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“It would seem they are an enemy of the O’Connors. And from your reaction, I’d say you’ve come into contact with them as well.”
Gregory lifted his eyebrows as he and I looked at each other. I was shocked to see this kind of reaction, almost noticing a hint of fear in my father.
“Is there something you need to tell us, Pops?” Gregory asked.
“Don’t challenge me,” he retorted.
“It’s vital I know whatever you’re holding back,” I told him. “This is a vicious game to somebody, and the players keep getting killed off one by one. That includes a loyal soldier of mine, his death on my conscience. It’s only going to continue. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You don’t need to lecture me, son. I’ve been in this rat race called hell for a long time.” He slowly turned his head in my direction.
“Then tell me what you know about them, what dealings you’ve had. I need to know what we’re up against.”
He put down his pruning shears, taking a deep breath. “You’re right in that they’re a dangerous group out of New Orleans, but before they landed themselves in the city, they attempted to make Montreal their home. Our beautiful city was their first landing after leaving their fucking mother country almost four decades ago.”
“Let me guess. You and Grandfather refused to allow them to slide into our territory.”
“You know your grandfather. He was relentless, more brutal than I could ever be. He made certain the patriarch at the time, Omar Baranov, understood that their presence wouldn’t be tolerated.”
“How did Grandpops do that?”
He sighed and as he moved toward the garden bench, sitting down, I could tell his hand was shaking. “He eliminated the man’s wife.”
Gregory looked stunned. It was a story we hadn’t heard before, but it was entirely possible my brother had yet to be born, myself in infancy.
“Are you suggesting this is all about revenge?”
“That’s a possibility. Before Omar left the country, he issued a threat, one I’d never forget. He said that time had no expiration date.”
Fuck.
“Shit,” Gregory said. “I think I need a drink.”
“I think we all do,” Pops said.
“What happened during that period of time?” my brother asked as the tension mounted. I sensed my father was reliving the experience, the various emotions crossing his face disconcerting.
I knew how to play the waiting game for seeking revenge better than anyone. Often choosing the right time to strike would save lives, even property. However, from what I knew about several Bratva organizations, they weren’t well known for their patience or their humanity.
“The world of organized crime was different back then,” Pops started. “It was brutal, more like the Old West than what you see now with computers and hackers as employees. I was raised on violence and bloodshed, enough that the streets and sidewalks were often painted with the color red from whatever weekend slaughter had occurred. You hear more stories about the New York syndicates, yet their murders were kids playing in a sandbox next to what we faced.” He laughed as if the memories were bittersweet.
He’d rarely told us stories of the old days. Even Grandpops when he’d been alive had said very little, perhaps forbidden to do so by our mother.
“Go on.”
He looked up at me, shaking his head. “All you need to know is that the manner in which he killed Omar’s wife was particularly repulsive, something even I couldn’t condone.”
That was likely the main reason he’d taught us to be completely respectful of women. I was thankful for that as well as many other aspects of his parenthood.
“How was she killed?” I asked.
“In her own bed, the walls splattered with her blood.”
Gregory whistled. “Fuck. Me.”
I stared at the sun, something dawning on me. “Omar had Christian’s mother killed as a single act of revenge, a warning. Didn’t he?”
My father’s exhale was rattled. “I don’t know that for certain.”
