He set down his briefcase and nodded at Nico and Luca, already occupying chairs around the table, then crossed to the refreshment bar at one end of the room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a careful drink, then turned to face Farrell.
“Patience is a virtue.”
“Fuck you,” Farrell said.
Christophe smiled. “I can only assume your greeting means you’ve missed my company.”
“Wrong.” Farrell’s British accent was clipped, his voice lazy. He was a giant of a man, a man with the kind of violent aura—and an angry scar that ran down one side of his face—that caused strangers to shrink away from him on the street. “It means I have better fucking things to do than sit here holding my dick while you take your sweet time.”
Christophe smiled. “With all apologies to your aforementioned appendage, we experienced a landing delay on arrival. It couldn’t be helped.”
Farrell grinned. “My ‘aforementioned appendage’ accepts your apology.”
Christophe smiled in spite of himself. Farrell had that affect on people, keeping them on their toes as he swung from temperamental asshole to genial brother-in-arms. Over the years Christophe had seen Farrell go toe to toe with everyone in the Syndicate, even Nico. The only person that seemed to hold any sway over him at all was his wife Jenna.
“Now that that’s settled, let’s get to it,” Nico said.
Christophe topped off his coffee and carried it to the table, taking a seat next to Luca, while Farrell sat with a fresh glass of whiskey at Nico’s right. Since Raneiro Donati’s death, they’d become equal partners in the Syndicate, but somehow they always turned to Nico for leadership.
It was more than the fact that the old Syndicate had died by Nico’s hand, a series of events that had been kicked off by Nico’s obsession with Angel Rossi, the woman who was now his wife and the mother of his daughter, Stella. It was a brand of command unique to Nico Vitale, an iron fist in a velvet glove, the calm before the storm—and the storm itself, when you needed one.
“Isabel wanted to me to say thank you for the painting,” Luca said to Christophe. “She’s going to send a note. Sofia loved it.”
“I’ll let Charlotte know,” Christophe said.
Charlotte had purchased the painting of a young girl playing in the surf at an estate sale and pronounced it the perfect birthday gift for Sofia, the younger sister of Luca’s girlfriend, Isabel. The pair had met when Luca was working as a bodyguard for a drug lord in Miami. Now Luca ran Florida with Isabel, a talented artist in her own right, by his side.
Nico hit a button on his laptop and the lights dimmed in the room. A screen emerged from the ceiling at the front of the room and a moment later an image of an older man with a wide face, thick nose, and graying hair appeared on the screen.
“After weeks of digging in Boston, we can say with certainty that this is our man: Seamus O’Brien,” Nico said.
“Fucking Irish,” Farrell muttered.
“We always knew the leader of Boston was Irish,” Christophe reminded him.
Farrell shrugged. “What kind of Brit would I be if I didn’t say it?”
Like all of the Syndicate’s territories, Boston had fallen into disarray after Donati’s death. It had taken two years to get some of the other cities under control. In the meantime, Boston had been under siege by several different factions, all of them happy to have free reign after being driven out years earlier by Donati.
The new Syndicate leadership had known there was a top dog, but Seamus O’Brien had been well protected, hidden behind several high-level soldiers from more than one family, all of them working somewhat autonomously.
“O’Brien is the de facto leader,” Nico continued. “It might not be official, but no one steals a candy bar without giving him a piece of it.”
The image on the screen changed to one with a series of stats.
Seamus O’Brien
Born: May 17, 1958 Boston MA
Parents: Thomas and Mary O’Brien
Seamus m. Agnes Berne 1985
Agnes O’Brien nee Berne: deceased May 2010
Children: None
Address: 350 Dorchester, Boston, MA
“No kids?” Farrell asked. “Must have had a problem with the old pecker.”
“Maybe they simply didn’t want children,” Christophe said, hoping he’d managed to omit any defensiveness from his voice. After all, he and Charlotte didn’t have children, and although they hadn’t actually discussed it, she seemed in no hurry.
Farrell scoffed. “An Irish born in 1958?”
