"Who’s with him?"
"Nobody. He sent Brennan and the boys out. Just him and the bottle." Rory stops spinning the coin. He traps it under his palm. "Kill, he looks bad. Worse than usual."
"He’s stressed. The Devaney encroachment?—"
"It’s not Devaney." Rory lowers his voice. "He had a meeting earlier. A car pulled up out back. Tinted windows. Italian plates."
My hand freezes halfway to the glass.
"Falcone?"
"I didn't see who got out. But the driver... looked like one of theirs. Expensive suit. Ear piece."
I down the whiskey in one swallow. It burns a path straight to my stomach, a hot, angry line of heat.
"If Salvatore Falcone was here, the place would be a crater."
"Maybe." Rory looks at his coin. "Or maybe they’re finally done fighting. Maybe they’re looking to cut a deal."
"We don't cut deals with Falcones. We bleed them."
"We’re running out of blood, Killian." Rory says it softly. He looks around the room, at the aging soldiers, the chipped paint,the desperation that hangs in the air like smoke. "Look around. We’re holding this territory together with duct tape and your fists. If the Russians moves in... we’re done."
I slam the glass down. It cracks. "Don't say that."
"It’s the truth."
"I handle the threats. I always handle them."
"You can't punch an army, brother." Rory reaches out, his hand hovering over my arm, but he doesn't touch me. He knows I’m live wire right now. "Go talk to him. Just... listen. For once, don't just be the hammer."
I push off the bar. "I’m the hammer because the world is full of nails, Rory."
I leave him there and walk to the heavy oak door at the back of the room. I don't knock. I never knock.
My father is sitting behind the desk that belonged to his father. The room is dim, lit only by a green banker’s lamp that casts long, sickly shadows against the walls. The air here is different—stiller, colder. It smells of dust and old paper.
Liam Kavanagh looks small.
That’s the first thing that hits me. My father has always been a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and loud. But tonight, he looks shrunken inside his suit. His skin is grey, the color of wet ash. He’s staring at a tumbler of whiskey, his hand trembling slightly.
"Close the door," he says. His voice is gravel.
I push the door shut until the latch clicks. "Devaney’s men are handled. I sent a message."
"I didn't ask about Devaney."
"You sent me to handle it."
"I sent you to give me an hour of peace." He looks up. His eyes are bloodshot. "Sit down."
"I’ll stand."
"Sit down, damn it."
I pull out the wooden chair opposite the desk and sit. The wood creaks under my weight. I keep my hands on my knees, hiding the blood.
"Rory says you had a visitor."
