A glimpse of Kelly’s face shoved itself inside of my mind, but I kicked him back out—he couldn’t steal what was no longer available, and that was any more of my thoughts.
Roisin had been wrong, andthatwasthat.
4
Cash
Compartmentalizing was something I’d always excelled at. It was how I kept the three wars in my head separate. Because no doubt about it, they were separate, although they’d all grown from the same seed.
Even though Scott Stone was on my list, taking back my father’s territory was my first priority. The issue with Stone could simmer for a while—it had to—but action was needed to claim what was rightfully mine when my father was killed.
Hell’s Kitchen and its streets.
War I went something like this: It was no secret who had killed my father. It was one of the Grady men, who was also working for an Italian family. It wasn’tunusual for the Italians and the Irish to work together, so that by itself didn’t cause concern. It was the fact that Lee Grady had been trying to get my father to start drug trafficking before his death, but he refused.
He didn’t want drugs taking over his streets. He had an old-fashioned way of doing things, and that was mostly keeping his revenue through the docks. My old man knew that drugs only led to other things, and he refused to have any part of it.
So they killed him for it.
This made room for Lee Grady’s old man, Cormick, to take my father’s spot. He backed Lee’s way of thinking, since it was a sure way to make more money, especially since the criminal climate had changed and other lucrative things, like drugs, had already started to take over.
Cormick and Lee had sent one of their men, along with his Italian counterpart, a Scarpone, to kill my father because of his refusal to join the drug game. The setup was made to seem like a meeting, but in actuality, it was going to be a blood bath.
Speaking of which. The Scarpones were one of the most ruthless families in New York, one of the five syndicates, and no one really fucked with them. Arturo Lupo Scarpone, also known as The King of New York, was the head, and he was a dangerous motherfucker. Word on the street was that he had his own son, Vittorio, killed. It was no easy death, either. He had his throat slashed. No one could prove it, nor did they even try, but it didn’t take a smart man to figure it out.
Arturo valued power over his son’s life, which meant he had zero respect for any life.
Vittorio was considered not only one of New York’s most eligible bachelors—he ran in the most powerful social circles—but he was a smart son of a bitch, which was why they sometimes called him the Machiavellian Prince of New York. Some say Arturo was threatened by him, by his powerful presence, and that was why he had him killed. There was more to the story, though, and I knew it had to do with orders that were not carried out.
Not long before I left the steel cage, I was made aware of a war on the outside. The Scarpones didn’t know who was fucking with them, causing strife between the families. Even the Faustis were involved, and they rarely got involved unless mayhem started brewing on the streets. They stayed out of the way, mostly, but if situations started to stink, they’d step in and right wrongs however they saw fit.
The Faustis were the rulers of the kingdom. When the ruthless did wrong, and no one else could make them pay, it was the Faustis who did. Even the highest have bosses.
Consider the Faustis Kings of the Night. They were the highest animals on the food chain.
But back to the point.
It had only been a couple of months since this tiger’s release. I had to bide my time and do most of the work behind the scenes. My father’s men had all either sworn alliance to Cormick Grady or moved out of Hell’s Kitchen, hoping to honor my old man by doing what he had set out to do.
See to it that everyone in this neighborhood had a better life.
I didn’t have my brother to depend on, so I looked to my cousin, Rafferty (Raff) O’Connor, to become my right-hand man. He wasn’t my cousin by blood. My old man had married his father’s sister, Molly, after we moved to America from Ireland when I was ten.
Raff and I started speaking to some of our old alliances, making friends again, and letting it be known that I was going to take back what had belonged to Ronan “Maraigh” Kelly, and now rightfully belonged to his only heir willing to accept it.
Me.
Things were steadily moving forward until Cormick Grady’s car was blown to smithereens. An entire leg was found down the street from his doctor’s office. Not even all the king’s men could put old Cormick back together again. It wasn’t me, though I wished it fucking was. I hadn’t gotten that far in war strategy—they knew I was out of the cage, and things were going to get interesting soon enough.
Cormick’sson, Lee, assumed it was me. Hell, I’d assume it was me with the way things went down. My father was known for explosives when he wanted to send a message—he taught me well.
Lee was out to get me, especially since I reclaimedmystreets after Cormick’s death. The Scarpones were out for blood, too, since I’d killed one of their men.
More than that, though, what it all boiled down to was money. I was determined to fight the war on drugs. I wanted them off my fucking streets. Businesses would flourish. Children would play without worry. People of this neighborhood would feel safe.
The Gradys were one of the most savage families to ever run Hell’s Kitchen. Because of this, men were coming to me in droves, ready to start the work my old man never got to finish.
I had stepped into my father’s shoes, the head of a connected Irish family, and no blood had been shed by me. Yet. I could smell it coming, though.