“Not everyone is a stereotype,” Luca said.
Farrell looked at him. “In my experience, everyone is exactly that.”
“Even you?” Luca asked.
Farrell smiled. “Especially me, mate.”
He was being disingenuous. Farrell Black was an Oxford educated scholar with a genius IQ who could pummel a man into oblivion with his bare hands. He also kept his autistic brother in a top-notch care facility and was as loving a father as Christophe had ever seen.
“Christophe said he came to the U.S in the late 80s,” Luca said. “IRA?”
“Nicely done.” Nico changed the slide and a rap sheet emerged on the screen, a list of arrests and offenses spanning twenty years. “And what’s not on here is that he’s suspected of orchestrating a bombing in Dublin in 1989.”
“What year did he come to the States?” Farrell asked.
“1990,” Christophe said. He’d memorized every detail of Seamus O’Brien’s background since they’d figured out he was heading up Boston’s post-Donati criminal element.
“All the confirmation we need,” Farrell said.
“So he orchestrates the Dublin bombing in 1989 and comes to the U.S. when it gets too hot in Ireland,” Luca said.
“That would be my guess,” Nico said.
“How do we approach him?” Luca asked.
“I wouldn’t be a good choice.” Nico looked at Luca. “Neither would you.”
Christophe read between the lines: Nico and Luca were both Italian—and former Syndicate soldiers. In places like South Boston, ethnic divisions still existed between the Italian and Irish criminal organizations.
Farrell laughed. “Well, I sure as fuck can’t do it.”
“He has a point.” Nico looked at Christophe. “Do you have the time?”
“I’ll make the time,” Christophe said. It was his turn. Farrell had spearheaded the retaking of New York under Damian Cavallo, then assisted Nico in Vegas while Christophe had been doing recon in Boston.
“Good,” Nico said.
“What’s our move if Seamus says no?” Farrell asked.
Nico changed the slide. The image on the screen changed to that of a younger man with sandy colored hair. The photograph had obviously been taken from some distance, a fact that did nothing to diminish the man’s vitality and confidence as he strode towards the glass doors of an office building that was familiar to Christophe from the time he’d spent casing the situation in Boston.
“Meet Nolan Burke,” Nico said.
Luca’s brow furrowed. “Nolan Burke…”
“There’s a reason the name sounds familiar,” Nico said. “He used to work for Carlo Rossi.”
Christophe watched as the realization played across Luca’s face. It was Carlo’s execution of Nico’s parents that led to the downfall of the old Syndicate, to Donati’s assassination, and to Nico’s forbidden love affair with Carlo’s daughter.
“How is Burke an option?” Farrell asked.
Most of Rossi’s men had been eliminated in the years since his death. Those that survived made a point to lay low under Seamus O’Brien’s leadership.
“He was low-level,” Nico said. “A rich kid getting his kicks by playing bad guy with the enemy.”
“Mummy and daddy must not have liked that at all,” Farrell said.
“His father is dead,” Nico said. “He left most of his money to Nolan, his only son. His wife remar
ried a prominent politician. Nolan went back to law school after the fall of the Syndicate.”
“What’s he doing now?” Luca asked.
The images on the screen switched in quick succession: Burke on a sailboat with a willowy brunette, at a restaurant with a gorgeous blond, stepping into a silver Lexus, sunglasses shielding his face.
“Wasting time,” Nico said. “Making money. Collecting pretty things.”
Christophe looked at the screen dispassionately. He wasn’t oblivious to the similarities between himself and Nolan Burke.
“Another fucking playboy,” Farrell grumbled.
“Nolan Burke isn’t Max Cartwright, although I feel compelled to point out that Max ended up being the right man for the job in Vegas,” Nico said.
“Only after a whole hell of a lot of trouble,” Luca said.
Nico smiled “We weren’t exactly trouble free in our youth.”
“Why can’t we just eliminate O’Brien if he says no?” Luca asked. “Install one of our own?”
