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It's been months since the murder, yet his case hasn't been a top priority. Once it was labeled Mafia-related, NYPD hasn't made any real effort to solve his case. They'd much rather we take each other out. It'd make their jobs easier. I'm sure our clan isn't the only family with a few inside connections, so I've asked Jacob to be as discreet as possible with this side investigation.
“You know who shot my father?” My hackles rise.
“Not exactly,” he admits. “Our forensic ballistics expert matched the bullet that killed your father to three other homicides. Those cases are ongoing, so if they solve those, we will be one step closer to identifying the person who shot your father.”
I run an agitated hand through my hair. We figured our father wasn't a one-off, but it’s still not great to fucking hear. “Were the other victims Mafia or gang related too?”
“No. It was a college student, a banker, and a lawyer—people who will keep an investigation going.”
“Unlike my father's case,” I say more to myself. The question is rhetorical because I know the answer to that. But that's good. If the police give more effort to find their killer, then we can find my father's killer as a bonus.
Jacob nods, understanding the weight of my words. “I've also heard rumors of some movement within the other Irish clan. They might be getting ready to make a move on your turf.”
My blood runs cold at the mention of the Flanagans. I've suspected they wanted to be more powerful than our family although we both have an alliance with the Italians. “Do you have any intel on what their plans are?”
“Not yet. But I'm keeping an ear out. I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”
I nod in appreciation. Jacob is one of the few people we can somewhat trust in this city outside of our remaining clan members. He's been loyal to me and to our family, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut. But we can never be too careful. “Keep me in the loop,” I say before getting out of his car.
As I walk back to my car, my mind races. The fact that the bullet that killed my father was linked to three other homicides is a good lead, but it also means that the killer could be more dangerous and unpredictable than we thought. Those other three murders can’t be random. My father warned Lennon, so we know his murder wasn’t random either. And now, hearing rumors that the Flanagan clan may be making a move on our turf, it's clear that we need to be more vigilant than ever.
I'm driving back toward my place when I get an incoming call from my youngest brother, Callum. He’s managed to lose his car keys at some bar that our family doesn’t have reign over. He sounded arse over tit over the phone when he called. I don’t know why he’s alone at this bar in the first place, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I arrive at the seedy-looking dive that he had no place venturing into in the first place. I step through the doors of the poorly lit bar, scanning the room with a sense of unease. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of alcohol, and the patrons inside are rowdy and aggressive. It's the kind of place where trouble is always just around the corner, and I can't help but feel a sense of apprehension as I make my way to the bar to look for Callum. This is not his scene at all. He is the most straightlaced of all of us. He’s a freaking college kid who just got accepted into New York Law School. I describe my brother to the bartender, and he tells me I can find him in the restroom. Of course the bartender knows who I was referring to. My brother sticks out like a sore thumb in this place. What was he thinking?
As I take a seat on a stool, I notice a group of men huddled together in the corner of the room. They're speaking in hushed tones, their eyes darting around suspiciously. I can tell they're trying to keep a low profile, but their presence is unmistakable.
They're Mexican cartel guys. We’ve never had any run-ins with them before, but I know enough to know they aren’t intimidated by our clan. Callum needs to hurry the hell up in the restroom so we can go. We’ll send our men for his car later. Just as I contemplate whether to check on him, the front door bursts open, and a group of men barges in. My skin prickles. They’re definitely looking for trouble.
One of the men, a burly man with a thick beard and a mean scowl, strides over to the cartel guys. He starts yelling at them, accusing them of all sorts of things I can't quite make out. The situation escalates quickly. Before I know it, punches are being thrown and chairs are being overturned. The other patrons in the bar start to scatter, running for the exits as the fight spills out into the open. Callum picks this time to emerge from the restroom, and just as I thought, he’s drunk. I watch him sway on his feet as he grabs the bar. He sees me and makes his way over to me with a silly oblivious smile plastered on his face. I try to grab his arm to get us the hell out of there, but we’re caught in the crossfire, in the middle of the chaos, and unable to escape. I throw the nearest drink in the face of one of the attackers, buying us a moment of respite. The man staggers back, cursing at me. But I'm already moving, pushing my way through the crowd to get to my brother and get the hell out of here.
