“A well-respected Irish Mob man was murdered a few days ago,” Aoife says. She’s calm and stoic, far from the girl who was spinning in a chair and poking around the room a moment before.
“That was not the Albanians!” The man raises his voice, the tattoos on his neck moving with the veins tightening.
“No, it wasn’t, Ervis.”
His shoulders roll when she says his name, but he doesn’t challenge her use of it. How can so much power seep off a woman so delicate, so small?
“Luka Morozov provided some information that said you may have had men in the Boston area a month, or so, ago. Grayson?” Aoife gestures for me, and I pull out my phone,summoning the photo of the John Doe in the morgue. I slide the device across the table.
His face snaps to the phone, then back to Aoife. “What is this?”
“He was murdered,” I say. “The same way a member of the Irish Mob and Yakuza was murdered.”
“Someone is targeting mafia men in Boston. We need any information on him or his whereabouts when he was last seen.”
Ervis pushes my phone back to me. “Artur Berisha. He went to see a woman, for … he was on his own time, not mafia business. He never returned. I assumed he deserted for a piece of ass. He was killed? How?”
“Drugged then beheaded.” I shift in my seat as the man studies me, and I focus on the long gold chain around his neck. “Do you know anyone by the name of Rob Morris?”
“No. Why?”
“He was the first victim, but we can’t find any known crime family ties.” I look at Aoife, who leans back in her chair, chewing her cheeks.
“I want to be made aware of any arrest made,” Ervis says. “The Albanians avenge their own. Besa.”
The two guards by the door repeat it. “Besa”
“So do the Irish,” Aoife says, standing. “That will not be taken from the O’Donnell family.”
Lovely. Just what I need in the middle of my investigation—multiple crime families pining over the same revenge. This man won’t last two minutes in prison, maximum security or otherwise.
Ervis studies Aoife, his gaze moving from examining to appreciative. “You’re a very beautiful girl. We could leave a lasting legacy for both our organizations with a marriage to unite us.”
What. The. Hell.
My brow furrows. Murder and marriage. It gets better every second. I could never live this life.
“I’m sorry. I’m spoken for.”
I seek out her face as she stares into the Albanian’s eyes. She’s not giving an ounce of fear or acceptance. Perhaps that’s how she’s held her own for the past several years. Her dad isn’t here to guide her, so who is?
He points to me. “This man? This man doesn’t know this life.”
“Oh, no. Not him—my bike, Jerry. He gets mad if I ride anyone else.”
My lips twitch, and I turn my head into my shoulder to cover the loud sputter that wants to escape.
“You are crass, Miss O’Donnell.” He steeples his fingers together, leaning forward with wide pupils as he devours her while seemingly entertaining the thought of her as his wife.
I want to punch him in the throat.
“Perhaps if we take revenge on this killer first, it can be an early wedding present. A celebration of the union between the Irish and the Albanians.”
Aoife wrinkles her nose, and her demeanor gets serious. “Like I told you, the Irish avenge their own. Don’t get in my way. It won’t just be the Irish you go to war with.”
He drags out the silence after her words. “You might be the person I need for an introduction to Luka Morozov. I hear he has a daughter more beautiful than her mother.”
“Aye. She’s a bombshell, but Luka would gut you for looking at her and toss you at Marco’s Cosa Nostra for them to play with. I’d stay away from New York, Ervis. Self-preservation and all. Grayson? You ready? I’m hungry.”
