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I, on the other hand, had fucking lived it.
“Tiernan’s only been dead for three months,” Keegan remarked. “Hard to believe she’s marrying Raph so soon of her own free will.”
I turned to him, reclaiming my inner calmness at the intersection of common sense and what I knew firsthand from being raised in a Mob family. “She’s been a Brennan for two years, which means she’s long since accepted her fate—however Aiden Brennan sees fit to bend it to his will.”
There was no denying that my brother and Ireland’s foremost boss—the widow’s current father-in-law—were as business savvy as they were merciless. Both families anticipated the financial windfall and influx of power that would follow once Raphael and Widow Brennan were married. Our stronghold in the Northeast was an international trade route away from surpassing what any Irish-American crime syndicate had ever accomplished. And the Brennans would benefit from the dependable shipments our stateside channels and connections with the Mejia Cartel could provide.
A win-win, so long as the past stayed exactly where it was—at the bottom of the Charles River. An executive order that had come down from both bosses.
The one thing both sides could agree on was the future.
Not having a daughter of his own, Aiden Brennan had gained a silver lining when he’d lost an heir: a chess piece worthy of sending overseas. Widow Brennan was the fucking queen, and Raphael had been chosen to be her king. That made her the most powerful player on the board, even if it was Aiden Brennan calling the shots.
Widow Brennan wasn’t just my future sister-in-law—she was the linchpin in the Flynn and Brennan crime-family merger.
Keegan jerked his chin at me. “Tiernan fell off his horse and broke his neck, right?”
“Aye.”
He failed to hold back a lopsided grin. “Bet it was a high horse.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I shook my head. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the club.”
The sound of rustling plastic echoed as I moved toward the exit.
“Where am I ditching this piece of shit?” he called after me.
“Brighton. The doorstep of Kostya’s whorehouse.” The Pakhan should consider it a gift that I was returning his son with blood still flowing in his veins.
“If this fucker bleeds out in my Hummer, you’re gonna owe me, bro.”
My feet came to an abrupt halt. I turned back and leveled my friend with a hard look. “If that fucker bleeds out on your watch, you’re gonna have bigger problems than needing to get your rig detailed, bro.”
Keegan chuckled. “You better be careful, Lucifer. You’re almost developing a personality.”
Now that was fucking funny. And one crime I’d never be accused of.
I’d parked the Range Rover inside the sprawling Brookline estate within twenty minutes of leaving Keegan with cleanup duty. It was the middle of February. Layers of snow and ice still covered every outdoor surface, and it’d been hours since the sun had set.
A few soldiers moved through the shadows of the winter evening, patrolling the grounds—a new addition since Raphael had become acting boss. A change of the guard and the reshuffling of the ranks had a way of making even the most commanding families vulnerable.
I’d only made it into the grand foyer when Liam Black, another of my chosen brothers and Raphael’s personal guard, appeared in front of me. “Did you get my texts, mate?”
“Aye.”
His first text demanding my presence at supper had arrived just as I’d started working over Molotov. His latest had simply read: You best be dead motherfucker.
“You missed supper with the commissioner and the congressman. Raph is none too pleased with your arse,” he chided.
Since our father had traded his seat at the head of the table for a hospital bed in the master suite, unexpected dinner guests had become more common. Boston Police Commissioner Owen Quill and Congressman Theodore O’Malley were just the latest to secure what every corrupt official desired—an invite to dine with Boston’s elite crime family.
Fucking hypocrisy at its finest.
Liam gripped my shoulder and gave me a knowing look. “I’ll deal with your brother. Go wash the stench of Russian off you and join us for drinks when you’re done.”
I trusted he’d handle the situation as I would—efficiently and without sentiment.
Liam and I had a similar ice running through our veins. Mine I’d earned through self-punishment; his came by way of a strict upbringing by a father who’d served in the Irish army, a nun for a nanny, and Irish tutors who’d ensured he sounded like he’d been reared in the Old Country and not Boston.
