Page 73 of Irish Brute
Russo didn’t hit my men. He hit my heart.
“Go on, then,” I say to Madden, gripping the edge of my desk, because I know I’ll hate what he’s about to show me. “Turn your phone around.”
I close my eyes to brace for it, and just like that, I’m back in the closet at St. Ann’s. It was my job to protect Sister Mary Margaret, but I failed. I was too weak, or too blind, or I just didn’t count on how hard a bad man would work to destroy a bit of good in the world.
Madden’s at the Hare and Harp. Or, rather, he’s at the steaming heap of charred brick and timber that used to be my pub. The center of my business. The building handed down to me by my father.
The heart and soul of the Fishtown Boys.
Madden and I made a plan to keep our people safe from Mafia retaliation. But I should have figured the Hare would be atarget. I should have held a dozen men out from protection at a hotel, ordered them to stand guard, ready with guns.
Or I should have stood in the feckin’ doorway myself, with my baseball bat.
Russo destroyed the one object I loved as much as he loved his fucking automobile. He was as thorough with fire as I was with my bat.
It’s clear from Madden’s video tour that nothing survived. The long mahogany bar… The desk my grandad’s grandad carved in County Cork… The mass cards from my father’s funeral…
I can’t feel my toes and fingers. I can’t move.
The only thing that keeps me breathing is my certainty that I will murder Antonio Russo. I’ll start by cutting out the tongue that ordered the hit on my pub. I’ll finish by shoving his Beretta up his arsehole and pulling the trigger, same as he did to Samantha’s kin. In between, I’ll concentrate on keeping him alive, keeping him feeling every ounce of pain I can deliver. And when he’s dead, I’ll scrape up whatever meat remains and toss it in the river. I’ll feed the fish and let them shite him into the mud.
I’ll get my revenge, because I was supposed to protect the Hare. It was the heart of the Fishtown Boys. Leading the Boys is the only reason Da squirted me out, and I’ve failed.
Again.
“I’m sorry,deartháir,” Madden says. “I got here soon as the alarm went off.”
The Hare’s fire alarm was no match for an East Falls wanker with a can or two of petrol. And the worst is yet to come. Once the site is cool enough for the Fire Chief to inspect, they’ll find my room in the basement.
Concrete doesn’t burn. Nor do iron chains and meathooks, strung from a ceiling. A wall of metal tools that have no place ina drinking establishment. The grate in the floor might melt into the drainage pipes, but I won’t put my money on it.
There’ll be serious questions once city authorities go through the wreckage. I can buy off some, and put the fear of a vengeful God in others. But the feckin’ journos will have a field day—the Hare has always had a reputation of being haunted.
I can practically smell the smoke through the phone’s screen.
Wait. That’s not the smell of the Hare. That’s?—
The smoke detector above me lets out a banshee wail.
“Jaysus!” Madden says.
“I’ll call you back.” I stab at my phone, cutting the connection.
The smell of smoke is already stronger. I hear shouting outside—Fairfax bellowing, telling someone to come with fire extinguishers.
And Samantha. She’s shouting for help. She needs me, and I’m failing her, because Russo burned down my fucking bar.
Yanking at the door, I try to get to my wife. I register the heat just before my hand closes around the knob. I’m not quick enough backing off, though, and pain sears my palm.
Swearing, I tug my shirt over my head. The cotton isn’t thick, but it’s all I have. I ball it around the knob and try again.
This time, I can maintain contact with the metal. I can even turn the knob. The door moves an inch, maybe two, but then Samantha shouts, “Wait!”
“Samantha!”
“Close the door,” she calls. “Just wait.”
I need to reach her. I need to save her. But Fairfax is issuing his own orders.
