At that moment, I was an older sister. At that moment, I was the only protector my baby sister had.
Pulling free of his hold, I snarled, “I won’t turn her against you, but neither will I lie to her. I won’t help you either. If you think you can turn up three years from now when she’s eighteen and haul her down the aisle, you’re mistaken. You want her, you’ll court her. You want her, you’ll make her want you.” I shoved a finger in his chest, prodding him as I rasped, “She won’t be like Inessa or me. I won’t allow it.”
“You’re not the one holding the cards, Camille,” he warned, his voice a low rumble. The hiss of a threat whispered along my nerve endings, but I didn’t care.
I’d never had anyone back me up. Never had anyone protect me.
Until tonight.
Until Brennan O’Donnelly.
I wasn’t sure how, didn’t care if I was being honest, but his backing gave me more leverage than I might have otherwise had.
“Neither of us are,” I told him coldly. “Seems like both of us are dancing to the Irishman’s tune.”
And with that, I twisted around, picked up the heels I’d discarded earlier, and rushed over to the door.
Seeing that the coast was clear, I made my escape to the staircase, wondering how, in the past twenty minutes, everything, my life, my whole world, had morphed into something that belonged in a true crime novel.
Thirteen
Brennan
“That was unexpected.”
I rocked back in my seat, shooting Bagpipes a glance before I murmured, “Damn right it was.”
“What do you think happened?”
“With which problem?” I asked wryly. “Dunbar’s or Lyanov’s?”
Bagpipes rolled his eyes. “You said it yourself. She’s a rat—should be used to being tailed.”
I smirked at him. “What did she expect us to do? Babysit her?”
Bagpipes sniffed. “Stupid bitch. Losing digits all over.”
“Huh?”
“Digits... ya know. Like numbers? IQ points?”
“Ain’t got time for your weird sense of humor, bud.”
He flipped me the bird, but said, “Wonder why she killed him.”
“No idea.” I scraped a hand over my jaw. “Just grateful I set that particular wheel in motion a few weeks ago. I must be a psychic.”
“More like psycho.” Bagpipes chuckled before leaning over, his elbows coming to his knees, as he rumbled, “That’s two families with unstable leadership.”
“Things are going to get rocky in NYC,” I agreed. “Probably a good thing that the Summit went down before this happened.”
Bagpipes winced. “Jesus, yeah. With both the Italians and the Russians floundering, you know what that means?”
I rolled my eyes. “This ain’t my first time, Baggy. Territory grab.”
“We have the men now,” he pointed out, and he wasn’t wrong.
Uncle Sam didn’t know it, but in our particular district of New York, we were one of the biggest employers out there.
Funny how shit like that worked out, when the Irish fucking Mob gave out better goddamn benefits than legit corporations you knew you were living in a messed up country that needed change.
Not that we were going to get it with Alan fucking Davidson as POTUS. All those promises he’d given the American people... all of it bullshit. Typical politician. That’s why I had no faith in the system. I didn’t like my world, but give me that over butting heads in the Senate. At least I could leave bruises. Those fuckers just left The Capitol feeling like their asses had been reamed.
Drumming my fingers on the table, I pondered my next move. This had altered the situation dramatically, but it didn’t change what was happening tomorrow. Made it easier, in fact. Plus, with Vasov out of the picture, we could earn some more territory out of it, and retain an alliance with the Bratva if Maxim Lyanov managed to make it to the top of the tree.
There was a reason I’d thrown a lure his way—he had potential. That was why Vasov had kept him close. With no boy children, he’d had to mentor someone. Of course, that meant Lyanov had crosshairs on his back now Vasov was dead...
As always, the minutiae were enough to trigger a headache. And I didn’t have time for that.
“I need to get going.”
“You’re going to meet with her?”
“How else would she know where my apartment is?”
“You could text her,” he said dryly.
“And they say chivalry is dead. She just murdered her father,” I drawled as I reflected on how his murder changed the status quo.
Altered the balance.
Would she still want to marry me?
She might think, with him gone, that the threat was gone, but if anything, Abramovicz could still swoop in and snatch her away...
My hands curled into fists at the thought.
She was a burden. A guilt trip. A promise owed, a favor outstanding. None of which sat well with me. But this afternoon, when I’d seen her fucking palms, something had tripped inside me.
Those hands of hers were ravaged.
They weren’t the lily-soft digits of a woman who’d never done a day’s work in her life. They weren’t soft and silky. They were callused and rough with scars. Self-inflicted ones.
The thought of her doing that to herself filled me with a rage that was unnecessary considering how little she meant to me—she was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger.
She wouldn’t be for long, but that was exactly what she was right now.
She shouldn’t inspire anything other than apathy in me, but that was the last thing I was feeling.
Getting to my feet, I said, “Don’t say a word outside of the crew.”
Baggy frowned. “Why not? This is good news.”
“Because I’m not saying shit to anyone about anything until she’s my wife.”
Concern had him sighing. “Because you think your da will make a stand and not let you marry her?”
“I don’t think, I know,” I said grimly, before I twisted my wrist until the bone cracked.
