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Christophe leaned back in the chair. “I’m a believer in civility.”
“I’m a believer in efficiency,” O’Brien said, his voice suddenly cold. “Civility is for women and church, so why don’t you tell me why the feck you’re in my bar.”
Christophe nodded. “Put quite simply, we have a redundancy problem.”
“A redundancy problem?” O’Brien started to laugh, a good natured bellow that quickly turned to coughing. He looked at Mick, still standing near the door. “This French cunt thinks we have a redundancy problem.” The last two words were dripping with hatred. “You think we have a redundancy problem, Mick?”
Mick didn’t move. “I don’t think so, boss.”
O’Brien turned his eyes on Christophe. “I don’t think so either.”
Christophe held O’Brien’s gaze. Even when the moment drew uncomfortably long, the other man didn’t flinch.
“As I’m sure you know, I work for the Syndicate, or a new — ”
“I know who you are,” O’Brien interrupted.
Christophe forced himself not to react. He disliked being interrupted. In fact, had one of his own men been the perpetrator of the faux pas, he might have found himself removed from Christophe’s company permanently, but Christophe was willing to make allowances in the interest of the aforementioned civility.
“Good, we can dispense with the preliminaries then,” Christophe said. “We appreciate your work on behalf of the Boston territory during our reorganization, and we are willing to discuss ways to bring you — your men, your operation — back into the fold.”
O’Brien took a long draw on his cigarette. “That would be the Syndicate fold, would it?”
“That’s right.”
O’Brien set his cigarette in one of the ashtrays and leaned forward over the table. “Do you think I don’t know who runs the Syndicate?”
“We’re a consortium,” Christophe said. “An organization with representation in every territory.”
“I know all about your representation, and if you think I’m going to hand this territory back to the wops who stole it from us in the first place, you’re more daft than you look.”
Christophe kept his expression blank. O’Brien’s reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected, although it was more colorful than Christophe had anticipated. The Irish and Italian gangsters had been at war in South Boston since before Whitey Bulger’s time. The prejudice ran deep — on both sides — especially among the old guard.
And Seamus O’Brien was undoubtedly old guard.
“We’re an organization built on shared goals and mutual trust,” Christophe said. “Ethnic origin has nothing to do with our model.”
“It has everything to do with ours. Do you think we liked being run by that uppity prick Donati? That we liked taking orders from Carlo Rossi while he sat in his tower downtown?” O’Brien shook his head. “We know what a partnership looks like with the Syndicate. Those days are past. Sending some highfalutin Frenchie in here doesn’t change anything.”
“A partnership isn’t the only possibility.” Christophe reached into his jacket and withdrew a folded check. He slid it across the table. “We’re prepared to purchase the territory with an offer totaling roughly five years of your current revenue, adjusted for what we think you’ll find to be a fair amount of growth.”
O’Brien held his gaze through the smoke in the room. Christophe was beginning to think the other man wasn’t going to look at the check when he reached for it.
He flipped it open half-heartedly, his expression unchanging. The glance was cursory. He quickly folded it and slid it back to Christophe.
“We’re not for sale.”
Christophe tapped his fingers on the table. He hadn’t expected the confrontation to be easy, but he’d hoped to be pleasantly surprised.
“I feel obliged to make clear the situation,” he said.
O’Brien picked up the cigarette and took another long drag, then stamped it out in the ashtray. “Say what you have to say and get the hell out of here.”
“Boston is Syndicate territory,” Christophe said evenly. “That has always been the case, and it will always be the case. We are prepared to work together under our new model, but if you choose to refuse our offer, the territory will be taken by force.”
O’Brien let loose another round of raspy laughter. When he caught his breath, he looked at Mick. “This French knobjockey thinks he can take us by force, Mick. What do you think about that?”
“I think they should be prepared to get belted, boss.”
