I shared a look with my brothers, stunned by his admission. “This isn’t goddamn funny, Senior.”
“Nothing about this situation is funny, Finn,” he snapped.
“Then why are you laughing?”
“Because the world’s caving in and there’s fuck all I can do to stop it.”
I surged onto my feet, but Junior blocked me and muttered, “Calm down, Finn.”
Brennan shuffled behind me. “Trust me, I made him wish he'd never been born, brother. I swear to you. I fucking swear on Ma’s life.”
Sagging against Junior, I rumbled, “Aoife’s in danger to this day because of that bastard.”
“I know.” Junior squeezed my shoulder again. “I know.”
I closed my eyes as I dropped back into my seat. Elbows on my knees, I stared at the ground, aware that the world hadn’t stopped turning—it just felt like it had.
“How many have come forward today?” Brennan asked, breaking into my thoughts.
“Two,” Junior replied, his hand squeezing my shoulder once more before he hobbled off and took a seat on the edge of his da’s desk.
“Who?”
“Sullivan and Walsh.” He grunted. “They’re no longer with the Points and are under the warning that if they so much as sniff around the Sparrows or Points’ business, we’ll have their balls.”
Bren’s eyes flared in surprise. Not at the threat, I figured, just the names. I couldn’t blame him. I’d been shocked too.
“Walsh?” Bren demanded. “He’s a fucking lifer.”
Senior explained, “Said they threatened to have his daughter arrested.”
Shoulders relaxing, he whistled. “Makes sense. He’s already served, what? Twenty years off and on for the family. Not like more time would disturb him.”
“Our kids are our weaknesses,” Senior rumbled, and I turned to look at him and saw that his gaze was on the window and the yard beyond.
Blanketed with snow, it wasn’t like he could see much aside from Declan who, for some fucking reason, was standing out there while taking a call, but it was clear to me that Senior had been keeping his shit together all day and was on the verge of explosion.
I just wasn’t sure what that explosion would look like now, and to be frank, I got it. Explosion felt imminent for me as well.
For the first time in my life, I understood what twisted him, what riled him up and made him do the sick shit he was capable of.
I’d watched him crucify men; I’d stood back and watched him torture them. I’d even let him watch me pull those moves because that was how a man became a Five Pointer.
He was my father.
Somehow, he was all our father, and he’d let us become this. Had let us do these things and expected it of us.
Maybe I’d always resented him for that.
Maybe I’d never understood it.
Until now.
Until this moment.
As skilled as Bren was, as infamous at torture as he was, no one could serve that fucker justice like I could have.
“Our kids are supposed to be our weaknesses. Our women too,” I ground out.
Senior swiveled in his seat, circling so that we were looking at each other. “You’re not wrong,” he said eventually.
“What if you don’t have either yet?” Conor grated out.
“Then you don’t see the forest for the trees,” I told him, my gaze on Senior’s all the while. “Mark won’t take bullshit where Callum’s concerned. He wants answers. You need to make sure he gets them, and they need to be good enough to pass muster because, bet your ass, he’ll double check the information you get to him.”
Senior nodded slowly, his gaze on mine as I got to my feet. "I'll see that it's done."
“I’ve spent St. Stephen’s Day listening to Walsh and Sullivan snivel to you, Aidan, but that’s not how I’m going to spend the rest of it.”
I dragged off my suit jacket, hooked two fingers into the collar then draped it over my shoulder all while I worked at the knot on my tie with the other. I tugged so hard I almost choked myself, but the truth was, the only way I was going to calm the fuck down was to go and be with Aoife and Jake.
And even that might not be enough this time.
Part Two
Six
Past
Padraig
Senator Alan Davidson had a belly the size of the USS Missouri, an ego as large as the States, and a reputation as infamous in the Kremlin as it was in the Senate.
The Kennedys, the Bushes, and the Davidsons were all of the same ilk, but the Davidsons were a lot more crooked.
Thank fuck for small mercies.
“Padraig, such a pleasure to see you,” Alan intoned as he got to his feet to shake my hand.
He grabbed one of mine with both of his in a political handshake that I thought his grandfather had taught him.
Just firm enough, not too much of a power play.
A hundred years of political inbreeding had crafted that handshake, making it balanced to perfection. But then, it was the only thing balanced about him.
Something he confirmed when he held out a box of illegal Cubans and said, “So glad you could make it.”
Bullshit. A man like him was used to answering to no one, but I'd admit he'd come to heel relatively easily over the last couple years or so.
I snagged one of the Behikes and raised it to my nose. “Damn, that smells good.”
Alan beamed at me. “Want some whiskey?”
“I’ll never say no.”
I took a seat in front of his desk, well aware that as he played bartender with me, I was one of the few he’d ever do shit like this for.
There were some perks to being Aidan O’Donnelly’s younger brother.
As I reached for the cutter, I cut off the tip of the cigar, took another sniff of the fine tobacco leaf, then snagged a match from the sterling silver humidor with its cedar interior and struck it against the vesta case.
With the flickering flame in hand, I held it to the cigar tip and gave it a few puffs, sighing as I savored not just the taste, but the experience.
These old families did shit the right way.
Alan set a whiskey tumbler loaded down with amber nectar in front of me before he returned to his seat behind the desk which creaked with his weight.
As he stopped waddling about his luxuriously appointed office, I found myself wondering how in fuck he’d managed to sell himself as a man of the people when this office looked like it belonged in a stately home from the old country, but the man definitely had the gift of gab.
He might not have made it to the White House, but he was a career Senator. So someone in New York bought what he was peddling.
“Beautiful ceremony,” I commented as I reached forward and picked up the glass.
“It was. Father Doyle definitely did us proud.” Davidson went through the process of lighting his own cigar. “Wasn’t sure if Alan Jr. would go through with it in the end.”
I arched a brow. “Really?”
Alan’s gaze held firm on mine. “He likes a girl he met at West Point. A fucking waitress in a diner. Can you imagine? The boy’s a fool.”