“We’ve another shipment coming in from Matvei. I want your lads there for the handover.”
I guess we’re done talking about my sex life. The end of that conversation can’t come soon enough. I haven’t spoken to Pa about sex since he told me always to wrap up tight.
He runs through the details of the handover for the weapons shipment. Matvei is our Belarusian arms dealer. He also sorts out the Russians, with who we have an alliance, and the Romanians, with who we very much don’t.
Not that it affects Matvei’s relationship with any of us. He is based in Eastern Europe and cares nothing for what he refers to as the “petty squabbles of city factions”.
With Matvei, you buy his stock, or you don’t. He controls almost a quarter of the world’s black market arms trade. He really doesn’t care who buys his goods as long as they pay on time and in full.
“We’ll be there,” I assure Pa when he finishes running through the details of the drop.
“Good,” he sighs and rubs his eyes. “I’ve heard Matvei is also delivering a shipment to the Romanians this trip, so keep your eyes peeled.”
We’ve been at war with the Romanian faction here in Boston for almost three decades. The feud goes back well before my father took over the Irish faction eight years ago and Marius Albescu took over the Romanian faction.
They inherited the war, and it’s fizzled along with various set to’s and clashes. We’re at something of a stalemate at the moment.
We stay out of their territory, they stay out of ours, and if we do cross paths, someone usually ends up cut. But it hasn’t escalated into full-blown warfare for almost twenty years.
Eventually, something is going to have to give. The lads are itching for a fight, so I don’t think it will be the end of the fucking world if we go toe to toe with those Eastern European fucks. But Pa is keen to avoid such bloodshed, and I can respect that.
It’s why I know I’m not ready to take over just yet. I’d be all for a war, and Pa knows exactly why Paddy and I would be spoiling for that fucking fight. My lads would be onboard as well. We’d wipe out all those Romanian fuckers and piss on their ashes.
When it comes to the topic of my taking the top job, Paddy occasionally teases me about how I lack the “bigger picture thinking”. In private, of course.
He’d never let on to anyone else that he’s anything other than confident in my ability to run the entire Irish Mafia in Boston. Anything less than a show of absolute confidence would have devastating consequences for my father and me, who has publicly named me as his successor, and a death sentence for Paddy. And Paddy’s no idiot.
TIGGY
I want nothing better than to go home, run a bath, pour averylarge glass of red wine, and blast classical music out of my Bluetooth speakers until I feel completely relaxed.
Unfortunately, after leaving work, I’ll only be at home for all of twenty-five minutes,tops, to shower, change, and do my makeup. Then I’m going to Bunker Hill in Charlestown.
When I arrive at the brightly colored clapboard townhouses of my youth, I knock on the bright red door of the yellow townhouse, the back of my neck prickling.
Glancing back at the street, I can see at least two cars with occupants sitting as still as statues. My father’s guards must be watching me. Someone sure is.
I surreptitiously touch the familiar wooden door, feeling the grains beneath my fingers. One. I exhale, brushing my hand over the golden bracelet fixed on my wrist. Two. Taking a deep breath, I smell my floral perfume. Three.
Straining, I can hear faint sounds of Romanian being called out as footsteps stomp towards the door. Four. A slight breeze ruffles my hair and rustles the leaves of the elm tree growing out of the sidewalk, and I stare up at them. Five.
Waiting for whoever is in the cars to call inside and tell them it’s me waiting to enter. I fidget with the mid-thigh hem of my long-sleeved lace grey dress, feeling more relaxed.
Eventually, the door opens, and Ivan, my father’s right hand, stands before me. I’ve known Ivan since I was a little girl, and he gives me a stiff nod, ushering me inside, his eyes darting around outside. I feel cold.
Two cars. I noticed two cars, and that’s overkill, even for my father. Either something is going on, and he needs extra security, or someone else is here.
I haven’t been inside this house for three years. Not since my father yelled at me never to darken his doorway again when I told him I was going to work for the city. He saw my career choice as a complete betrayal of our family and the Romanian Mafia.
When he called to ask me to come to supper, I thought it was an olive branch. Maybe it’s something else entirely. I start counting again.
Ivan ushers me into the parlor, his hand on the small of my back. Sure enough, two strange men are seated, looking over as I walk in. My father stands, crossing the room to kiss my cheeks, handing me a glass of white wine.
I am introduced to both his guests. Irish mobsters. Sean Fitzpatrick and Darragh Connelly. I know enough about the shadier side of the city of Boston to know that Sean Fitzpatrick is the head of the Irish Mafia. From the way he shadows Sean, Darragh is his right-hand man, the same as Ivan is for my father.
Father sits beside me on the sofa and rests his hand on my knee. This isn’t a random visit from the Irish. It can’t be. We’ve been at war with them my whole life. Now they’re here to have supper in my father’s home. The home my mother died in.
This is big. Huge. Enormous. And my father wanted me here for it. I sit on the sofa beside him, listening to them make small talk about the weather, the president, the economy, and nonsensical little things until the maid comes in to announce supper is served.