We’re outnumbered and outmatched. It becomes clear that we’re not escaping this chaos unscathed. I jump into the fray, fists flying as I try to fend off their strikes. I managed to push my brother out the door—hoping like fuck he has enough sense to stay out and get help.
The sound of breaking glass fills my ears as one of the attackers smashes a bottle over my head. I stumble backward, feeling blood trickling down my face, but I don't stop fighting. Of course, I have a handgun strapped to my ankle, but I won’t retrieve it unless necessary. It is important that I remain above board and refrain from anything that will get me thrown in jail. If I murder any of these deserving fuckers, I will be arrested and have to go through the nuances of a trial to prove it was justified. Our clan can’t afford that. I lunge forward, tackling one of the attackers to the ground. As I struggle to get back to my feet, I see some of the cartel guys making a break for the door. They're bruised and battered, but they're alive. Now that my brother is safe, I need to find a way to escape too. My attempt is futile. They swarm around those of us remaining, raining blows down on us from all sides. I take a bunch of them out, but even with my trained military skill, it’s a tough match due to the sheer number of them.
I feel myself tiring, my body battered, but I have to keep going. With a surge of adrenaline, I push myself to my feet. The attackers are relentless, their punches coming faster and harder. But I'm quicker. I dodge and weave, trying to tire them out. And when I see an opening, I strike. My fist connects with the jaw of one of the attackers, sending him sprawling to the ground. Another attacker steps up to take his place, but I'm ready. I sidestep his punch and deliver a powerful blow to his gut. The fight rages on, with what seems to be no end, but then I hear it. The sound of this shite show coming to an end—police sirens. The fighting halts immediately, and everyone begins to flee to avoid being caught. I make my way outside and see my brother standing under the streetlamp talking to one of the cops. His face cringes when he sees me walk over.
“Holy shite, brother. I’m so sorry. I know I fucked up. I called the police as soon as you pushed me out of there.” His words are slightly slurred.
“Your brother was explaining that you came to pick him up because he wasn’t in any condition to drive,” the female officer explains. “And that a bar fight broke out, and you were stuck in the middle.”
In the midst of her recap of my brother’s story, I realize he wouldn’t have been in any condition to drive even if he hadn’t lost his keys. Would he have still called me or tried to drive home? The narrative he told the cop is a modified one, but he and I will have lots to discuss once he sobers up. “Yes. That about sums it up,” I say.
“I won’t hold you up. You need to get that looked at,” she says, pointing at my head. “I’ll send one of my officers to get your statement at the hospital.”
“Sure thing,” I reply. “I’m sure a few stitches will do the trick, but I’ll head over to Mount Sinai after I get my brother home.”
She nods to confirm as I grab my brother by the arm and lead him toward my car. I could have had the small cut in my head stitched up at home, but I have to be cooperative with the fucking police now. I have to pretend not to know the Mexican cartel was there. I won’t snitch and bring about unnecessary problems for our clan.
“What the fuck were you doing at a place like that?” I ask as soon as we’re in my car.
“I was supposed to meet Connor there. We haven’t seen each other in a while, and he wanted to meet for drinks at a neutral place not tied to our families. No Mafia crap—just two mates catching up.”
“I didn’t see Connor Flanagan in there,” I point out.
“He never showed. By the time I realized he wasn’t coming, I’d had a few drinks too many, and my keys were missing.”
“Had they not been missing, were you going to drive back to your place like this?” I slam my fist on the steering wheel. “We have too much shite on our plates right now to worry about you too. You have to make smarter decisions than this. I’m going to drop you back at school. Stay the fuck away from Connor, and don’t answer his calls.”
“I’m sure he has a reasonable explanation for not showing up tonight.”
