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I hold my breath and wait for the explosion, wishing I could sink down into my chair and never resurface.
“Lastra’s son is right where we want him to be,” growls a voice from the corner, as a giant of a man emerges from the shadows. “He will prove useful to Zaccaria when the time presents itself.”
“That lad should be dead.” O’Sullivan knocks back another drink with a scowl. “Blood doesn’t forgive betrayal. As long as he’s alive, I’m walking around with a goddamn target on my back.”
“He was Zaccaria’s one condition for our agreement, Cian,” the giant reminds him. “The longer you spare the boy, the longer you get to control Lastra’s old territories without any retribution fromLa Cosa Nostra.” His expression hardens. “Don’t forget what happened the last time you tried to undercut him. We forgave you then, but our forgiveness has limits. As such, there will be no more talk about Francesco Lastra,no more looking for Francesco Lastra, until The Family says so.”
“Sit down and have another drink.” O’Sullivan snaps his fingers at the bottle of whiskey on the table. “We’re here to talk business, not to be talked at by the mafia.”
“Then let’s do it.” Charlie Razor leans forward, his wrists still planted on either side of his placemat. “You took out five of my men last night, Cian. If that isn’t a declaration of war, you can suck my fucking dick.”
This has sixteen hands reaching for their guns before O’Sullivan roars at everyone to, “calm the feck down!”
I’m still shaking in the middle of it. Anticipating the carnage before it begins. Not every man in this room will be walking out alive because The Red Compass never points towards peace.
O’Sullivan glances at each player in the room before his putrid grey gaze settles on me. I hate those eyes, just as much as I hate the rest of him. It’s as if God himself refused to put colour into something that would never value kindness and humanity.
“Stand up,” he slurs.
I stumble to my feet, feeling the heat of a roomful of scrutiny on my cheeks. Feeling the eyes of the British, more so than the rest.
“Take a good look at her, gentlemen… She won’t mind, will you, Ada?” His voice drops to an unpleasant caress.
I stare at the ground, focusing on a small dark stain on the parquet flooring, spinning my mind off to a better place—a room with bookshelves and a mouth that promised me precious things.
“I’ve seen better tits on King’s Cross Road,” drawls Razor’s son.
“Svolach’!” Kirill explodes, slamming his fists down on the table. “In three weeks, that woman will be my wife!”
“More a girl than a woman though, ain’t she? You a fucking nonce?”
Meanwhile, O’Sullivan is watching Razor’s reaction to me.I’ve seen that look before.It’s his predator expression. He’s about to crush the mice between his claws
“I took her, right before I took out Lastra,” he says, pouring himself another drink. “Barely ten years old. Still in her fucking nightdress. Later, I went back in and fired a bullet right between her bitch of a mother’s eyes. I don’t like loose ends, you see?” He raises his glass at me as he says it.
No.
The blood starts pounding in my ears.
He killed her.
He killed my mother.
“Is there a point to this, or are you coming out as a fucking nonce, too?” Razor sounds bored, but there’s a tic working overtime in his jaw.
Kirill is up on his feet for a second time, threatening him with every kind of Bratva reprisal.
Pain and shock are making me sway on the spot. I force my lungs to work, but my first gasp of breath feels like broken glass. Razor’s son is staring at me again, and there’s almost a flicker of sympathy in his flat expression.
“Oh, there’s a point, Razor,” O’Sullivan drawls. “There’s always a fucking point with Ada, but you knew that already.”
He smiles, and then the room explodes into violence.
The first shots come from the Italian in the corner, the bullets fluttering the sleeves of my dress before wreaking havoc on the wall of Razor’s men.
I drop to the floor in terror as O’Sullivan erupts from his seat, reaching Razor in seconds. Driving a knife deep into his chest, he grabs him by the hair and smashes his head, face-first, into the table.
The Brit reels back in his chair, choking and spluttering. “You Irish bastard!” he rasps, staring at the knife sticking out of his body as his son next to him fumbles for his weapon. A beat later, he’s flat on his back and bleeding out from a hole in his shoulder.
