I hum a response and do as he suggests, also turning on the gas fireplace. Aesthetically, the glow of the logs is comforting,but the artificial setup lacks the smell and sounds of a real fireplace. For now, like the rest of our setup in this building, it works.
The promise of the wood-burning fireplaces at Vitale’s estate might be a small incentive, but it still feeds my long-term goal of wringing his fucking neck and kicking his ass to the curb—his dead ass, that is—before moving in and restoring the De Luca Estate to its former glory. Which is a tomorrow problem.
Ronin continues talking in a muffled voice to someone else while I get everything ready on my end. The obvious lack of background noise doesn’t give me much of an insight as to where he is or why he’s called, but he answers those questions as soon as he speaks to me again. “We don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I’m heading your way. You got the television on yet?”
“Channel?”
“CNN, BBC, and NBC have rolling coverage going. There’s no changing the outcome,” Ronin says, his mood souring the longer I take to get up to speed. “Can you help me out, Valentine? I can’t be in two places at once, but they took something of mine, and I need your help.”
“Give me a moment!” I cut him off and stare at the screen, reading the rolling headlines. “Are you fucking serious? What did you do?”
“I’m not having this conversation over the phone, Valentine. I’m on my way, whether you’re helping or not. But if ya not, it’s a feckin’ declaration of where your true loyalty lies,” Ronin snaps. As usual, when his anger surges, it makes his Irish accent thicker and even more difficult than usual to understand.
“Jesus, you’re an impatient bastard. I’ll help.” I rub my eyes, instantly wishing I hadn’t heard from Ronin. I have enough shit going on without him asking for my help.
And then the call we’re on drops, giving me the chance to turn up the volume on the television, so I can listen to thereporters’ run-down in their live crossover. The mysterious but violent death of two tourists from Ireland wouldn’t rate too high on the list of grievances for most moms and dads waking up to breakfast, but once Interpol gets involved, the news story will be explained very differently. Without question, within our world, shockwaves will be felt.
Ronin O’Connor is the eldest of six children and the only son to Paddy and Jeanie O’Connor. Paddy being the head of the Irish Mob, although his ability to hold that position is currently causing a lot of issues back in Ireland, considering he’s in a coma after being gunned down walking out of church. Jeanie woke from life-saving surgery and immediately made Ronin acting head, which clearly upset quite a few people. It shouldn’t have, considering it’s literally the reason he was conceived.
But a crisis always draws out the desperate, those who think they deserve a shot, and as a result, the Irish Mob are going through their own leadership issues. Though, being similarly aged and in almost identical situations isn’t what drew Ronin and me together; it was the murder of his youngest sister years ago. We found a common objective when we discovered our families, along with Cartel in Mexico, had been complicit in the skin trade and the production of snuff movies featuring young children.
After coming scarily close to killing each other in an ancient cellar full of evidence on the border of Croatia, we formed an allegiance. Well, in theory, Ronin, myself, and Santiago made the pledge, but Santiago has recently disappeared off the face of the earth.
While the three of us destroyed circumstantial evidence—apart from what we each needed as evidence against our own family members' involvement—and we buried the small bodies of the victims we were too late to save, the three of us made a blood promise to stop certain aspects of the underworld. Sayingwe would stop anything vaguely offensive would be hypocritical, but anything involving minors was on our shit list, same as people making sicko movies. Porn, in all its hardcore glory, was fine, since it was a money-making machine, but consent was king. Being involved in splatter films and snuff movies guaranteed you a painful death. Except, of course, we knew our allegiance would have to remain on the quiet, at least until we each dealt with our own quest of taking or reclaiming the title of our respective syndicates.
There aren’t too many instances in the past when three opposing forces tied the Cosa Nostra, the Irish Mob, and the Cartel together, but we had managed it. We even thought of a name for our alliance—Trinity. Sure, the risk was high, if any of our respective families found out. I suspect the three of us, and our packs, would be made an example of in much the same way we planned to make a violent, showy act of our arrival as the next, improved, version of how a syndicate should be run. A more traditional approach too.
The other part of the pledge was, we stay the fuck away from each other, unless we reached out for help. Then, without question, the other or others, depending on the circumstance, would be there. Hence Ronin’s call now.
My phone rings again, and it’s easy to hear Ronin is flying.
“I’m sending you an address and a pickup time. You’ll be good, right?”
“I shouldn’t be late, but considering we weren’t exactly planning for today, I may well be. I’ll keep you updated, but so far, you’re traveling undetected, my friend.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry I dropped you in the middle of it, but some things family should not do to each other, you know?”
“I’m well aware.” The sarcasm in my voice is impossible to miss, but it’s not aimed at Ronin and he knows. “You owe me.”
Ronin laughs, carrying on like it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever said to him, before he cuts off abruptly. “Will I, yeah?”
If I was looking at him, his eerie green eyes would be glazing over with simmering violence. The sounds he makes tell me how pissed off I just made him.
“Ronin, cut the shit. What am I picking up?”
The prick ignores me. “You’ll know when you pick it up, yeah? Now, I’m not quite sure of the welcome you’ll be walking into.”
Which means I’m walking into Irish Arma-fucking-geddon, because they like blowing shit up or burning things to the ground.
I barely swallow a growl, getting a better understanding of how messed up things could get now. When Ronin is pissed, he does not falter in his vengeance.
“Promise me, if anything happens, you’ll make good on looking after my wife.”
Of course, letting Ronin and Santiago know I’m married happened at the same time I was forging her signature.
As if by magic, my door pushes open slightly, and she walks in, looking bleary-eyed. Her hair is still up in a bun, which is how it was when we carried her to bed last night. I wave her in when she leans against the door, not sure if she’s welcome, but I also indicate I’m on a call.
“Feck off, ya fecking twat. Fecking triple-checking on something we pledged aeons ago…”