The joint was weakened from how many times Da had snapped it over the years—until I’d fought back. The satisfaction of breaking his nose was tied with the fact he’d recognized I wasn’t going to take his beatings anymore. One year, my wrist had been broken so often, I’d worn a cast like it was a fucking fashion accessory.
My father was capable of many things, and stopping me from marrying the woman of my choice was small fry for him.
Bagpipes’ frown darkened. “If you knew what a pain in the ass wives are, you wouldn’t be so militant. I’m only trying to protect future Brennan here.”
“From Da or her?”
“Both of them. He’ll just beat the shit out of you, or,” he amended, “have one of his men hold you down so you can’t move.”
We shared a glance, both of us knowing my father was capable of that—that was how he’d gotten Eoghan down the aisle.
“I doubt it. He’s left me alone since the broken nose incident.”
“True.”
“What do you think Camille will do?” I prompted with a laugh. “Beat me with a rolling pin?” I mocked, both of us grinning because that was a famous story in our family.
Ma had beaten the shit out of Da with a rolling pin in the early days of their marriage, and had earned his love and a lifetime’s devotion in the process.
“You think all wives are like your ma. Trust me, they ain’t. They won’t slap you around the face before they suck you off.”
My nose crinkled. “You talking about my ma and cock-sucking in the same breath?”
He arched a brow. “She made five sons. I know Aidan Sr. likes to think he’s holier than thou, but I’m not sure his bride is capable of an immaculate conception.”
“Maybe the first time, just not the fifth,” I joked, but I folded my arms against my chest as I queried, “What makes you think I’m going to hold Ma up as the perfect wife?�
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That had him rolling his eyes. “Because we all do. Trust me, we should never have left home. At least our mothers made our beds for us without nagging our asses off about taking out the trash.”
Lips twitching, I murmured, “I pay you enough to install a garbage disposal unit. Anyway, don’t you have a shoot?”
“Sure, but when a man gets home, he don’t wanna be dealing with a bag of messy fucking diapers.” He stretched his arms out in front of him and cracked his knuckles. “Trust me, you should stay away from that bitch. Whatever magic she’s got between her legs, it ain’t worth it. Stay single.”
Dryly, and knowing he meant well, I merely said, “I’ve made my choice, and I’m going to stick to it.”
“You’re asking for a whole pile of shit to fall on your head.”
I smirked at him. “Isn’t that what we do best? Dig our way out of landslides of crap?”
My cocky retort had him rolling his eyes. “One day he’ll stop cutting you so much slack.”
“What day is that? When Aidan pulls his head out of his ass and cuts out the drugs? Like that’s going to happen any day soon. I’ll stop rocking around like I’m the heir to the Points when Aidan steps up and takes it back.
“You know I don’t want this much responsibility, but I’ve taken it all on the chin, accepted that I’m one of the few who can manage the workload. If Da doesn’t want his house of cards to come tumbling down, then he’d better accept that on some shit, I ain’t about to let him have his way.”
Sighing, Baggy just grumbled, “You’re a braver man than me.”
After I rounded the desk and made my way to the door, I clapped a hand to his shoulder and told him, “Brave? Nah. Just as whacko as he is.”
My bud snorted out a laugh as we left the office together. He headed down to the parking lot to sweep my car for bugs, while I hovered in the hall when I caught sight of Tinker hefting a baggy in his hand. The way he was holding it had me veering toward him, the problem of my future bride shelved momentarily.
“Tink? What’s up?”
“That feel light to you?” He tossed me the baggy.
“I’m not a set of scales. You’re the human fucking computer.” I threw it back to him and asked, “You think the Demonios are short-selling us?”
He shrugged. “Either that or their delivery man is taking a pinch here or there.”
I eyed the many and varied crates in the stock room, some of which contained drugs, others contained guns. There were all kinds of shit inside them, some I didn’t even want to know about. We had our own little import business going down. The more exotic shit interested me the most—and I wasn’t talking about Colombian marching powder either.
This place was Tinker's domain, and while I’d been teasing about the human computer shit, he somehow managed to keep track of everything in our stock without computerizing any of our records, and had the knack of being able to heft something in his hand and figure out the weight.
To the nearest ounce.
It was insane.
If the fucker ever decided to do the crazy thing and ‘retire’ from the Five Points, I was pretty sure he had a career on America’s Got Talent.
“I can talk to Juan Alonso—mention we’ve got product on the loose?”
Tink shook his head. “This is the second time it’s happened, but the measurements are marginal. Before we accuse the psychotic fuckers who are willing to dip their faces in ink, let’s maybe accuse their equipment?”
“Sensible,” I agreed with a hidden grin, because he wasn’t teasing. “What about here? These accurate?” I asked, eying the bags full of cash that the Dominicans gave us to launder through our fronts. We’d be shipping this out across Hell’s Kitchen in the AM, so I knew it would have been processed by now.
“Their counting machines work plenty fine.”
“Good to know.” I moved over to the crates that were wadded down with bank notes—my favorite kind of exotic product. Only I found a little extra something too; a catalogue.
“What have we got here?”
