Page 94 of Irish Brute
I trust Best knows how to cover his tracks. And a shitehawk like Russo has plenty of enemies; there’d be loads of suspects if he turned up dead.
I’d just have to set an alibi—make sure I’m somewhere public when the hit takes place. Samantha too—she can’t come under suspicion. We could hand out Easter baskets at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Host a fundraising dinner for the Philadelphia Animal Welfare Society. Sponsor a new literacy program at the Free Library of Philadelphia.
Dammit all to hell. Samantha won’t be joining me for any society function. Even if I do pay Best to take out Russo. Even if I pay extra to make it hurt.
Samantha thinks I’m an animal. She doesn’t want a life like mine. She can’t stand the violence—even if I keep her safe forever.
Closing my eyes, I shift my glass of whiskey to my left hand. I pinch my lower lip, waiting for my heart to catch up with my brain.
And when I open my eyes, Samantha’s standing beside Prince, on the far side of the tent. She’s wearing one of her black suits, a white top, practical heels that make sense for the walk from the office tower.
It’s Saturday night, well after eight. She shouldn’t be dressed for the office now. She should be wearing a skirt.
Samantha doesn’t live by my rules any longer.
There are circles under her eyes, and I’m pretty sure this isn’t the first weekend night Samantha’s worked late. She’s lost weight. Her face looks pale, like she hasn’t seen the sun in far too long.
Her lips curl in the professional politeness of a flight attendant. I see her try to hand an over-size envelope to Prince. He shakes his head, clearly reminding her that business is forbidden at Diamond Ring events.
She’s insistent, though. She points at a red stamp on the envelope, something urgent and bold.
I watch Prince scowl at the envelope, or at Samantha, or at any interruption of business when the Diamond Ring is all about play.
I watch Samantha, fiercely determined, because that’s who she is, and that’s how she does her job.
I watch a waiter, gliding toward her with a silver tray of the signature cocktails Prince’s Michelin-starred chef came up with for the night. The waiter stumbles, though, spilling the drinks. He comes up moving faster, more sure.
My legs move before my brain feeds me the information: The waiter is pointing a gun at Samantha.
I’m back in that closet with Sister Mary Margaret. I’m the only one who can stop the bad man. I’m the only one who has the power.
But tonight I’m not a terrified little boy. I don’t freeze. I don’t piss myself in terror.
I tackle the waiter at the knees, crashing us both to the ground. A shot goes off close to my ear, loud enough to make the world go white.
I grab the dry shite’s wrist with both my hands. I crash his arm against the ground, again, again, again. He finally loses his grip and the gun falls away. I have a split second to see its evil eye glaring at us, and then I shove it away.
The gobshite fights as dirty as I do. He knows how to use his knees, and he’s not afraid to bite.
He outweighs me by at least twenty pounds, and his prison tattoos give me an idea of where he learned to grapple. He throws me far enough that he’s able to get to his feet. We circle each other like cats tied together by our tails.
Without warning, he lunges, stiffening his fingers and going straight for my eyes. I just have time to block with a forearm. While he’s staggering for balance, I follow through with an elbow strike to the back of his neck.
I do more damage than I plan, because his legs turn to rubber and he falls hard on his arse. I straddle him before he can recover, smashing my fist into his face. His nose goes first, and then the arch of his right cheekbone. My knuckles split on his teeth, which are immediately filmed with red.
My hands close around his throat. I can press my thumbs into his larynx, strangle him and be done. Or I can pound his head into the ground, hitting heavy and hard. Or I can stop, grab his bollocks, and squeeze with all my strength.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move a muscle.
I broke his spine with that blow to his neck.
His eyes are wild as I grab hold of his ear. “Who sent ya?” I bellow.
His lips clamp shut.
“Eight pounds t’ pull yer ear off. That’s all it takes.” I tug hard to reinforce my point.
“Do it,” he dares me.
