The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Lorcan
Regret.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling. Especially when it’s not accompanied by a hangover.
But I’m stone-cold sober, feeling every crack in the iron-cladding around my heart. All because I didn’t give little Poppy Fucking Murphy what she wanted. I try not to glance at her, her long limbs curled up in the furthest corner of the Rolls. Her copper hair falling down her back as she turns to stare at the streets of Boston passing us by.
It was easier when I hated her guts.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my brain to think forward, not sideways. This is a big night for the Quinns, and I have to navigate it with the precision of my father. I have to stay sharp and composed. Which is why I haven’t loaded up with half a bottle of The Smugglers Club and why the Glock in my breast pocket still has the safety catch on. I can’t afford to start an all-out war in the middle of Gatsby’s because of a snide remark or a filthy look, especially not when I’m already mid-battle with the Bratnovs.
But there’s no way I’d leave my weapon, or my men at home. There’s too much I have to make sure of. Like whether the Regazzis really have distanced themselves from the Delfinos. Or why the fuck the Mexicans would have an interest in forming an alliance.
My cell screen flashes with a curt message from Antoin. He’s already there. When I look up, I realize we’re pulling up outside Gatsby’s ourselves.
The joint looks impressive at night. A new Gatsby’s sign hangs outside the doorway, made up of thousands of white light bulbs. The soft glow from floodlights sprawls up the brick walls on either side, and there’s even a red carpet hugging the three steps leading up to the door. Yeah, maybe I should have mentioned to Ricardo that this was going to be a more…private event.
One of my men, clad in a suit, opens the door for Poppy, before rounding the Rolls to open mine. I step out and cast an eye over him, taking in his radio earpiece. Then I slam the back of my hand against his chest. It lands with a hard thud against a bulletproof vest.
“Are you all equipped in this way?” I ask out of the side of my mouth, scanning the guards lining the exterior of the restaurant, and those inside the lobby manning the body scanners.
“Yes, sir.”
I nod and close the gap between me and Poppy, snaking a strong hand around her waist. Then, I lean down to meet her ear. “Do me a favor and try to act like you don’t hate my guts tonight.”
She replies acidly, “I’m not Meryl fucking Streep.”
Under my forearm, I feel her muscles unclench slightly as we step into the restaurant, side-stepping the body scanners, obviously. A glance at her face tells me she’s in just as much awe as she was when I first took her here, if not more. I steal a moment to watch her, taking in the green velvet booths lining the walls and the white-gloved pianist on the grand piano at the back. All the other seating has been removed, leaving a long table in the middle of the room.
The lights from the Venetian chandeliers above our head refract their soft glow over her face, as she raises it to the ceiling to drink it all in.
I have the sudden urge to call the whole fucking meeting off and kick everyone out. Everyone except Poppy. I’d walk her through every antique and ornament in the whole joint, letting her touch and feel and smell its history while I tell her the story of my travels and how I acquired it.
Antoin’s glowering eyes from the bar bring me back to earth with a thump.
No distractions.
I lock eyes with my cousin, before making a sweeping glance around the company he’s keeping. All of their eyes are on me too.
Using a firm yet gentle touch, I spin Poppy around and pull her close, before crushing my lips against hers. It takes only a beat before she’s kissing me back, melting into my body in that goddamn sexy way that she does. Before I pull away, I brush my lips against her ear, trying to pretend like her sudden heavy breathing isn’t bringing my dick to life. “Remember, I’ll loan you out to each and every one of those men if you don’t behave yourself tonight.”
I stifle a groan as her hand finds its way to my beard. It’s soft and delicate and I want nothing more than to have it wrapped around my cock. “No need to loan me out,” she snarls in a tone that doesn’t match the touch of her hand or the intensity behind her kiss. “I’ll take the bald one.”
I pull away to wipe the smear of lipstick off her chin and to flash her a cold smile. Her eyes have enough humor to let me know she’s kidding. Nodding towards the gaggle of tarts around one of the booths in the back of the room, I say. “Go make friends. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Hesitant, she turns towards the wives and girlfriends of the men I’m hoping to get on our side and totters over in her ridiculously high heels. My attention goes back to the men by the bar. I straighten up, tighten my cufflinks and draw a deep breath. My plan worked straight away.
“Quite the lady you have there,” a balding Italian says with a smirk.
I pin him with a hard stare. “She’s Marcus Murphy’s daughter.” He lets out a low whistle, impressed.
“Gentlemen,” I say without a hint of a smile as I penetrate their circle. “Shall we?”
Nods all around. I lead the way into a back room, one I had Ricardo set up especially. “Very nice,” one of the men purrs in an Italian accent, taking in the floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves and the Art Deco wall lamps casting their soft glow over the quilted wallpaper and gem-tone rugs. “Very Prohibition era.”
