Page 28 of Irish Brute
My brother is three months older than I am. He would have been Captain himself, if Da had put a ring on his mam’s finger before he started diddling her after hours, behind the scarred bar out front. When we were kids, Madden held a grudge, but he hasn’t stepped out of line for a couple of years now. Not since I broke his nose in a bare-knuckles boxing match, a week before I made his Clan Chief job official.
Madden has our da’s long reach, and his temper too. I got the dark hair and blue eyes, but Madden favors his mother, with brown hair to match his eyes. No one will be confusing us in a dark alley.
By the time both men are here, I’m studying an old-fashioned paper street map of East Falls. It’s easier to see the lay of the land this way, spread out over my desk instead of crowded onto a computer screen.
The three of us spend the morning debating where to hit back—how many targets, how many men. I want to pave everything east of the Schuylkill River, but Madden tells me I’m over-reacting. I make him think about his choice of words, but in the end, he’s right.
We settle on three targets—two guinea massage parlors and a strip club. I think about what Samantha said, about how it’s not fair to kill Russo’s slags. She’s wrong—she doesn’t understand how men play this game.
But thereissomething Russo loves more than his whores.
“What about that garage?” I ask Madden.
“What garage?”
“The one out in Wyndmoor. Where Russo keeps his cars.”
Patrick says, “Where the fuck?”
I snap my fingers, trying to remember the details. “Eoghan tried to hire a mechanic from there. Paid him double to break his contract, but the bellend went back after a month.”
Patrick calls my driver while Madden leans back in his chair. “So, you’ll burn out yer man’s toys,” he says.
“Every fucking one.”
“Seems like a waste of fine automobiles,” Madden says.
“Got it,” Patrick says. He scans the map until he can tap the new location.
But something about Madden’s observation makes me pause. “Russo got a Lamborghini last year,” I say. “That red Huracán.”
“The one he drove to City Hall. Took the mayor around the block.” Madden snorts in disdain. We agreed at the time that nothing good could come from that type of public scrutiny.
“I want it,” I say. “Torch the rest.”
Patrick says, “So do we do this in stages? Girls first, then the cars?”
I shake my head. “Same time. But call in a warning on the girls. Give them five minutes to get out.”
Patrick shoots me a look, like I’ve gone soft. But he knows better than to say a fucking word.
“Go on, then,” I say to the two of them. “You have till noon tomorrow.”
As I set the deadline, my phone vibrates in my pocket. There’s only one thing set to come in on that pattern—Declan’s spy camera.
Madden and Patrick don’t start complaining until they’re out in the hall, where I can pretend I don’t hear them. I’m not listening for details anyway. I’m too busy staring at the evidence on my screen. Declan’s little camera sends a picture as clear as the lines on my palm.
Samantha.
I sent a man down to Dover to pack up her closet, but he must not have returned yet. She’s wearing the clothes I salvaged from the church basement when I went back for her handbag—trim black jeans, a white jumper, and matching runners.
I watch my wife hesitate outside the forbidden door. This time, there’s no one to stop her when she reaches for the black iron doorknob. But she glances over her shoulder first, like a child raiding a jar for biscuits.
She knows she’s not supposed to be there.
She tries to turn the knob, is stopped by the lock, and tries again, more vigorously. When it doesn’t budge, she kneels down to see what’s what. It must be obvious the lock is modern, much newer than the knob, than the door, than the entire third floor of the house.
She turns her head. Presses her ear to the door. The image is clear enough that I see her catch her breath. I feel her listening.
