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Charlotte had purchased the painting of a young girl playing in the surf at an estate sale and pronounced it the perfect birthday gift for Sofia, the younger sister of Luca’s girlfriend, Isabel. The pair had met when Luca was working as a bodyguard for a drug lord in Miami. Now Luca ran the South from Miami with Isabel, a talented artist in her own right, by his side.
Nico hit a button on his laptop and the lights dimmed in the room. A screen emerged from the ceiling at the front of the room and a moment later an image of an older man with a wide face, thick nose, and graying hair appeared on the screen.
“After weeks of digging in Boston, we can say with certainty that this is our man: Seamus O’Brien,” Nico said.
“Fucking Irish,” Farrell muttered.
“We always knew the leader of Boston was Irish,” Christophe reminded him.
Farrell shrugged. “What kind of Brit would I be if I didn’t say it?”
Like all of the Syndicate’s territories, Boston had fallen into disarray after Donati’s death. It had taken two years to get some of the other cities under control. In the meantime, Boston had been under siege by several different factions, all of them happy to have free reign after being driven out years earlier by Donati.
The new Syndicate leadership had known there was a top dog, but Seamus O’Brien had been well protected, hidden behind several high-level soldiers from more than one family, all of them working somewhat autonomously.
“O’Brien is the de facto leader,” Nico continued. “It might not be official, but no one steals a candy bar without giving him a piece of it.”
The image on the screen changed to one with a series of stats.
Seamus O’Brien
Born: May 17, 1958 Boston MA
Parents: Thomas and Mary O’Brien
Seamus m. Agnes Berne 1985
Agnes O’Brien nee Berne: deceased May 2010
Children: None
Address: 350 Dorchester, Boston, MA
“No kids?” Farrell asked. “Must have had a problem with the old pecker.”
“Maybe they simply didn’t want children,” Christophe said, hoping he’d managed to omit any defensiveness from his voice. After all, he and Charlotte didn’t have children, and although they hadn’t actually discussed it, she seemed in no hurry.
Farrell scoffed. “An Irish born in 1958?”
“Not everyone is a stereotype,” Luca said.
Farrell looked at him. “In my experience, everyone is exactly that.”
“Even you?” Luca asked.
Farrell smiled. “Especially me, mate.”
He was being disingenuous. Farrell Black was an Oxford educated scholar with a genius IQ who could pummel a man into oblivion with his bare hands. He also kept his autistic brother in a top-notch care facility and was as loving a father as Christophe had ever seen.
“Christophe said he came to the U.S in the late 80s,” Luca said. “IRA?”
“Nicely done.” Nico changed the slide and a rap sheet emerged on the screen, a list of arrests and offenses spanning twenty years. “And what’s not on here is that he’s suspected of orchestrating a bombing in Dublin in 1989.”
“What year did he come to the States?” Farrell asked.
“1990,” Christophe said. He’d memorized every detail of Seamus O’Brien’s background since they’d figured out he was heading up Boston’s post-Donati criminal element.
“So he orchestrates the Dublin bombing in 1989 and comes to the U.S. when it gets too hot in Ireland,” Luca said.
