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“It’s a tidy solution to a mess.”
He laughs. “I hear she’s a pretty lass.”
The door opens and we’re looking at trouble. The men who step through are built like houses and part of the Russian mob.
“We hear you’re moving product through our harbor.”
Seamus rises to his feet. He puts his hands on the tabletop and stares them down. “Since when is it your harbor? Everyone knows the Cosa Nostra and the IRA share the harbor. Get the fuck out of here with that shite.”
The Russians pull their guns.
“It’s our harbor now. Asshole.”
I exchange looks with Seamus, and he starts talking. “Now, you listen here, you snot-nosed shitebag.” He points a finger at them. “I was running guns and drugs for the IRA before your Ma was done wiping your arse.”
The Russians goggle at Seamus. Like most enforcers, they aren’t accustomed to people cussing them out while they aim guns at them.
The distraction costs them precious seconds.
In the next, I have my gun out and I fire off three rounds into the first guy. The second guy gets off one shot. I duck down, Seamus kicks over the table and we hunker down behind it.
Shots ring out over our heads. The Bratva might be down to one man, but he isn’t going down without a fight. I’ll happily give him one. I lean around the table and release two shots. The first hits him in the shoulder. The second bullet goes into his foot. He screams and hits the floor.
Along with Seamus, I saunter around the table and kick his gun aside. I put a foot on top of his neck and straighten my cuffs.
“If you got blood on my suit, I’m going to be pissed,” I say, conversationally. “This is a custom Armani suit, you animal.”
The man grunts.
“Aye, it’s nice,” Seamus agrees.
“What do you want?” I ask.
The enforcer exclaims harsh words in Russian.
I fire another round into his leg. “What was that?”
He lets out a string of what I assume are Russian curse words. “We want the Irish’s business.”
“I see. Run back to your bosses or drag yourself there, I suppose.” I laugh. “Tell them the IRA’s keeping their business.”
Seamus guffaws. “Crawl back to them like the dog you are, lad.”
“And tell them to stay the fuck away from the Irish.”
This development bodes poorly for the O’Connors and the IRA.
Chapter 17
Caine
I suspect the Russians have tailed me back to the Plaza hotel. An unshakeable black SUV followed us back here. It might be nothing or it might be a problem. I order my men to guard all the hotel’s elevators as well as stationing a team of three men outside our suite.
It’s late, and I want to go straight to bed. I’ve half a mind to drop this charade and drag Aurora with me. It’s nearly dawn. I’m exhausted from a night of dealing with idealistic IRA shitebags and the Bratva.
The lights are off in the suite and Aurora’s asleep under the covers. Her soft breathing fills the air, and I stand in the doorway listening like a stalker.
Aurora jolts up in bed. Her head shoots toward the door.
