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Part Two
Six
Past
Padraig
Senator Alan Davidsonhad a belly the size of the USS Missouri, an ego as large as the States, and a reputation as infamous in the Kremlin as it was in the Senate.
The Kennedys, the Bushes, and the Davidsons were all of the same ilk, but the Davidsons were a lot more crooked.
Thank fuck for small mercies.
“Padraig, such a pleasure to see you,” Alan intoned as he got to his feet to shake my hand.
He grabbed one of mine with both of his in a political handshake that I thought his grandfather had taught him.
Just firm enough, not too much of a power play.
A hundred years of political inbreeding had crafted that handshake, making it balanced to perfection. But then, it was the only thing balanced about him.
Something he confirmed when he held out a box of illegal Cubans and said, “So glad you could make it.”
Bullshit. A man like him was used to answering to no one, but I'd admit he'd come to heel relatively easily over the last couple years or so.
I snagged one of the Behikes and raised it to my nose. “Damn, that smells good.”
Alan beamed at me. “Want some whiskey?”
“I’ll never say no.”
I took a seat in front of his desk, well aware that as he played bartender with me, I was one of the few he’d ever do shit like this for.
There were some perks to being Aidan O’Donnelly’s younger brother.
As I reached for the cutter, I cut off the tip of the cigar, took another sniff of the fine tobacco leaf, then snagged a match from the sterling silver humidor with its cedar interior and struck it against the vesta case.
With the flickering flame in hand, I held it to the cigar tip and gave it a few puffs, sighing as I savored not just the taste, but the experience.
These old families did shit the right way.
Alan set a whiskey tumbler loaded down with amber nectar in front of me before he returned to his seat behind the desk which creaked with his weight.
As he stopped waddling about his luxuriously appointed office, I found myself wondering how in fuck he’d managed to sell himself as a man of the people when this office looked like it belonged in a stately home from the old country, but the man definitely had the gift of gab.
He might not have made it to the White House, but he was a career Senator. So someone in New York bought what he was peddling.
“Beautiful ceremony,” I commented as I reached forward and picked up the glass.
“It was. Father Doyle definitely did us proud.” Davidson went through the process of lighting his own cigar. “Wasn’t sure if Alan Jr. would go through with it in the end.”
I arched a brow. “Really?”
Alan’s gaze held firm on mine. “He likes a girl he met at West Point. A fucking waitress in a diner. Can you imagine? The boy’s a fool.”
Love had a habit of doing that to a man. I didn’t say that, however, just queried, “Want me to speak with Aidan Sr. about her?”
Alan understood what I was saying without me needing to clarify it.
