AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Because that’s not offensive,” I say, sitting on the two-seater sofa that’s placed catty-corner to Rossi. He’s referring to my brother, Paddy, who’s married to his childhood best friend, Michael Griffin. And seriously, he’s lucky I don’t have my gun to kneecap his ass for the offensive term toward my brother and his sexuality.
Nobody fucks with the Southies, but more importantly, nobody fucks with my family. Blood over everything else.
Rossi laughs as Ricco finishes Scotty’s pat down. “You’re too easy to offend, Murphy.” He pulls a drag from his cigar. “I love fucking with you.”
I grumble in response. “What’s on the agenda for this meeting, Tone?”
Rossi shrugs, his gaze assessing Scotty before he finally snaps back to me. “The Russians moved in on my part of town.”
I nod. “We’re having issues too.”
The Russians have run rampant since the loss of their Pahkan. The New York Bratva attempted to make moves in Boston, even kidnapping Saoirse for a marriage alliance a few months back. We’ve been dealing with the shit fest, and until we get Jericho and Yuliya Vasiliev in charge of both New York and Boston, we’re in limbo. I can’t tell Rossi all of this, though. It’s all under wraps while Jericho figures out how to take care of his brother, Anton.
Rossi leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Word is the governor has connections to the Russians.”
Scotty pauses mid-step, his entire body tensing at the mention of the governor, Corbin McClellan. Corbin and Scotty have a unique history with Saoirse. Corbin used to be engaged to Saoirse until Scotty went and blew up that marriage arrangement. Even the mere mention of Corbin gets Scotty breaking out in hives. Normally I think it’s hilarious, but not when we have Italians present to sense his uneasiness.
“Not sure what connections you think a governor would have with the Bratva,” I say, making sure my tone is indifferent. The last thing I want to do is give Rossi any ammunition.
“Just that he was helpful in your war with the Bratva.” Rossi shrugs.
And I know he won’t give away his source, despite how badly I need to know what he knows. How he knows it. Scotty pulls himself together, then sits beside me.
“We need to clean up the streets before we have a real problem, Murphy,” Rossi says. “Before we wake up and the Bratva have their claws in both Little Italy and the South End.”
I nod because I fucking agree. “Where were they, and how many?”
“Caught them selling by the church on the 12th. Three of them.”
“Selling? H?”
Ricco snorts, and I glance at the bodyguard who is usually very fucking quiet in situations like these. “If it were drugs, we’d have handled it ourselves. No need for a potato-sucking twat to take care of our shit.”
“The only potatoes I’ve been sucking are attached to your sister’s chest,” I shoot back, my eyes narrowing.
Scotty chokes on a fit of laughter, covering his mouth with his hand and coughing to hide it.
“Enough, Ricco,” Rossi says.
I turn my attention to him. “What are they selling?”
Rossi clears his throat, his eyes darkening with a rage I’ve seen in myself once or twice. “A girl. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen.”
“Fuck,” Scotty and I say together.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“With the Bruchetti brothers. They’re keeping her safe until we can find her family and get her home. There’s a language barrier that’s hindering the process.”
“Russian?” I ask, and he nods his head.
“I can translate,” Scotty says.
Somewhere along the line, Scotty picked up the language. He’s always been scholarly and interested in learning. He said the Navy taught him, and I believe it, but he also speaks Spanish. Rossi squints at Scotty as he assesses him, wanting to ask how he speaks Russian, and probably if he knows Italian too. Finally, he nods, then pulls his phone out.
He makes a call, then hands over the phone to Scotty after he puts it on speaker so we can all hear. Scotty speaks back and forth, flitting between English and Russian as a girl cries on the other line, speaking so fast that the words I don’t recognize just sound like noises coming from her mouth. He translates back in English to whoever is with the girl. Each time he speaks Russian, his voice is softer, more soothing. A voice a father would use with his daughter, and each time it causes her to let out a fit of cries.
When the call is over, he hands the phone back. We spend the next thirty minutes discussing how we’re going to handle the situation before Scotty and I leave. I make my way down the steps, Scotty following, and back onto the heavy dance floor. I’m not one for dancing or loud scenes like this, but my palms itch to get to the bar and order a drink.
