“It’s a fucking wedding, Kian,” Cillian growls. “Security is going to be through the goddamn roof.”
“Yes, it is,” I agree. “Security is going to be through the roof—at the church. Where the wedding is taking place. I’m not attacking the church.”
“You’re not?”
I’ve purposefully kept the details of my plan as secretive as possible. It’s driven Cillian crazy the last few months, but I just consider that a bonus.
“Of course not. What kind of sick fuck attacks a house of God?”
“I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not,” Saoirse pipes up.
“Good,” I say. “I like to keep you guessing.”
This time, I can practically see her roll her eyes.
“Kian,” Cillian chimes in, “this is still a risky plan.”
“Don’t tell me that marriage and fatherhood has turned you into a fucking sensible person.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Saoirse demands.
“Sensible people are boring.”
“Hey now…”
“Can we focus?” Cillian cuts in impatiently. “Marriage and fatherhood isn’t what’s changed me, Kian. Being don is what’s changed me. I’m responsible for every man under my command. That includes you.”
“And you gave me command,” I remind him again. “Trust me to do my job. After today, these Italian fucks aren’t going to be a problem for the Clan anymore. The Lombardis are just gonna be another mafia family that fell by the wayside when they fucked with the wrong Irishmen.”
“Have you kept Artem informed of your plans?”
I narrow my eyes. “No.”
“Kian.”
“Artem Kovalyov is a friend of the Clan and a valuable ally,” I concede. “And I know he’s like a brother to you. But I won’t have him interfering in my mission.”
“He wouldn’t be interfering. He’d be helping.”
I stop short of snorting into the phone. “Come on, Cillian,” I say. “The man’s a don. The moment he gets involved, he’s in charge. He’ll turn into a fucking bulldozer—not unlike someone else I know.”
“That wasn’t very subtle.”
I smile. “I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Cillian, I told you,” Saoirse cuts in. “You need to trust Kian. He can do this.”
“About goddamn time that someone else gets in my corner,” I growl. “This is why I like your wife better than you, Cil. I like your daughter better than you, too. Hell, I like your cat better than you.”
“Care to continue?” he drawls.
“You rank somewhere in the low twenties. On a good day.”
I can tell he’s trying to fight the chuckle that’s managing to whistle through in small bursts.
“Excellent. Looks like you have nothing else to say, for a change. So now that we’ve got that done, I’ve got to go,” I say.
“Wait!”