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Donnacha
“Lorcan?”
“Yes, Don.”
“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t slit his throat and toss him in the Hudson.”
Lorcan stops strumming his fingers against his thigh, considering it. Then a puff of air slips through his lips. “Because we’ve sunk over twenty-million into Danny English’s campaign. If his main opposition suddenly winds up dead, it’ll look pretty suspect.”
The Town Car slices through the streets of New York. Sheets of rain slide over the windows, the noise of the storm muted by the bulletproof glass.
“All right, I have another question.” Lorcan waits. “Why the fuck do I have to be there?”
“Because you’ll put the fear of God into him.”
“So will you.”
“Yes, but Leo Belsky knows I won’t slit his throat and toss him in the Hudson.” He glances up at me; adjusts his emerald cuff links. “He knows I’ll have Donnacha Quinn do it. You’re a visual reminder of what our family is capable of.”
I drag a knuckle through my beard. Out of the window, a woman loses a battle with her umbrella, stuffs it in a nearby trashcan, and tucks her chin into the neckline of her raincoat to brave the rest of her journey.
“All this talking, it ain’t for me.”
“You won’t be doing the talking. I will. You just do what you do best.”
“Kill?”
A small smirk. “Not unless this meeting turns into a shit show. No. Assess and intimidate.”
It’s not what I do best, but with over twenty years of being the head henchman in the family, I must admit, I do it pretty fucking well.
“Fill me in, anyway.”
Lorcan’s puff of air evolves into a sigh. “All right, dumbass.” I shoot him a hard stare. Only Lorcan Quinn, my cousin, boss, and head of the Quinn dynasty, can get away with calling me a dumbass unscathed. “I’ll break it down to simple terms so that you can at least pretend you know what’s going on in this meeting. Archibald Dumont is the current governor of New York.”
“I know who Archie is,” I grunt.
“Well then, you’ll know that Archie has been on the Quinn family payroll since we took New York ten years ago. Currently, no state law gets passed or vetoed without being run by our lawyers. But he’s coming up to the end of his third term, and he’ll announce his retirement soon. Before you ask—no, I won’t force him to run again. He’s pushing ninety, so I don’t think he’ll make it through a fourth term. Besides”—he pops his knuckles—“we need fresh blood.”
“And now we’re backing Danny English as the next Democratic nomination for governor.”
The corners of his lips turn upward. “You’re not as politically ignorant as you claim, Don. Yes, we’re backing English’s ticket.” He rubs two fingers over his chin, looking out to Manhattan passing by. “English needs to win. He will win.”
“So why the fuck are we meeting with the Republican nomination?”
Cue Lorcan’s signature snarl. The one that makes grown men shit their pants. “He’s been talking shit all over the news. Promising to tackle organized crime in the city if he’s voted in even though he hasn’t made his official announcement for candidacy yet. Then a few days ago, he called my office and requested a meeting with me. I have a feeling he’s not after an alliance.”
I snort. “So, I’ll ask again, why aren’t we tossing him in the Hudson?”
“It’s not off the cards. We’ll find out what he wants first.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, we’re pulling up outside L’Hotel Versailles on 57th. It’s a palatial building that sticks out like a diamond among coal in the heart of Manhattan. Lorcan commissioned it almost a decade ago to celebrate taking over New York from the Bratnovs. It looks like Lorcan’s wet dream, stuffed full of all the shiny and rare things Poppy won’t allow at the estate.
Karl, my driver, steps out onto the curb to scan the sidewalk with his hand on his holster. He opens the door, but Lorcan shakes his head. Karl mutters something of an apology and gently clicks it shut. Left alone in the car, Lorcan turns back to me, amber eyes burning.
“Talk strategy to me, Don.”