Farrell laughed. “And have a bunch of former terrorists come after us with nothing to lose and a brother-in-arms to avenge?”
“Right,” Luca said. “The IRA.”
“We could do it as a last resort,” Nico said. “But that’s what it should be.”
“Fine. Fuck it,” Farrell said. “What’s our move?”
“Burke was a troublemaker in school, kicked out of three different boarding schools before his mother finally enrolled him in the Phillips Academy, but he’s always been ambitious. He was seen as a soldier with leadership potential even when he was a cocky kid scaring the shit out of people for Carlo.” Nico’s voice was even, giving no indication that Carlo Rossi had been willing to sacrifice his own daughter—the love of Nico’s life—for the Syndicate. “He has more than enough money to spend the rest of his life sailing, driving fast cars, and bedding beautiful women. Instead he’s working eighty hours a week at Glassman and Weld, angling for partner.”
“Sounds like he’s gone straight,” Luca said.
“He’s bored,” Christophe said.
“How do you know?” Luca asked.
Christophe tried to come up with words to describe the apathy surrounding Nolan Burke, the way he moved through his twenty hour days like a man on autopilot. “Call it a feeling.”
Farrell shook his head. “Great. We’re going to approach another trust fund baby to take down a former fucking IRA operative because you have a feeling.”
“There’s more,” Nico said, bringing up another image, this one a young woman sitting on an outdoor bench, her high cheekbones striking against a halo of golden hair. “Namely an ex-girlfriend who works for Seamus.”
“Are you telling us we have another Jason Draper situation?” Luca asked.
“No,” Christophe said. Jason Draper had been the former best friend of Max Cartwright, the current boss of the Las Vegas territory. Max would never have gotten involved with the Syndicate’s takeover of the city if not for the fact that his best friend, Abby, had been working for Draper, unaware Draper was laundering millions of dollars through both his casino and DarkNet poker games involving everything from illegal weapons to human trafficking. “Bridget Monaghan knows what Seamus O’Brien is.”
“So why would Burke want to help her now?” Luca asked.
“Because he has no idea the lovely Miss Monaghan dumped him for a half-million dollar payout by his mother, a payout she used to provide care for her terminally ill brother,” Nico said. “And because he has no idea she’s working for O’Brien for the same reason.”
Farrell’s eyes were glued to the photo. “Bloody hell.”
Chapter One
Nolan Burke bounced on his heels, holding his hands up to protect his face as his opponent circled him in the ring. Sweat streamed down his face and his T-shirt was stuck to his body, all thanks to the last half hour he’d spent in the ring with Will MacFarland.
Will grinned, a sure sign he was preparing to swing. Nolan watched his body language, then moved to block the rib jab. He countered with a tap to Will’s left cheek. It wasn’t hard enough to knock him down—they played rough, but not that rough—but Will staggered backward and removed his mouth guard.
“Jesus Christ. You trying to make a point?” Will asked.
Nolan grinned. “Just wondering if you’re ready to call it quits.”
Nolan had been ready to call it quits since they got there. Unlike most of the men hailing from South Boston, he didn’t enjoy being beaten to a pulp and beating others to a pulp in return.
Not anymore anyway.
Physical violence was messy, and messy had gotten him into enough trouble. These days he preferred the sterility of the firing range, the reliability of a meticulously crafted weapon. Unfortunately, his best friend didn’t feel the same way.
“Why didn’t you just ask?” Will tapped Nolan’s glove with his own. “I don’t need to lose a tooth to be convinced it’s time for beer.”
“Good to know.” Nolan grabbed his towel off the rope as he stepped out of the ring. He used it to wipe the sweat from his face as they headed for the locker room.
Ryan’s Gym was a Southie institution, catering to both the neighborhood’s wanna-be professionals and the punks who liked to beat on people without getting arrested. Cleanliness was not one of its virtues, but no way was Nolan going out for beers without a shower, not even to The Chipp, another neighborhood institution as concerned with cleanliness as Ryan’s.
