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Dom tugs at the lapels of his suit jacket with a grimace. “That’s because you were marrying the ice bitch with no heart and soul.”
It’s safe to say that there’s no love lost between my cousin and ex-wife. He hates the woman as much today as the day our engagement was announced. I never learned why, but it’s also not hard to dislike Sophia.
“Think she’ll be here today?”
“Undoubtedly,” I answer. “Sophia’s not one to ignore a chance to show off.”
Dominic growls his agreement under his breath just as Raphael walks up. From the look on my twin’s face, something’s up already, and we’ve only just arrived.
“What is it?”
Raphael meets my cautiously curious eyes with a frown. “Dad wants us inside. Patrick O’Leary would like to talk before the wedding.”
I have a small inkling about what it is too. Over the past month, the Triads have claimed responsibility for several attacks on High Table businesses. It feels like we’re putting literal fires out every day with no end in sight as we chase a ghost.
Dad and Uncle Leo meet us inside and lead us down a hallway clear of wedding guests. Two Irish enforcers stand at the end of the hallway and open the door for us when we approach. The stench of cigar smoke and rich scotch overwhelms us. Sergei and his younger brother Igor sit at a table with Patrick O’Leary, Miami’s Irish mob boss, and third seat at the High Table. His eldest daughter is getting married today, which is why we’re here. At a noticeably less crowded table is Connor, the man of the hour, and Dimitri, the captain of the Mikhailov Bratva.
Patrick notices us first and gestures extravagantly at us, a little scotch spilling over the rim of his glass. The man is undeniably drunk. “Please! Sit and drink in celebration of my daughter’s marriage.”
Dad and Uncle Leo join them at their table while we join Connor and Dimitri at the other.
“How are renovations coming along at that club of yours?” Patrick asks Dad, his words slightly slurred.
Sinners suffered a fire last week that started in the storeroom. The official story is an unfortunate accident caused by an electrical malfunction, but the truth is arson courtesy of our Asian rat friends.
“We start rebuilding next week,” Dad answers, keeping his reply short and to the point. Thankfully, we suffered no fatalities, but the damage was enough to warrant a shutdown.
Patrick nods. “That’s excellent to hear. I like that little club of yours. May I suggest you add a little more flair during the rebuild? Sergei is on to something with that club of his. What’s it called again?” He snaps his fingers several times before exclaiming, “Oh yes, the Playground. Now there’s a club that knows how to cater to those with more…unique tastes.”
I bristle at the blatant dig but say nothing. I’ve been to the Playground a handful of times and enjoyed the atmosphere, but it’s too much work to keep up with. Let the Russians have their little havens of debauchery. It’s the only line of successful businesses they have.
“And you are a well-valued member, dear friend.” Sergei lifts his glass and clinks it with Patrick’s before wisely changing the subject. “So one down, one to go, O’Leary.”
The Irish mob boss downs his finger of scotch, and Igor, like the good lap dog he is, refills it right away. “Yes, and good riddance, I say. Let that foolish, youngest daughter of mine be someone else’s problem. No offense to you, of course, Igor.”
“None taken, old friend.” Igor chuckles.
“I sometimes think sending her to Ireland was a mistake. She was given too much free rein over there by my brother. It filled her head with nonsense and bad ideas. Unlike my oldest. Now, that girl I raised to be an obedient wife. Provide heirs to your husband, and you will be taken care of for life. Be thankful for what you are given and never question the nights when your husband doesn’t come to warm your bed. Grace understands the world she lives in.”
Listening to Patrick speak about his daughters like they’re nothing more than prized breeding mares has my back bristling uncomfortably. I glance at Connor, curious what he thinks of his boss and soon-to-be father-in-law’s views. The Irish groom rolls his neck before he takes a long sip of his scotch. His silence tells me he doesn’t share the same views.
Marriages in our world can go one of three ways. First, there are the arranged marriages, the loveless marriages, where the wife is simply a womb and nothing more. Then there are the marriages that start as friends but develop into love. Finally, the third type of marriage is where the couple is already in love. Those are the lucky and rare ones.
Igor takes a deep drag of his cigar and exhales a cloud of smoke before he boasts, “I’ll have that wife of mine broken in and pregnant by the end of the year. Mark my words, Patrick.”
So it wasn’t a rumor after all. Patrick O’Leary really is going to marry his youngest to Sergei’s little brother, Igor. The strange thing is that Rosaleen O’Leary hasn’t been seen in public since returning home from Ireland after ten years away. The reason for her absence is a sad story I remember well. Rosaleen was the sole survivor of a car accident that claimed the lives of her mother and little brother. Patrick was never the same after the death of his wife and heir. When I heard his daughter was the spitting image of her mother, it didn’t surprise me when Patrick shipped the young girl off to Ireland. He may claim it was for her education, but we all know differently. And now she’s home, but only to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather.
Patrick O’Leary, folks. Father of the year.
“Yes, I heard congratulations are in order,” Dad acknowledges, pushing away the glass of scotch Sergei offers him. Never one to turn down good liquor, Dad’s refusal now also has me ignoring my glass in front of me. Something has Dad on edge, and if he is, so am I. “I was not aware that you brought the girl home and entered into a marriage contract with the Mikhailovs.”
Patrick shrugs, his disrespect as clear as his inebriation. “What can I say? Sergei made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
Sergei clears his throat but stays silent like he’s uncomfortable with the serious turn in the conversation.
Dad looks back and forth between his fellow High Table leaders. His tone is conversational when he speaks, but an underlying trace of something dangerous can be heard. “Better than my offer?”
Either the alcohol has really gone to the Irish leader’s head or he just doesn’t care what he says anymore. Either path is stupid. “No offense, but I’m not about to marry my last daughter to the twin of a sterile man. I’m concerned there could be a shared genetic condition.”
