed rabbit as a comfort.
“I’m fine,” Samantha assures her putting her good hand against Aiofe’s cheek. “Go back to bed. It’s late, and you have school with Mr. Bell tomorrow.”
Aiofe frowns, but she shuffles back to her room. I double-check that her door is closed. No need for her to overhear anything about Antonio Fucking Russo.
In the end, Kelleher puts Samantha through the exact same tests I did. He asks if she heard a pop—she didn’t—and he concludes she has a mild sprain. He tells her to rest her arm and ice it. He shows me how to wrap it in a bandage, and he tells her to sleep sitting up for a few nights.
If we were in an actual hospital, now’s the time the doctor would order me out of the room. He’d hound Samantha for details about how she wrenched her arm, on the assumption that I was the one who banged her up. He’d give her information about getting to a safe place.
Kelleher doesn’t bother. He knows this is my house. My rules. That was the bargain he made when he first accepted my half million a year as a retainer for his services.
As I shake his hand in the foyer, Madden shows up. We retire straight to the study; I don’t want to risk waking Aiofe again. The child has enough nightmare memories; no reason to give her more tonight.
Madden sinks into one of the heavy upholstered chairs. He’s got a smear of bright red lipstick on the collar of his shirt, but I decide not to give him a hard time. I loosen my tie as I go to the credenza and pour us both stiff whiskeys.
Now that we’re safely behind Thornfield’s walls and I know Samantha isn’t seriously injured, my adrenaline is finally tapering down.
“You’re hurt?” Madden asks, taking his glass.