They made small talk while they showered, then called out a goodbye to Davie Ryan, the owner of the gym, on their way to the door.
The sun was setting gold behind the neighborhood’s old buildings when they emerged onto the street. The air had the bite of late fall, and Nolan was glad he’d brought his old leather jacket, a throwback to a time when he’d fancied himself a criminal, running money and beating people up for the Syndicate just to piss off his mother.
“Jesus fecking christ,” Will muttered, throwing his bag in the backseat of Nolan’s Lexus. He didn’t have a lick of an Irish accent, but he swore like his father, who sounded like he’d gotten off the boat from Ireland last week instead of twenty-five years ago. “Are you trying to get this thing jacked?”
Nolan laughed and pressed the button on his key fob to lock the doors. “How do you suggest I get here? The bus?”
“If you weren’t such a pompous asshole you’d live in the neighborhood where you could walk or hitch a ride,” Will said.
“If you weren’t such a lazy dolt, you’d come downtown once in a while where you don’t need hazmat gear to sit at the bar.”
Nolan didn’t bother stating the obvious: he had never lived “in the neighborhood.” He’d only been exposed to it because of his grandparents, who’d lived next door to Will and had refused to move even after Nolan’s father created a multimillion dollar political strategy firm responsible for electing including six senators and two presidents.
Nolan’s mother, a Boston blue blood, would have drowned herself in the harbor before living in Southie. She’d accepted the Burke family background only because it made for a good story in political circles: Nolan’s father a rags-to-riches Boston success story, the six-hundred million dollar trust he’d left behind a vehicle for Nolan’s mother to continue playing socialite when her own family’s money had dried up. Of course, that had been before she married Harrison Adams, a former Senator with a pedigree—and bank account—that matched her own.
“Nothing wrong with The Chipp,” Will said as they walked. “You should be grateful.”
“Grateful?” Nolan found himself adopting the neighborhood posture out of habit: shoulders slumped, head down as if he were fighting a headwind, eyes watchful. It was mostly unnecessary these days. The neighborhood was being gentrified by affluent Millennials looking for a bargain within commuting distance of the city.
“Yeah, if it weren’t for me, you’d probably never come back,” Will said. “Then you’d really become one of
those rich fucks with a stick up their ass.”
“I thought I already was a rich fuck with a stick up my ass.”
“It would be worse,” Will said.
Nolan laughed. This was part of their routine. For all of Will’s repartee, he was no idiot. He hadn’t attended college, preferring instead to stay on with Seamus O’Brien’s outfit after the fall of Raneiro Donati’s Syndicate, but he was well-read, forgoing a TV in favor of the books that covered every inch of the dingy apartment he’d occupied since right after high school. He wasn’t broke either: he’d amassed his own nest egg from his illegal earnings.
They came to The Chipp, an old building with a crumbling brick facade and no windows. Will walked in and a chorus of greetings rose from the interior, so dim Nolan couldn’t make out the figures in the back.
The smell hit him all at once—dust and old linoleum and the yeasty smell of Guinness. It was where he’d taken his first drink, where he’d made his first pickup for the Syndicate, where he’d gotten blackout drunk after Bridget Monaghan broke up with him.
The name immediately conjured her image—her creamy skin, almost translucent, her golden hair, threads of copper only visible when the sun hit it just right, the way she fit perfectly into the crook of his arm.
He pushed the memories away and took a seat at the bar. He’d spent too many hours wondering what had happened, why Bridget had cast aside what had felt sacred to him even when he’d been a punk kid trying to prove something to his dead father, to the guys in the neighborhood, to himself.
At first he’d thought it was because he’d dropped out of law school, because he’d postponed his plans for the future to run around the neighborhood with Will. Both of those things had been fixable. Instead, she’d made the one argument he couldn’t counter: she didn’t love him anymore.
What more was there to say?
He looked up as Derry Higgins approached them from behind the bar. “Hey, boys. How’s it hangin?”
“It’s hanging, and that’s better than the alternative, am I right?” Will asked.
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