The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Lorcan
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Alessandro Regazzi’s words hit me like a ton of bricks as I walk into the Tunnel’s office. He’s leaning against my desk, beefy hands clasped in his lap and face somber.
I clench my fist. “Tell me.”
He stretches out his pause in the way only the don of an Italian mafia crime family has the right to. “The Mondez kid pinned Bratnov’s last whereabouts to an allotment outside Maine. Your men had it surrounded, and just before they closed in—” he stretches out his hand, wiggling his fat fingers, “—boom.”
“Boom?” I growl, heart slamming against my chest. Jesus fucking Christ, if this asshole wasn’t helping us out, and if I could afford to have another war on my hands, I’d have my hands around his fucking throat and choke the information out of him.
“An explosion,” a voice cuts in from behind me. Angelo leaning against the doorframe. He looks shattered, his suit wrinkled and his face dark. He runs a hand through his hair and says. “Somehow, they knew an attack was coming. It was a nail bomb — someone threw it out the window towards your men.”
I grind my molars together. “How many men?”
“Twenty-four,” he says softly. “Three more in I.C.U. but expected to recover.”
“Fuck,” I roar, scanning the room for an outlet for my rage. The wall will have to do —I slam my fist into it, breaking through the plaster like it’s tissue paper.
The Regazzis watch on in silence.
Think like your father,a voice tells me through the blinding red mist. What would Donal Quinn do?
I smooth back a stray hair and adjust my watch. “And Donnacha?”
After a beat, Angelo says, “Alive.”
“Burnt, from what I’ve heard. But he’s refusing hospital treatment and already coordinating with our men for the next attack,” Alessandro adds. “Quite the champion.”
Yeah. Not like Donnacha to let a couple of third-degree burns hold him back.
“We’ve got this, Lorcan,” Angelo says steadily, pinning me with a serious glare. “Between all three families, it’s a numbers game. We have double the men coming from California tonight. Mondez has a jet-full of men coming too.” He steps into the room and puts a hand on my shoulder. Lowering his voice, he says, “It’s a casualty of war.”
Blood pounds against my ears.
We are not the same.
My men aren’t initiated into the Quinn family. Unlike the Italians or the Cartel, they don’t have to do some crazy initiation to prove their loyalty. They are born into it. I’m related to every single one of our henchmen by blood. I couldn’t protect them, now their blood is on my hands.
Heavy footsteps are coming down the hall, and a few moments later Antoin appears. Blazer off, shirt sleeves rolled up and top button undone. He’s covered in blood and sweat. “Gentlemen, can we have the room, please?” he says, locking eyes with me.
Angelo clamps his hand on my shoulder and he and his father leave.
“Maxim won’t talk.”
I shake my head, a bitter laugh rising up my throat. “Then let me at him. I’ll tap out every fucking tooth with a chisel and then we’ll see if he wants to stay mute.”
He crosses into the room and grabs a towel from the stack in the corner. As he wipes the shit from his face, he says, “He doesn’t have any teeth left. Listen,” He crouches down on a box and looks up at me with a serious face. “I did get something out of him, though.”
“What?”
“Their price.”
I watch him as he leans his forearms on his lap and stares at the floor.
“Spit it out,” I growl.
Without taking his eyes off the damp concrete, he says, “There’s one thing that will make this all go away, Lorc. They only want one thing. If they get it, they’ll retreat from Boston entirely. Never step foot on our turf again and they won’t even block any trade coming through the New York area. No more deaths—” His body convulses as he bites down on his knuckle, “We can stop this, Lorcan. Jesus fucking Christ, more than twenty of our men were killed today. That’s a quarter of our family. We know this is only the beginning too. We might win the war, but at what cost? Losing all our men in the battle?”
Unease creeps up my neck. “What does he want, Antoin?”
Only now does he meet my eyes with a challenging stare. “They want Poppy Murphy.”