Page 81 of Irish Brute
“He planted her with you to get eyes and ears on the Fishtown Boys.”
I saw Samantha’s reaction when Russo killed her cousin. I watched her catatonic terror when he tried to claim her the very next day. I saw her shut down the first time I fingered her cunt, and I know the way she feels coming around my cock. There’s not a woman on earth who could lie about all that.
“Where the fuck are you getting your information?” I ask Madden.
“I heard Russo in the jacks, not five minutes ago. He didn’t know I was there. He was boasting to his mouthpiece.”
There’s no way Russo would talk to his consigliere without checking every stall first. “He played you,” I tell Madden.
“She’s told him about the shipment coming in tonight. About your man, the harbor master.”
Every man in the Fishtown Boys knows about the shipment—that’s why we put them all in the Holiday Inn, to keep themsafe. But I can count on one hand the people who know what I’m holding over the harbor master’s head—and I’d still have a middle finger to tell Antonio Russo where to go.
“He’s talking bollocks,” I say, but I’ve lost the ring of confidence.
Madden exhales through his nose, short and sharp. He looks out at the valet. When he shifts his weight from side to side, I know there’s something else he has to say.
“Go on,” I say. It’s not my fault I sound like I’m about to remove his bollocks through his teeth.
“Forget it,” he says, talking to the hotel doors.
“Spit it out, man.”
“You’re probably right. He wanted me to come running to you. He’s using me, like you say.”
“You’ve come this far, boyo. Cross the feckin’ finish line.”
He looks miserable. But he’s my brother. We learned to stand up to our da together, and those types of bruises bind men for life. Finally he says, “Russo said Mott served you up right before she shoved her tongue up his arsehole.”
I want to punch the smut off my brother’s lips. My fingers actually ball into fists. Before I can swing, though, a silver Mercedes with Massachusetts plates glides up to the valet stand. I peer through the windshield, expecting to see Kieran Ingram.
Instead, I’m staring at a woman. She’s got straight black hair, cut sharp to match her jaw. Her face is pale enough to match new-fallen snow, but that suggests an innocence this fine thing’s never had. When she climbs from behind the wheel, she’s all angles and lines, scarlet lips and smoky eyes, with knees and elbows sharp enough to disembowel a man.
“What the fuck is Fiona Ingram doing here?” I ask Madden.
He shrugs, but he can’t take his eyes off her. “Her da must’ve sent her along in his stead.”
Fiona Fucking Ingram. She’s got all her father’s killer instincts, poured over the icy composure of a woman who’s fought twice as hard with half the resources for anything she’s ever gained in life. Rumor has it, she’s acting as her da’s Clan Chief in Boston, filling in as second-in-command since her uncle went to prison six months ago.
As Fiona walks toward the hotel doors, I say to Madden, “Keep your mouth shut about Samantha.”
“But what are you going to?—”
I don’t let him ask a question I can’t answer. Instead, I swing forward and offer Fiona my hand as she enters the lobby. “Welcome to the Rittenhouse,” I say.
She doesn’t take my fingers. Instead, she narrows her eyes and looks at a point somewhere past my shoulder. “Welcome to the Rittenhouse,Boss,” she says.
“You’re the Boston Clan Chief,” I growl. “Not my boss.”
“I’m here representing my da,” she says. “General of the GIU. You’ll give me every respect he’s due.”
I can fight her. I can say she doesn’t have the right to make demands. Her da called this summit, and the Fishtown Boys can walk if he can’t be bothered to show.
But she’d never stand before me if she didn’t have her da’s full approval. And Russo’s waiting upstairs, with his feckin’ lawyer and Scuderi. And my shipment’s docking at the port, even as I’m wasting time.
So I say again, “Welcome to the Rittenhouse.” And I add the hated word: “Boss.”
Fiona’s grin is feral as she leads the way to the Presidential Suite.
