Love had a habit of doing that to a man. I didn’t say that, however, just queried, “Want me to speak with Aidan Sr. about her?”
Alan understood what I was saying without me needing to clarify it.
He didn't even blanch at the idea of the girl being killed—if only his constituents could see him now.
“And make a martyr out of her?" he groused at the same time as he puffed away on his cigar. "No. Alan went through with the wedding because his mother started sobbing whenever he talked about backing out of it.”
“Momma’s boy,” I commented with a laugh, shaking my head.
“In this instance, that works in our favor. Elizabeth’s a good girl. Will make a fine First Lady someday.”
If that was supposed to be a smooth segue, it failed. I knew Elizabeth was a good girl. She was of Irish stock.
Preferring to deal with the bullshit now, I told him, “Aidan was disappointed you didn’t win the primaries.”
Alan tensed. “No more than me.”
I wafted a hand. “You’re in no danger. Our friendship isn’t terminated with your inability to get elected into the Oval Office.”
Twice he’d tried, twice he’d failed.
The ‘man of the people’ act worked for a Senator but didn’t seem to pass the sniff test when it came down to a presidential election.
“That’s good to know.” His shoulders dropped, and the mask of false joviality he’d been wearing wobbled as relief hit him.
Making the Five Points a promise and then failing to fulfill that promise was how you found yourself in an early grave.
It was good he remembered that.
These men, so influential but so forgetful that the Five Points held more power than they ever could.
I smiled at the thought and took a deeper puff on the cigar.
“Elizabeth’s one of yours?"
His wary question had me eying my cigar. A Five Pointer? No. But he didn’t need to know that. Not if his investigations into the girl hadn’t told him as much.
“Irish?" I puffed on the Cuban, purposely misunderstanding him. "I know. As you said, she’ll make a fine First Lady.” I angled my head to the side as I took a deep gulp of whiskey. “Are you going to retire from office?”
He pursed his lips. “I was thinking about it. Alan Jr. needs a lot of work if he’s going to be cultivated into presidential material.”
“It’s definitely a task worthy of your time. You promised the Five Points a president, Alan.”
“I remember.” He shot me a wary smile. “A Davidson never forgets his dues.”
“Good to know.”
“It’s a shame your brother couldn’t attend the wedding.”
Well, that was a fucking lie if I ever heard one.
“Business always gets in the way,” I dismissed, impressed by his ability to bullshit—nobody wanted my older brother around.
“Doesn’t it, though?” he consoled.
Sinking back the whiskey, I sighed with repletion as the heat from its burn licked at my insides. Then, still smoking the cigar, I got to my feet and held out my spare hand.
“Don’t let us down, Alan, and we won’t let you down.”
This time, his palm was clammy as it enfolded mine in a gentleman’s handshake. Alan had a good poker face, I had to give him that, but controlling his expression was one thing, his sweat glands another.
“I appreciate your patience. Enjoy the party. It’ll be going on all night.”
I hummed as I wandered out of the office, closing the door with a snick behind me.
The Davidsons’ house in the Hamptons had been one of the properties under the threat of foreclosure when he’d come to us with a proposition nine years ago. The fourteen-bedroom colonial mansion belonged to my family, not his, but it was on loan to him for the foreseeable future.
Unless he reneged, of course. But he’d lose more than just his fucking house if he did that.
As I wandered around the halls, I heard the music from the wedding party in the ballroom, but it held no interest to me.
Alan Davidson Jr. had been strong-armed into this marriage, and it was clear for all to see.
He’d barely looked at his bride once, hadn’t touched her, and when it had come time to kiss her, he’d placed a peck on her cheek… They might have gotten him down the aisle, but that wouldn’t continue their political dynasty if he couldn’t touch her without cringing.
As I entered the wintergarten—I’d seen the deeds so I knew that was the official name of the fancy greenhouse—where daffodils grew in November thanks to Victorian heating pipes that ran under the flower beds in there—I heard the softest of moans.
My lips quirked up at the corners as I snuffed out the cigar in one of the soil beds and craned my neck to investigate exactly where the sound had come from.
In the distance, over the private beach, a flurry of fireworks lit up the sky and provided some relief from the gloom in here.
My eyes caught a couple in full embrace: her skirts up, his pants down.
I’d have laughed if that skirt wasn’t part of a wedding dress.
Not much surprised me, not in my line of work, but when the lights flashed again, the sky blowing up with reds and blues and whites—ever the patriots—there was no mistaking the man who was fucking the newest member of the Davidson household.
Michael Byrne.
Jesus Christ.
There were few men whom I feared. In my position, not only was fear a weakness I couldn’t afford, but the Five Points were the monster under the bed.
We were the ones to be frightened of.
Unless you were a cheile, of course.
Those fucking ECD zealots from the motherland were more insane than my elder brother, and that was really saying something.
Defrosting, I backed away, but of course, as luck would fucking have it, I walked into a goddamn planter.
With a crash, it soared onto the Victorian-era tiles, and Elizabeth Davidson née Ó Cléirigh gasped and started tugging her skirts down.
Not Byrne though.
With his gaze on mine, he pinned her to him. One arm banding around her waist, his other hand coming to her throat to hold her as he carried on fucking her while she struggled to cover up.
As I stared into the gaze of a cheile with the blood of thousands on his hands, who felt righteous in his actions and not like the worst kind of sinner, I knew that for catching them in the act, I was a dead man walking.
Seven
Aoife
PRESENT - New Year’s Day
When my phone rang and I glanced at the ‘private number’ on the Caller ID, I ignored it the first time.
But when it kept on ringing, and because I’d just put Jake down for a nap, I hit the connect button and snapped, “Who is it?”
There was silence on the end of the line, and for a second, I waited for the spiel for travel insurance or faster internet—not even the mob could avoid telemarketers forever—but then came a voice I hadn’t heard in years.
Not outside of the TV screen, at any rate.
“Aoife.”
Not a question, not even a statement. Just a soft exhalation, as if he savored my name.
“What do you want?”