“That would be my guess,” Nico said.
“How do we approach him?” Luca asked.
“I wouldn’t be a good choice.” Nico looked at Luca. “Neither would you.”
Christophe read between the lines: Nico and Luca were both Italian — and former Syndicate soldiers. In places like South Boston, ethnic divisions still existed between the Italian and Irish criminal organizations.
Farrell laughed. “Well, I sure as fuck can’t do it.”
“He has a point.” Nico looked at Christophe. “Do you have the time?”
“I’ll make the time,” Christophe said. It was his turn. Farrell had spearheaded the retaking of New York under Damian Cavallo, then assisted Nico in Vegas while Christophe had been doing recon in Boston.
“Good,” Nico said.
“What’s our move if Seamus says no?” Farrell asked.
Nico changed the slide. The image on the screen changed to that of a younger man with sandy colored hair. The photograph had obviously been taken from some distance, a fact that did nothing to diminish the man’s vitality and confidence as he strode towards the glass doors of an office building that was familiar to Christophe from the time he’d spent casing the situation in Boston.
“Meet Nolan Burke,” Nico said.
Luca’s brow furrowed. “Nolan Burke…”
“There’s a reason the name sounds familiar,” Nico said. “He used to work for Carlo Rossi.”
Christophe watched as the realization played across Luca’s face. It was Carlo’s execution of Nico’s parents that led to the downfall of the old Syndicate, to Donati’s assassination, and to Nico’s forbidden love affair with Carlo’s daughter.
“How is Burke an option?” Farrell asked.
Most of Rossi’s men had been eliminated in the years since his death. Those that survived made a point to lay low under Seamus O’Brien’s leadership.
“He was low-level,” Nico said. “A rich kid getting his kicks by playing bad guy with the enemy.”
“Mummy and daddy must not have liked that at all,” Farrell said.
“His father is dead,” Nico said. “He left most of his money to Nolan, his only son. His wife remarried a prominent politician. Nolan went back to law school after the fall of the Syndicate.”
“What’s he doing now?” Luca asked.
The images on the screen switched in quick succession: Burke on a sailboat with a willowy brunette, at a restaurant with a gorgeous blond, stepping into a silver Lexus, sunglasses shielding his face.
“Wasting time,” Nico said. “Making money. Collecting pretty things.”
Christophe looked at the screen dispassionately. He wasn’t oblivious to the similarities between himself and Nolan Burke.
“Another fucking playboy,” Farrell grumbled.
“Nolan Burke isn’t Max Cartwright, although I feel compelled to point out that Max ended up being the right man for the job in Vegas,” Nico said.
“Only after a whole hell of a lot of trouble,” Luca said.
Nico smiled “We weren’t exactly trouble free in our youth.”
“Why can’t we just eliminate O’Brien if he says no?” Luca asked. “Install one of our own?”
Farrell laughed. “And have a bunch of former terrorists come after us with nothing to lose and a brother to avenge?”
“Right,” Luca said. “The IRA.”