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Donnacha
The drive from Boston to New York—I could do it in my sleep. The tires of my Emira must have carved permanent lines down the length of Highway One because I take the trip so often.
It’s been a busy week, bouncing between Boston and New York. Avoiding my sister-in-law in one city and avoiding my wife in the other. It’s been easy to fold Romy up and stuff her into the dark corner of my brain where things get forgotten about because I’m balls deep in business.
Mornings in the Tunnels with the few CEOs on Belsky’s list who need a little more convincing. (Let’s just say, James Broad doesn’t have a single veneer left in his bullshit-spewing mouth). After I dump the businessmen back into their natural habitat of Manhattan, shells of the suit-wearing pricks they were before, evenings have been spent doing some digging on our front-running candidates. Lorcan and Poppy narrowed it down to three squeaky-clean yet easily corruptible candidates, and with a few…visits to their family and friends, I narrowed it down further to just one.
That’s not the only breakthrough we’ve had. Ronan’s managed to bribe one of the cleaners at Belsky’s mansion in the Hamptons. For the small price of putting all three of her kids through college—Ivy League, naturally—she’s popped our listening device under the desk in his home office. Now Declan is working with a Russian translator around the clock, transcribing every conversation.
Life’s good.
When I’m busy.
When I’m not, I feel that itch again. The one that creeps under my skin and across my chest and tries to drag me into the darkness. It’s the reason I have Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue album on blast every time I’m alone in the car. It’s the reason I broke James Broad’s jaw, long after he conceded.
Distraction doesn’t work all the time. I give in, more often than not, to watching the cameras at One Diabhal Square. I watch her bake her god-awful muffins and almost set fire to the kitchen. Watch her run on the treadmill for three minutes before doubling over, wheezing, and shuffling back into the elevator.
And in the early hours of the morning, I watch her tangle herself up in the sheets in her bedroom and scream my name.
My knuckles whiten around the steering wheel at the memory. My cock stiffens against my slacks. I’ve beat my meat to the sound more times than I can count in the past week. But it’s not the same. I need to hear it in person.
Another welcome distraction comes just as I’m pulling off the highway. A call comes through the car speaker, interrupting the trumpet solo in “Freddie Freeloader.” I glance at the caller ID and grin.
“What’s up, kiddo?”
Cillian’s signature grunt comes down the line. “Fuck, Don. I’m thirty years old, the head of the Philly and South Jersey outfit, and I’m about to be a dad in a couple of months. When are you gonna drop the nickname kiddo?”
My laugh is loud, spilling all over the dashboard. “You’ll always be a kiddo to me, kiddo.”
And he will. Cill was my first ever henchman recruited from outside of the bloodline. Youngest and most deadly, too. I trained him up from a teenager, and he was one of my most ruthless men until he was nineteen. He earned his freedom by saving Lorcan’s life, moved on to become the world’s most in-demand hitman, and did us a solid two years ago by taking over Philly from the Abruzzos when they tried to revolt against us. He’s right, though. He’s anything but a kid. He’s proven himself to be an excellent leader and a solid businessman too. He turned his obsession with gardening and exotic poisonous plants into what he calls an alternative weaponry business.
Another crackly grunt comes through my speaker, then—
“Lottie’s heard you’ve taken a wife. This is the only time ever that I won’t break your nose if you call my wife a liar.”
Wonder what redheaded firecracker Lottie heard that from?
“Sorry, kiddo. Lottie’s telling the truth.”
He groans. “Don, what do you know about looking after a woman? I gave you a cactus, and you couldn’t keep that alive for longer than a week.”
“I think you gave me a dud.” I cut across lanes, the Manhattan skyline rising on the horizon. “Anyway, it’s all politics, my friend. She’ll be gone by the summer.”
Cillian snorts. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Listen, Lorc told me about the problem in New York. Let me know how I can help.”
We both know better than to discuss shop over the phone. “You know I will.”
“I gotta go. I’ll see you this weekend.”
“You will?”
“Of course, fucker. At the winter ball. Make sure you bring your mail-order bride. Lottie needs someone new to chew the ear off.”
It takes a moment to realize what he means. Just like every family in The Network, Cillian and Lottie host a ball every season. Their winter one is this weekend. I’m about to tell him that my wife is far too fucking feral to allow her out of the building, but I stop myself. Lottie knows how to throw a mean party, so mean, in fact, they’ve garnered the attention of the mainstream media. Every paparazzi and reporter on the East Coast will be there, and it’s the perfect opportunity to get papped with Romy on my arm and show Belsky our hand. Your move, asshole.
We say our goodbyes, and Miles Davis pierces my eardrums again until I slide up to the front of One Diabhal Square. My men pull up behind me in the armored sedan, and Aiden takes my keys to park the Emira.
“Where’s my wife?” I demand, strolling into the lobby. Despite knowing I should keep my distance, especially after what I’ve witnessed on her cameras after midnight, arriving home has given me the sudden urge to see her. The throbbing in my slacks dominates my decision—God gave me two heads but just not enough blood to work both at the same time.
