CHAPTER 1
BONES
“I told you I don’t do this shit anymore. I’ve got my own club—my own shit to worry about,” I growl into the phone.
I bring my leg up to my desk, straightening it out, and look down at my ink covered hand. There is a letter in black on every finger on my left hand. C-E-S-S. Which is an Irish slang word for luck. I know I pulled myself up from that kid on the streets in Phoenix to what I am now. A self-made man, a president of the Phoenix Warriors, and a man that others do not fuck with. That’s who I am. I’ve put my past and the grunt work I did to get where I’m at behind me. No one would think of bothering me. Which is what makes this call from Donovan Tate annoying as fuck.
Donovan is a caddie for the O’Leary’s—which is one of the bigger partitions of the Irish mob in Philadelphia. Back in the day—when I found myself begging for crumbs and money— the O’Leary’s were bad fucking news. They also owned most of the U.S. territory, having all but run the Italian mob out of power. It was a bloody war, and I did my best to stay on the winning side. I worked my ass off for them back in the day and they lined my pockets while broadening my connections. It was a match made in heaven and forged by the fires of hell. It worked for me, and those same connections have worked for my club.
The problem is, once you’ve worked for the mob, they don’t exactly let you go. Which means I’m always being called back in. I got my eye on a good woman and I’m getting fucking old. Hell, forty-five with the life I lead is fucking ancient. I want to enjoy talking about the shit in my past—not crawl back through it.
Which is why I resent this call.
“Hear me out, Bones. We do this and we’re both set for life.”
“We’ll both be feeding the crows if we cross the O’Leary’s. We were lucky we got away with it the first time, motherfucker,” I growl, my gaze going back automatically to my ink. Cess.
How long will it be until my luck runs out?
“This one will be simple, man. I’m telling you Orla is going to help.”
“Orla? You still fucking O’Leary’s bitch? Do you have a death wish?”
“Orla is mine. You know as well as I do that there’s no way for her to leave the family.”
“What I know is that dick of yours is going to get you killed and I’d rather it doesn’t get me buried alongside you.”
“Just do yourself a favor and tell Killian when he calls that you’re down.”
“What’s the haul?” I mutter.
“One van Gogh sold for eighty million, Bones. That’s eighty million.”
“And?”
“They have five of them to deliver. All we do is load them and appear to be protecting them. We lift two and make sure the pigs follow the trail that leads straight to Killian O’Leary.”
“Hold up. We’re going to lead the cops to one of Ryan O’Leary’s offspring? Are you fucking high?”
“Slow down, Bones. Killian isn’t his. He and Orla just have two girls. This guy is a general in the family. He’s worked his way up the ranks. I think he’s like a distant cousin or something—nothing close. I heard him talking on the phone when I drove him to Desolation. I drove him over to Butcher and Company to meet with some guys in Ruin. He’s looking for some extra muscle. A few well-placed calls to the head of the family and we can intercept and convince Mr. O’Leary to go with you. Together, we can make it look like Killian got sloppy. If he gets caught and gets sent up, the old man will cut off ties and leave him hanging in the wind—or hire out his death. Either way, Killian won’t be an issue for us.”
“You make it sound so simple,” I snap.
“It will be. Orla is going to make sure we get taped conversations. We will give them to the right people to ensure Killian is the one to take the fall.”
“Why has she got such a hard-on for Killian? Why does she want him out of the way?”
“She hasn’t said. Something about the man’s mother disrespecting her. Orla wants to remind her who she is.”
“This the same woman you think would pick a caddie driver for the family over being the wife of the main man?” I laugh, wondering if Donovan Tate can be that stupid.
“We love each other. When love is involved that other stuff doesn’t matter.”
I vaguely wonder if the motherfucker can hear me roll my eyes.
“While you were planning all this shit, how did you expect to hide the fact that we took some of the paintings?”