“A thank you from the Yakuza. One of the runners just brought it over. Was going to bring it upstairs once I’d finished here.”
I arched a brow. “They heard about my little collection?”
“They’d be dumbasses if they didn’t know you collect rare denominations.”
“Think they’re tailing me?”
“Maybe. There was a reason you were caught with your pants down in that sushi restaurant,” he pointed out, making me roll my eyes. “But I’ve had three separate guards on you ever since, and they’ve found no one so I’m not worried. But I did get Conor to scan your computers, make sure there were no trackers on there.”
Knowing he would have the situation in hand, I hummed, a tad disinterestedly, as I opened the catalogue and eyed the coins within them.
They were vintage.
South African.
Even better, they were twenty-four carat gold.
And not just your average Krugerrand.
I wasn’t like Declan—didn’t collect things for their beauty, or for an artistic interpretation that would bring harmony to my environment... or whatever bullshit excuse he gave for spending a wasted fortune at Sotheby’s.
Me? I liked my investments to be portable.
I liked them small.
I liked them to be in a safe at home so that if shit came to shit, and this far, it never had gotten so bad where I needed to run, but if I had to, then I could open my strong box, grab my catalogues of coins and have about five million I could trade in.
Personally, I thought that was a lot fucking smarter than investing six hundred thousand in an antique wardrobe some ancient Chinese dude had stored his clothes in. Couldn’t exactly heft that around on your back, could you? But what the fuck did I know?
“Anything nice in there? I didn’t look seeing as it was a gift to you.”
I shook my head at his words, still, after all these years, unable to believe just how trustworthy my crew was. I treated them right, even gave them an equal status to speak up and discuss shit with me—which wasn’t common in our world—and I paid them well, but that didn’t make loyalty any less of a commodity.
They never let me down though, ever. And considering the mess we were in, our world at war, appreciation hit me harder than it usually did.
“You should pick one,” I said gruffly.
Tink, who was bent over a crate, the rough wood snagging on his suit coat, his head inside it as he reached in to grab the baggies at the bottom, froze then snapped up. “You sick or something?”
I scowled. “No. I’m fine.”
“You sure? I’d check if you have a fever, Scrooge, because we all know you hoard that shit like it comes from a unicorn.”
“Unicorn manure,” I mused. “The most precious shit in the world.”
Tinker snorted, but he tipped his head to the side. “You serious about the coins?”
I shrugged. “Consider it a ‘thank you’ gift for all the overtime.”
His brows rose higher but he replied, “Well, it’s appreciated.”
I just hummed. “Make sure Bagpipes and Forrest pick one too.”
“Will do.” He dipped his chin in a nod, but I could sense his surprise.
I definitely wasn’t a miser, but he wasn’t wrong. I safeguarded my future with high insurance premiums, the likes of which didn’t depend on any stock market or gangland war.
Because the Krugerrands were nice, it was hard not to slip the catalogue under my arm and take it with me. I guessed, in my own way, I was a money magpie, so I shoved my hands into my pockets and strode back to Tink who was still eying me like I had a contagious rash he didn’t want to catch.
“You on your way out?”
We worked all hours, so my leaving at nine was pretty early. “Got a situation over in Brighton Beach.”
“Need a hand?” he asked, straightening up, keying me into the fact that he was ready to have m
y back before I even asked for it.
I shook my head. “Nothing that bad. Just picking up a package.”
He blinked, relaxed. “Oh.”
Smiling a little, I murmured, “I won’t be back in tonight. Need you at my apartment tomorrow at two-thirty.”
Though he nodded, it didn’t stop him from grousing, “Can’t believe you picked me.”
A laugh escaped me. “Consider yourself the lucky one.”
“The one who’s gonna get his balls dipped in molten shoe polish when your father finds out I’m the—”
Cocking a brow at him, I interrupted, “Loose lips sink ships.”
“It’s not 1942,” he argued.
“No, this war is far deadlier,” I rumbled with a sigh. “Be there. Make sure the other fuckers are as well.”
“You sure you don’t want your brothers around?”
“I don’t want anyone trying to talk me out of it, and they might.”
No ‘might’ about it. Especially when they found out Vasov was dead.
He heaved a sigh, making it clear to me that he was hoping my brothers would have the chance to talk some sense into me. No dice.
“See you tomorrow,” he muttered.
I waved at him, then retreated to the foyer and out into the lot. Making my way through the puddles that were illuminated in the spotlights that were fixed to the roof, I climbed into my Maybach and made my way out of the dump that was The Hole after I checked exactly where Camille was going to be waiting on me.
It was pretty handy that I was still working, because if I’d been in Hell’s Kitchen, it might have taken longer to get to Brighton Beach than I’d have liked.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to find when I finally made it to Camille, but I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to like it.
In my line of work, you either had the knack or you didn’t. It was as clear cut as that. You knew when shit was about to drown you, or you were completely dumb to it. We worked hard to pair soldiers together who’d save each other’s asses, because unlike the Russians and the Italians, we gave a fuck about our men.
Filthy Sex: The Five Points’ Mob Collection: Four Page 13