“The mother swears black and blue she never knew, and that he won’t be welcome in the house, that he’s out of their lives. The cops say their hands are tied, and she’s getting the kids back.”
He was right to be hesitant. I don’t fucking like what I’m hearing. I’m ready to shoot the messenger in the fucking head. Paddy’s a lucky fucker that he is delivering this information to me over the phone.
Growling, I end the call. Liam is still watching the front of the motel, though Ronan is looking at me.
“Problem, Fitzy?”
“You could fucking say that, Ronan,” I spit. “That bitch is getting the kids back. The cops are just handing them over.”
“The system is fucked,” Liam agrees, almost cheerfully. “Can’t count the number of times my old man got me back when he fucking shouldn’t have.”
And then you jacked the Irish Saint’s car, lad. So it didn’t do you much good in life. Jesus fuck.
“Just have a word with her,” Liam suggests. “Send Niall. That would drive the message home.”
“I’m not fecking involving the Reaper in this shite. Stop suggesting it or get the feck out of my sight,” I snap. Ronan shoots his protégée a glare, slapping him upside the head again.
“We don’t get involved in Roxbury, lad,” he rumbles. Liam rubs the back of his head, shooting Ronan a sullen look.
“We’re in Roxbury getting looking to get involved right now,” he mutters. Aye, we are. But that’s different. This is a hit. Not a warning. Besides, for me, this is fucking personal. This is about Tig. She cares for those kids, so I care what happens to this bastard.
“Get me on the phone with Petrov,” I grunt at Ronan. His eyebrows shoot up, but he nods, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Keep yer fecking eyes on the motel,” I snap at Liam, flexing my fingers so I don’t plow my fist into one of my own lads.
Ronan has to ring around, but eventually, he hands me the phone.
“Petrov?”
“Speaking.” His Boston accent has a hint of Russian running through it like a thread, more obvious on certain words than others. Igor Andreyev is the head of the Russian Bratva here in Boston. Mikhail Petrov is one of his Two Spies. Usually, his job is to watch over the Avtoritets within the Bratva, to make sure they remain loyal to Andreyev and that none becomes too powerful.
He’s a scary motherfucker. Usually, an Obskchak is older, but Petrov is only in his late twenties. I don’t want to think about what fucked up shite he needed to do to prove himself so fucking young. Petrov is also exactly who I want to speak to about this.
“This is Seamus Fitzpatrick.”
“The Wolf Pup,” he chuckles. I grit my teeth. I fucking hate that nickname. I earned it when I was a kid, first making a name for myself in the Boston Underworld. It is a nod to the fact that Pa – the Irish Wolf – named me as his successor so young.
“What have I done to earn this phone call?”
“It’s not about what you have done. It’s about what you can do.”
“A favor? Are you sure you want to call one of those in, Fitzpatrick?”
“Never been fucking surer of anything in my life.”
That has his attention. “I’m listening.”
Aye, he is, sounding like a nosy, curious bastard.
“I need you to have a word with a woman in Roxbury.”
He snorts through the phone. “I’m sure you enjoyed her pussy, but having me tell her to fuck off seems a waste of a favor.”
Fucking Russian prick. Grinding my teeth, I count to ten before speaking so I don’t fuck up our alliance by telling him just what I think of him right now.
“She was letting her boyfriend abuse her daughter. Seven-year-old kid. We’re taking care of him, but the cops are handing the kids back to her.”
There’s a growl on the other end of the phone. “You want her taken care of? I can organize that. Give me her name.”
“Call it mercy. I just want you to have a word with her. Put the fear of fucking Andreyev into her if we so much as hear of anyone messing with either kid again.”