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I glance at the table in question. It is indeed round, made from black wood and surrounded by deep-seated armchairs. The men filling them rise to their feet, some with cigars tucked into the crook of their mouths, others holding crystal tumblers. In turn, they shake my hand, clap me on my back, mutter their welcomes.
When the greetings settle like dust, Lorcan raps his emerald ring on the table and leans back, crossing his legs. “Welcome, Cillian. Let me introduce you to everyone. This is Qari Chavez.” He nods to the man next to Donnacha. I recognize him as the head of the Peruvian family that supplies the Quinns with cocaine. He’s stout, tanned, a thick braid snaking from the back of his head. “And this is Miguel Rodriguez, who you know.” The hard-faced Mexican gives me a curt nod, the tear tattoo below his eye winking at me. Yes, we’ve met a few times, the first being when the Quinns sought the help of the Rodriguez cartel to take down Bratnov. “And finally, Brando Regazzi.” A broad-shouldered Italian, one I don’t recognize. “He’s taken over for the Regazzi family. Has done since Alessandro and his son died helping during the war with Bratnov,” he adds softly. Then, he turns to me, steepling his hands, a serious expression painted on his face. “These men are our allies, yours too, now. You’ll know us as The Network,” he adds. It’s an expression I’ve heard him use over the years. From what I’ve pieced together, they are the families that helped the Quinns take down the Bratnovs. He goes on to explain in more detail.
“Each family within The Network has a duty to help one another, if needed.” He pauses and sips his water. “Wars, shipments, loans,” he continues. “Anything. For example, if you need access to ports or trade routes in one of their territories, all you have to do is ask. If you need extra firearms or men, just ask.”
Donnacha cuts in, “If you need help taking down the Van der Boors men, just ask.”
There’s a gruff ripple of laughter around the table. I smile politely, bowing my head. “I understand. I don’t think that’ll be necessary though.”
“You scared them off?” Donnacha asks.
“No, but they are looking for a lone hitman, not the boss of the Philadelphia mafia.” Brando raises his glass to me, before taking a swig. “Their yacht docks frequently in Marina del Ray. I’ll let you know if I hear of anything.”
I nod in thanks.
“Better yet,” Miguel leans his forearms on the table, studying me with intensity, “I can find out if anyone’s after you. Just give me a week.” The way his eyes smolder, I know he’s telling the truth.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Lorcan interrupts, sliding a sheet of paper across the table to me. “You need to sign first.”
He hands me a pen. It’s heavy and cold and I have no doubt it belonged to a king or a president once upon a time. I scan through the text and sign my signature at the bottom.
The heavy air of the drawing-room immediately lightens with the click of the pen. Lorcan claps me on the back, and everyone leans over to shake my hand—warmer this time.
“So,” Miguel says, settling back down into his seat. “Tell us, how have you settled into Philly?”
I take a sip of my drink. “It’s been a smooth transition, thanks to the Quinns.” I nod in Donnacha and Lorcan’s direction. Both raise their glasses to me. “Donnacha helped me to interrogate Abruzzo’s men. Around half of them agreed to serve under me.”
“Many were disgruntled that Luca Abruzzo had taken over anyway. They were more loyal to the city than they ever were to him. And the rest…” he smirks, the tip of his cigar burning red as he puffs on it, “Well, they are now chilling at the bottom of The Delaware River.”
There’s a laugh. I continue. “Yes. And Donnacha very kindly offered me his henchmen while I found my feet. They proved a big help in getting local businesses on board with the transition. Poppy has been great too. Helping me work out a viable business on top of the usual protection payments.”
“Yeah? What are you thinking?” Qari asks.
I pause. Then say, “Horticulture.”
A silence shuffles around the room. I meet Lorcan’s gaze, and we grin at each other. We both know what I’m planning: growing and exporting the most dangerous, most subtle weapons of them all:
Poisonous plants.
A brush against the petals of a Nerium Oleander flower is enough to cause a cardiac arrest. Eating the roots of a Water Hemlock—which look exactly like parsnips—will send you into violent convulsions within minutes. Deadly killers. Undetected. The perfect weapons to get away with murder.
“Very well,” Qari says, a polite smile plastered on his face. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you do.”
“Thank you.”
Lorcan interrupts the chat with a loud clap. “Well, now that’s all done and other with, let’s go eat before my wife drinks the bar dry.”
The men pour out of the room after Lorcan, leaving only Donnacha and me. His eyes twinkle at me as he runs a finger over his bottom lip. His cigar rests in an ashtray in front of him.
“A whole network of mob bosses dedicated to favors. You must be in your element.”
I glance towards the door. “I wonder how willing they’d be to do me a favor if they knew how many of their men I’ve killed for other clients.”
He chuckles. Lifts his cigar to his lips. “Yeah. Might not want to mention that.”
We rise to our feet and join the partygoers in the dining hall. Straight away, I scan the crowd, looking for my girl. She’s impossible to miss — her dress shimmers as she throws her head back to laugh at something Nova Rodriguez says in her ear. The sexiest little disco ball to exist. As she turns her head, we lock eyes, and her smile grows, spreading across her beautiful face. Without hesitating, or breaking her gaze from mine, she works through the crowd until she’s right in front of me.
“How did it go?”