I won’t entertain small talk. Not until I know who I’m entertaining entirely. I gesture to the table set up in the middle of the room. “Please, sit.”
It’s circular, no bigger than a poker table. Exactly what I asked Ricardo for. The shape makes it seem like there’s no head of the table; the size is small enough for me to look into each one of these fuckers eyes as they talk and assess if they are telling the truth or not. And each deep-seated armchair around it will lure the men into a false sense of comfort.
A server waltzes through with a tray of drinks, then turns to me and asks what I’d like.
Antoin’s eyes challenge me.
“Water,” I say after a beat.
Once everyone has settled into their armchair, drink in hand, a silence falls over the table and all eyes settle on me.
But I don’t speak, not just yet. Instead, I take in each of the four men, one by one. To my immediate left is Alessandro Regazzi, the head of the Regazzi family and the one that asked me about Poppy. A plump man in an expensive suit with gold on every finger. To his left is his second-in-command, his son, Angelo. He has his father’s dark hair and gray eyes. They are punctuated with the cruelness that comes with being born into a violent world.
To my left sits Rodrigo Mondez. Tattoos crawl up from underneath his shirt collar, up his neck and onto his face. A network of symbols and artwork that makes as much sense to me as hieroglyphics. His face is weather worn and hardened with years of doing business in the harsh desert that stretches around El Paso, Texas. While Regazzi’s son shares similar traits as his father, there’s little that connects Miguel Mondez to his. Sharp cheekbones, hazel eyes, and the only visible marking is the single tear that sits below his left eye. There’s a stillness about him that piques my interest. Out of all the men in the room, he’s the one I’d keep an eye on the most.
Antoin is sitting next to him, directly opposite me, making it easier to signal to each other.
Suddenly, Alessandro cuts through the silence by clearing his throat. His voice is tinged with a thick Italian accent. “Mr. Quinn,” he says, twisting his large body to give me all of his attention. “I’d like to clear the air before we start.” When I don’t reply, he takes this as his cue to continue. “The Regazzi’s cut all ties with the Delfino’s over thirty years ago.” He pins me with his dark eyes; they will me to believe him. “We were in no way involved with their attack on your family. After your grandfather loaned my father over a million dollars to settle a debt that we had with the Turkish, we have always respected the Quinns. In no way do we condone the actions of the Delfinos nor do we support them in any way.”
Without saying a word, I look at Antoin. His head moves a fraction. Believe him.
The server arrives with my water, and I’m slow to take a sip. When I place it back on the table, I say. “And what would you gain from forming an alliance against the Bratnovs?”
Alessandro’s eyebrows twitch at my directness. But I see no point in beating around the bush here. He glances at his son, before turning back to me. “The Vargas cartel supplied our cocaine for decades. One night, the shipments stopped.” His beefy fist curls around his scotch on the rocks and his Panerai watch glistens as he brings it to his lips. “I contacted Santiago Vargas directly. Radio silence. Eventually, I sent Angelo to Medellin to get to the root of the issue.” He lowers his glass to reveal the snarl on his lips. When he doesn’t continue, my eyes flick to his son. He’s staring me dead in the face, his jaw ticking.
In a low voice, Angelo says, “The meeting didn’t go so well.” He twists to the left, revealing the ugly scar running from his forehead down to his chin. I never noticed it in the main dining hall.
Alessandro seems to have got his voice back. “They’d made a deal with Bratnov in exchange for one of his daughters. The monopoly on their supply, across the whole United States and Mexico.”
I lean back and drag my knuckle over my jaw. So, that’s why Antoin couldn’t strike a deal. Fuck. For a brief moment, I think it might not have been such a bad treaty between us and the Bratnov’s after all. Seems like we was the only other family that were allowed to run Vargas’s coke on our turf.
I flick the thought out of my brain like a buzzing gnat and turn my attention to Rodrigo Mondez. “And you?” I ask coldly. “What interest does a Mexican cartel have in taking down the Bratnovs from over two thousand miles away?”
Rodrigo’s fist slams against the table, punctuating the end of my sentence. It’s instinctive to reach for my gun, but a quick flick of the head from Antoin grounds me. Miguel puts a hand on his father’s shoulder and squeezes, then mutters something in Spanish in his ear. Rodrigo nods. “Excuse me,” he mutters, but leaps from the table before I excuse him.
Miguel turns to me. His tone is emotionless and his face is hard.
“His son, Maxim Bratnov, raped my sister.”
His words settle like dust on the table between us. To my right, the Italians shuffle uncomfortably. Opposite me, Antoin doesn’t move a muscle.
I pin Miguel with a long stare.
“Then we’ll take down the Bratnovs together.”