guys all over the world in an attempt to avenge the murders of our entire family and prevent the same thing from happening to others?”
I’m starting to get worked up. Saying this out loud makes it all the more impossible to imagine actually doing.
“How can I tell her that I formed an independent group of a dozen like-minded associates who specialize in espionage, intelligence, geopolitics, guerilla warfare, and advanced spycraft to thwart global terrorism? And that we call ourselves the Thirteen because we couldn’t agree on a better name, so now we sound like a boy band?
“How do I tell her all of us are working undercover in some capacity, masquerading as mob kings and corrupt politicians and shady business tycoons, because we know the best way to kill a rat is from inside its own nest? How I’ve killed hundreds of men alone?”
My voice rises. My heart pounds. Heat crawls up my neck. “And how do I tell her that all this carnage started because a lifetime ago I put a bullet in my own father’s brain?”
Liam’s tone turns sharply reprimanding. “That was mercy. He was hanging from a tree, hamstrung, and on fire. In agony. Dying. He was beyond saving, but you saved him more misery in his final moments. Then you saved me. Used for target practice, shot five times and left for dead, you still somehow crawled into a burning house and saved your brother. I owe you my life.
“Don’t get it twisted around, Killian. Eoin McGrath and his gang murdered our family. The only thing we could do was sweep up the ashes.”
When I gulp the dregs of the scotch, my hand shakes. My laugh, when it comes, is cold and dry. “Aye. And now I’m standing here twenty-seven years and three thousand miles later, faced with confessing my bloody history to a woman who thought merely being a mafioso was bad. Christ. She’ll run away screaming. And no one would blame her.”
We sit in silence for a long time, both of us lost in dark memories. Finally, Liam sighs.
“If she’s really the one, brother, she won’t run away. She’ll love you all the more for what you’ve been through.”
I promised her I’d tell her everything, so I suppose we’ll just have to see.
After a beat, he says brightly, “I have an idea.”
“Oh no.”
“Write her a letter.”
“I know you can’t see it, but I’m making a face.”
“Women love getting letters. It’s a thing for them. It’s even better than flowers or jewelry.”
He sounds very sure, but I hesitate. “Really?”
“Aye. Really.”
“Would Ryan Reynolds write a woman a letter?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’m definitely not fucking doing it.”
He sighs. “Christ, you’re such an arse.”
“On that note, I’m hanging up. I’ve got an important phone call to make.”
He sounds insulted. “Who’s more important than your brother?”
“My future father-in-law.”
I really wish we were on a video call so I could get the full effect of his astonishment, because I can almost hear his eyes popping out of his skull.
“Mr. Black. To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”
The voice on the other end of the line sounds exactly like DeNiro in GoodFellas. The head of the New York mafia has a Brooklyn accent thicker than stew. The sarcasm is that thick, too.
I cut through the bullshit and get right to it. “Your daughter, Juliet.”
Silence.
Then, in an apoplectic roar: “You motherfucking cocksucking son of a ten-dollar whore! It was you who was behind her abduction? I’ll cut off every fucking thing on your fucking body that can be cut off and choke you to death with my bare hands, you worthless Limey bastard!”
Apparently, the kidnappers made contact with him before I made contact with them.
“I didn’t kidnap her. Miro Petrovic did. He’s dead now. I killed him.”
More silence. Then he says in a low, deadly voice, “What the fuck kind of game are you playing?”
“No games. They demanded to renegotiate narcotrafficking routes that were in conflict with yours, correct?” I don’t bother waiting for an answer. He sounds too busy swallowing his tongue in rage, anyway. “You don’t have to worry about that conflict anymore. Their organization is in tatters. It’ll be a long time before they can recover. All the top brass are dead, in addition to the best of their foot soldiers.”
“Oh yeah? How am I supposed to know that? How am I supposed to know this isn’t some fucking joke you’re trying to play on me?”
“I’m sending you their heads on ice. You’ll have them in the morning.”
After an astonished