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“Bugger, you actually love her. Elio Titone, the tyrant of Toronto, is in love.”
I stare him down in silence.
He chuckles. Then he pushes off from his desk, heading for the bar cart and pouring himself a small glass of whiskey, muttering in a slightly sing-song voice, “Love. Makes bright the days and sweet the night. And turns men’s brains to utter shite.”
He holds his glass but doesn’t take a sip, staring at the wall for so long I wonder if he’s having a silent conversation with the faded wallpaper. But then he suddenly whirls back around to face us, transitioning from eerie stillness to sharp movement so quick it’s jarringly unnatural, like the whole motion was some kind of glitch.
“Where is he, then? Your soon-to-be father-in-law?” Darragh asks.
“What makes you think I’d tell you if I knew?”
“Because I demand recompense,” he says, slamming down his glass, sloshing alcohol out the sides before he ever even had a drink out of it. “And if I’m not going to get it from the daughter then by the devil, I will get it from her Da!”
Any hint of his mirth from before is gone, like a switch inside him has flipped. The inane fripperies have been yanked aside, revealing the roiling rage beneath.
“Technically, you already got your recompense,” I remind him, staying calm where he so clearly isn’t. “O’Malley stole from you, yes, but he also paid it all back with Camorra funds. And then he paid the Camorra debt with my money. Between you, Severu, and me, I’m the only one who actually lost any real money here.”
“It’s not about the money,” Darragh says, and I’m actually inclined to agree with him there. It’s not about the money for me, either. Because you can’t put a price tag on my Songbird.
“It’s about the fucking principle of the thing,” he continues. “When a man betrays me, he’s no longer a man but a rat. And a rat has no right to life or liberty or the protection of whatever fucking hidey-hole he’s crawled into.”
Once again, I’m inclined to agree. And if it were any other man, in any other situation, I’d just shrug my good shoulder and tell Darragh what he wanted to know. But this is Deirdre’s father. And that wasn’t the deal I made with her. The deal was that she had to marry me or I would tell Darragh where her father was.
And since she is going to marry me (whether she’s accepted that fact or not) then I don’t plan on telling Darragh shit.
But I doubt Darragh’s going to accept that fact head-on. And I can’t just pay him off like I did with Severu Serpico. In many ways, dealing with Sev was smoother than Darragh. Sev’s a dangerous man, but he’s more easily soothed by cold, hard cash. There was very little emotion tied up in all this for him.
Darragh, on the other hand, is fuelled by rage that has become righteous to him and he won’t back down just because I wave a fat cheque in his face. If I want him to accept my terms without simply blowing his head off and instantly getting two hundred and eighty pounds of Rowan stomping my Sicilian ass, I’m going to have to choose another strategy. A smarter one.
“You’re a gambling man,” I say jerking my chin towards the door we came through, indicating the cards and dice at play beyond. “Why don’t we make a little bet? If I win, you relinquish any claim you think you have on my fiancée, and you will not receive any information on her father’s whereabouts.”
“And if I win?”
“If you win, you will still stay away from Deirdre. But I will tell you where Jack O’Malley is hiding.”
“What if I lose, but then I track down O’Malley on my own at a later date? Does this agreement preclude me from doing what I want with him then?” he fires back.
Darragh might be crazy, but he’s fucking smart. I don’t like the man, but I do have a grudging sort of appreciation for the cunning way he’s carving up this offer, making sure it won’t fuck him in the ass later.
“The deal only has to do with Deirdre’s safety going forward and the information I will or will not give you,” I tell him. “If you find O’Malley on your own then you can do whatever the fuck you want with him. Torture him, kill him, I don’t give a shit. He is not under my protection. Only Deirdre is.”
Darragh picks up his glass, finally taking a swig of the bit of whiskey left in there that didn’t slosh out before. When he puts the glass back down, it’s empty.
I can see the thoughts whirring behind those mis-matched eyes of his. He’s thinking about it, thinking about ways this might go wrong for him. No doubt also thinking that if he doesn’t accept, things will likely be even less appealing. At least with the bet he thinks he has a chance at getting info on O’Malley. If he refuses me, then we’re back to where we started, except his position is even more tenuous. He still won’t know where O’Malley is, and continuing to try to harm Deirdre becomes a hell of a lot dicier for him and his entire operation now that she’s going to be my wife.
“What’s your poison, then?” he asks, still assessing. “Dice? Cards? Toss of a coin?”
No fucking way. Nothing that can be rigged, nothing he can cheat at.
“I don’t leave shit to chance when I can take care of it with my own two hands,” I tell him. I undo the top button of my shirt then work my way down until the garment is sagging off me. I shrug out of it, ignoring the stiffness in my still-healing shoulder. The shirt falls, but Enzo catches it before it hits the floor.
I roll my head from side to side, my neck cracking, then flex my fingers inside my gloves before curling them into fists.
Something flashes in Darragh’s eyes. Maybe interest, maybe surprise.
Maybe bloodlust.
“What? You’re going to fight?”
