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But one thing was for certain. Raphael hadn’t earned the moniker McIcarus because he looked like an Irish god. My brother’s arrogance and excessive pride would inevitably be his downfall. The only thing left to be determined was what—or who—would be his sun.
Raphael turned to Finn and Liam. “I think my brother and I are delving into immediate family territory, gentlemen. You’re free to go—or you may stay and enjoy the show, if you’re so inclined.”
Without hesitation, Liam and Finn vacated the room—just as Raphael knew they would. His offer was a thinly veiled test of their loyalty. The four of us were the first generation born to immigrant parents. We’d been bound by our syndicate bond before we’d been enrolled in grade school. Liam and Finn knew the nuances of my twin’s character as well as I did. Had they stayed, Raphael would have interpreted the decision as an act of solidarity with me. This was something their friend and cousin Raphael would have let slide, but Boss Raphael would not.
The study door clicked shut, and Raphael set his empty glass aside. Absent an audience, his posture relaxed.
I recognized the shift immediately. He was regarding me as his brother now. These moments were few and far between, but when they occurred, they felt humanizing. Restorative. They could have been a strategy on Raphael’s part, but I preferred to think of them as glimpses of his true self refusing to die so that a narcissist could be born. This was the brother I’d played hide-and-seek with in the catacombs of our family mansion, who steered me back to our shared childhood bedroom when I’d sleepwalk, and who’d taken on two older bullies in the fifth grade because they’d called his twin brother an unspeakable name.
“The Albanians won’t be a problem,” Raphael said. “I’ll talk to Keegan about tightening their boundaries and keeping a closer eye on what’s going on down at the docks. I’ll even send him to talk to Delgado about his sister and her friend. Satisfied?”
I met his stare, unmoving.
He rolled his head to the side, conveying annoyance at my lack of praise. “Don’t tell me you’re becoming as soft as Athair, Lucifer. I expect more from you.”
Static.
He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Yes! The policy remains the same, for Chrissakes.” He’d answered my silent question. With a smug smirk, he added, “The only crack the Albanians are allowed to sell on our turf is the kind you can’t wash and sell again.”
I dragged a hand down my face. I’d enjoyed the nostalgia while it lasted. “Your text earlier—you mentioned an update from Dublin.” I couldn’t care any fucking less about the Brennans or Tiernan’s widow, but I knew asking the question would be effective in redirecting the conversation, even if it did feel like a betrayal to Jack to do so.
“Aiden informed me that he’s not planning to attend the wedding.” Raphael stood to refill his glass. He’d given me his back, but his disdain was evident. “The disrespectful cunt is sending his weasel son instead.”
“The middle son?”
“Aye.”
Silence filled the room. The sensation of simmering wrath from earlier returned tenfold.
Raphael turned around. “Let me guess, you have no opinion on Brennan’s slight?”
He’d guessed wrong, but this was hardly the time to share all the ways I wished a vicious death on anyone bearing the Brennan surname.
Instead, I replied, “If the situation were reversed, Athair would send you rather than go himself. He’d avoid vulnerability on either end at all costs. It’s just logic.”
“Fuck logic, Lucifer. This is yet another area where Athair and I will differ as boss. I intend to be active. I won’t sit behind a desk plotting—a rather lazy approach, if you ask me. I intend to be a proud boss—one who’s not afraid to show his face or get his hands dirty in order to get what he wants.” Raphael slumped into his chair. “If I didn’t need this trade route, I’d consider outfitting Cillian Brennan with a pair of cement shoes and tossing him in the Charles.”
Raphael used the word I like it guaranteed him immortality. The idea that my brother could use his role as boss for a personal crusade did not bode well for the Flynn Syndicate.
“Haven’t you and Aiden already finalized a deal—marriage pending?” I inquired. Not that I had any idea what those negotiations included. All I knew was that the Brennans had extended an olive branch that still dripped with blood, a truce had been declared, and the ranks in both families would remain the same. There would be mutual business ventures, but we’d also maintain our individual identities.
Raphael grunted something that sounded like an affirmation.
“Then Cillian delivering the widow is nothing more than a formality,” I said. “He’ll witness the wedding, and then we’ll send him back to the Old Country in whatever fucking loafers he arrives in.”
Raphael smirked. “Don’t tell me that after nearly thirty years, Keegan is finally rubbing off on you. You might be spending too much time with the fucker. I need my cold-blooded, heartless brother at my side, not a grumpier version of Keegs.”
I frowned.
Raphael sighed, then searched my face. A warmth filled his eyes, followed by a trace of something that looked like pity, but it was quickly wiped away. We may have shared a twisted history that had pitted us against each other at times, but I believed that when all was said and done, he did value me as his flesh and blood, as I did him. Family first, forsaking all others—it was the code we lived by, regardless of our differences and how our current roles made us clash on every-fucking-thing.
I would honor and protect my father, Raphael, and our syndicate brotherhood until the last breath was ripped from my lungs.
Which is the only reason I asked, “What about the widow?” My interest in her began and ended with keeping my family safe.
“What about her?” Raphael drawled, seemingly uninterested in his bride-to-be. “She’s a twenty-year-old pussy who’s been taking Brennan cock for two years. I’m sure she’ll be a real joy.”
“Do you know her maiden name?”
