Page 93 of Irish Brute
I have the barest minimum of clothes—two suits, five tops, a week’s worth of underwear that I wash by hand when necessary. I keep an almost-empty kitchen—a box of energy bars on the counter, a stack of Lean Cuisine dinners in the freezer, and a bag of mini carrots in the fridge.
I don’t watch TV. Dramas are ridiculous, with their made-up problems, all fixable in an hour. I don’t understand any of the comedies; nothing makes me smile, much less laugh. Every movie lasts too long.
I don’t bother with music. I don’t have any hobbies. I don’t have any friends.
What I have is work. There’s an endless list of tasks to complete. I have contracts to review. Briefs to write. There are statutes and regulations and guidelines that control every aspect of the freeport’s business. Every new client introduces a host of novel issues.
Everything I need fits inside this little cottage and my office in the freeport’s main building and on the narrow path I walk each day between the two.
It’s safest that way.
I can’t be hurt.
I can’t be bothered.
And I never have to think about the life I’ve left behind.
40
BRAIDEN
Itell Trap Prince I won’t be coming to his monthly Diamond Ring meeting. He tells me I can go to fucking hell, that I can’t let the jizzstains run my life, and he won’t take no for a motherfucking answer.
He can be persuasive.
Plus, the Diamond Ring meeting is Fight Night. Five matches, from featherweight to heavyweight. Ten rounds a match, all the referees brought in from Vegas. No-limit betting.
The ring is set up beneath a massive tent at the back of the freeport property, down by the river. Rumor has it the platform has been cleared for a helipad; some New York client is throwing around his weight.
Connor Boyle’s the first man I see as I enter the tent. He’s the only Captain I know who’s ever stood up to Kieran Ingram and the Grand Irish Union. He refuses to tithe on income fromhis Green Energy Systems corporation because it’s a legitimate business that he’s never used for money laundering.
Boyle’s on his best behavior tonight, bringing me a glass of the Teeling Thirty when he gets one for himself. The man’s a feckin’ giant, tall enough and broad enough that he could go more than a few rounds with the professional boxers Prince has brought in.
I gather he went to last month’s Ring event, the first I ever missed. I’ve never seen the northern lights, and it sounds like the display over Reykjavik was one of the best in decades. But I couldn’t head to Iceland, not when my truce with Russo was so new.
I should tell the feckin’ truth.
I didn’t go to Iceland because I couldn’t bear the thought of going through Delaware to get there. I didn’t trust myself to get on Prince’s private plane if Samantha was anywhere near the airfield.
We’ve been apart for five weeks, but it’s still hell being at the freeport. My mind plays tricks, saying I need to head up to the office tower, just to make sure my check cleared for last month’s services. I need to visit my gallery, to see that no one’s broken in and stolen all my valuables. I need…
I need to keep my head in the feckin’ game. Watch some brilliant fighters. Bet enough to keep it interesting. And forget that Samantha’s closer than she’s been in weeks. In thirty-four days, not that I’ll admit to anyone I’m counting that closely.
Gage Rider comes over to shake hands, first with me, then with Boyle. Rider owns solid blocks of downtown Manhattan real estate, along with a Brooklyn sex club, Kynk.
I think about taking Samantha to Kynk. I’d attach a chain to her collar and walk her through the underground rooms. We could play out a scene in public—I could see how she handles a paddle or a cat o’ nine tails. I’m not big on exhibition, but acrowd would test her need for control. My little sub wouldn’t dare top from the bottom there.
Christ. I’m not taking Samantha anywhere anymore. She’s not my pet to test. Not anymore.
I look up to see Sawyer Best watching from the far side of the ring. His eyes are narrowed, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s studying me, or Rider, or Boyle. Best perfected that look of shrewd evaluation owning and managing Sawgrass Corporation, his own private army.
I’ve never hired Sawgrass men. I don’t have a problem doing my own wetwork. At least I didn’t, before the Hare burned down. I’m still explaining to the fire marshals why my bar had a room in the basement that resembled a feckin’ dungeon. I haven’t had time to build another one. I haven’t needed one. Yet.
My General laid down the law. I’m not allowed to take out Russo or any of his men. Which doesn’t seem fair, because that Mafia wanker is the sole reason I keep hearing Samantha’s name, keep seeing her picture every round of the news cycle. The media vultures won’t let her story rest.
Yeah. My hands are tied for now.
But no one said anything about outsourcing.
