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“We could do it as a last resort,” Nico said. “But that’s what it should be.”
“Fine. Fuck it,” Farrell said. “What’s our move?”
“Burke was a troublemaker in school, kicked out of three different boarding schools before his mother finally enrolled him in the Phillips Academy, but he’s always been ambitious. He was seen as a soldier with leadership potential even when he was a cocky kid scaring the shit out of people for Carlo.” Nico’s voice was even, giving no indication that Carlo Rossi had been willing to sacrifice his own daughter — the love of Nico’s life — for the Syndicate. “He has more than enough money to spend the rest of his life sailing, driving fast cars, and bedding beautiful women. Instead he’s working eighty hours a week at Glassman and Weld, angling for partner.”
“Sounds like he’s gone straight,” Luca said.
“He’s bored,” Christophe said.
“How do you know?” Luca asked.
Christophe tried to come up with words to describe the apathy surrounding Nolan Burke, the way he moved through his twenty hour days like a man on autopilot. “Call it a feeling.”
Farrell shook his head. “Great. We’re going to approach another trust fund baby to take down a former fucking IRA operative because you have a feeling.”
“There’s more,” Nico said, bringing up another image, this one a young woman sitting on an outdoor bench, her high cheekbones striking against a halo of golden hair. “Namely an ex-girlfriend who works for Seamus.”
“Are you telling us we have another Jason Draper situation?” Luca asked.
“No,” Christophe said. Jason Draper had been the former best friend of Max Cartwright, the current boss of the Las Vegas territory. Max would never have gotten involved with the Syndicate’s takeover of the city if not for the fact that his best friend, Abby, had been working for Draper, unaware Draper was laundering millions of dollars through both his casino and DarkNet poker games involving everything from illegal weapons to human trafficking. “Bridget Monaghan knows what Seamus O’Brien is.”
“So why would Burke want to help her now?” Luca asked.
“Because he has no idea the lovely Miss Monaghan dumped him for a half-million dollar payout by his mother, a payout she used to provide care for her terminally ill brother,” Nico said. “And because he has no idea she’s working for O’Brien for the same reason.”
Farrell looked at the photo. “Bloody hell.”
1
Nolan Burke bounced on his heels, holding his hands up to protect his face as his opponent circled him in the ring. Sweat streamed down his face and his T-shirt was stuck to his body, all thanks to the last half hour he’d spent in the ring with Will MacFarland.
Will grinned, a sure sign he was preparing to swing. Nolan watched his body language, then moved to block the rib jab. He countered with a tap to Will’s left cheek. It wasn’t hard enough to knock him down — they played rough, but not that rough — but Will staggered backward and removed his mouth guard.
“Jesus Christ. You trying to make a point?” Will asked.
Nolan grinned. “Just wondering if you’re ready to call it quits.”
Nolan had been ready to call it quits since they got there. Unlike most of the men hailing from South Boston, he didn’t enjoy being beaten to a pulp and beating others to a pulp in return.
Not anymore anyway.
Physical violence was messy, and messy had gotten him into enough trouble. These days he preferred the sterility of the firing range, the reliability of a meticulously crafted weapon. Unfortunately, his best friend didn’t feel the same way.
“Why didn’t you just ask?” Will tapped Nolan’s glove with his own. “I don’t need to lose a tooth to be convinced it’s time for beer.”
“Good to know.” Nolan grabbed his towel off the rope as he stepped out of the ring. He used it to wipe the sweat from his face as they headed for the locker room.
Ryan’s Gym was a Southie institution, catering to both the neighborhood’s wanna-be professionals and the punks who liked to beat on people without getting arrested. Cleanliness was not one of its virtues, but no way was Nolan going out for beers without a shower, not even to The Chipp, another neighborhood institution as unconcerned with cleanliness as Ryan’s.
They made small talk while they showered, then called out a goodbye to Davie Ryan, the owner of the gym, on their way to the door.
The sun was setting gold behind the neighborhood’s old buildings when they emerged onto the street. The air had the bite of late fall, and Nolan was glad he’d brought his old leather jacket, a throwback to a time when he’d fancied himself a criminal, running money and beating people up for the Syndicate just to piss off his mother.
“Jesus fecking christ,” Will muttered, throwing his bag in the backseat of Nolan’s Lexus. He didn’t have a lick of an Irish accent, but he swore like his father, who sounded like he’d gotten off the boat from Ireland last week instead of twenty-five years ago. “Are you trying to get this thing jacked?”
Nolan laughed and pressed the button on his key fob to lock the doors. “How do you suggest I get here? The bus?”
“If you weren’t such a pompous asshole you’d live in the neighborhood where you could walk or hitch a ride,” Will said.
