by Taylor Lee
Finn shook his head, then took another slug of whisky, as though he needed the liquid courage to face what he had seen.
“He was like a flyin’ man. You ain’t seen nuthin’ like it, Rory. It was like watchin’ a dancer or somthin’ leapin’, jumpin’ up in the air, no way the Wop could lay a fist on ‘im. But every time Frenchie came down, he put his heel in that poor bastard’s face or his bollocks or somewhere on his body. Hell, I woudna be surprised if he chopped off that Dago’s dick with a couple of them kicks. Then it was like a beast had entered the Frenchie. He was flyin’ through the air like a lion or a tiger or a panther or somethin’. You know how them animals leap? That’s what he looked like.
“He got that Wop bastard down on the ground. You could see a man your size, Rory, beatin’ a body to death. But, hell, Frenchie’s as tall as you, but you got at least forty-fifty pounds on ‘im. And that Dago weren’t no pussy. Nah, he was like a boxer, mean and strong, twice as big and muscley as those damn Wops ever get. But then the Frenchie started kickin’ ‘im. I never knew you could break a body’s neck by drivin’ your heel under his chin but I’ll be damned if that ain’t exactly what Frenchie done.”
Finn breathed a heartfelt sigh and shook his head as if in wonder and took another large swallow of whiskey.
“Goddamn, if he din’t fuckin’ kick ‘im to death. Then, like one of them ‘cup de gratcies,’ as the French peoples say, he pulls outa knife and slits the Dago’s throat, kinda for good measure, I’m guessin’. He wipes the knife on his pants and puts it back God knows where. He puts on his shirt, pulls on his boots, and lights a cigarette. Then he turns and walks away without so much as a how de doo. He looked like he wasn’t even breathin’ hard. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
~~~
Rory decided he needed a weapon, after all. He told Mike and Patrick to go ahead to the dining room Sean Byrne had reserved. He would join them after he retrieved one of his trusty blades from his hotel room. Hell, even if this was supposed to be a civilized evening, Finn’s tale reminded him he had stayed alive all these years by being prepared, never letting his guard down.
He was hunting for the dining room when he stopped, pulled up short, knowing that he was looking at the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Shock and hard cold lust sucked the breath out of his chest. Gasping for air, he leaned against the wall to regain his balance.
She was slender, taller than average, but the most remarkable thing about her body were the lush curves that filled her fashionably risky dress. Christ almighty, how could a slender woman have breasts like that, straining to get free from the indigo silk that barely contained them? Sweet Jesus, they were full enough, firm enough to fill even his large hands. If that wasn’t enough, her curvy hips and the sweetest tightest little ass he had seen in a long time had his dick beating against his trouser flap like the devil’s drum stick. But it wasn’t her incredible body that stopped him cold, fluttering like a trembling bird instead of a six foot two statue of a man. It wasn’t even those sparkling sapphire eyes that danced like the waves on Galway Bay on a bright sunny morn. No, it was her fucking hair. A cloud of the most glorious fiery red curls he’d ever seen surrounded her beautiful pale face.
She hadn’t seen him coming and looked startled when he stepped in front of her, both by him and, he was sure, by the hunger on his face. If he looked anywhere near as ravenous as he felt, no wonder he’d scared her. He overcame his momentary loss of speech and a rumbling laugh bubbled up in his chest as he confronted the vision in front of him. Years of captivating women and his carefully honed blarney stood him in good stead. He pasted his biggest Irish grin on his mug and put up his hands to show good faith.
“Glory be, lass! When they ask me at the pearly gates if I’ve been good, I’ll say, I must have been a saint, Mary’s chosen lad, because I saw heaven itself before they sent me off on my way to hell!”
Rory’s Irish brogue and banter brought a smile to the woman’s full red lips and she laughed--a soft, delicious sound.
“I don’t want to frighten you, lass, but, Mother of God, when I’ve come face to face with a lass as haunting as the Irish Sea, you’ll have to forgive me for being so forward.”
Elena smiled at the big man in front of her. He was tall and his hair was as red as hers and his eyes almost as blue. He towered over her, all male, big and strong, the kind of man who knew how to sweet talk a woman.
Rory moved closer to her and looked deep in her eyes, as if he was searching for the answer to her beauty.
“Tell me, lass, which part of God’s country produced a beauty like you? Killarney? County Cork? Dublin?
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I was born and raised in Wyoming.”
“Ah, that explains it. You must be related to that Gov. McManus I’ve heard about. Now, lass, with the fire raging in your hair and the blue of the Shannon River in your eyes, you can’t deny it. That’s an Irish name if I ever heard one.”
“You’re right about my father, but again, sir, I’m sorry to torpedo your theories. The McManus name was the last one on the register at the flop house where some man dumped the squaw who gave birth to my father. The only heritage I’m aware of on my father’s side is Apache.”
She tossed her head, freeing more of the unruly curls from the jeweled pins restraining them, and turned to walk away.
“Ah, lass, no, no, no. Don’t leave. Tell me what room you’re in. After I finish my dinner obligations I will come to you. I canna let heaven on earth walk away now that I’ve found you. The angels protecting their Irish lads would never forgive me.”
Rory reached out to touch her, knowing if he did nothing else, he had to run his fingers through those riotous curls. His hand was a scant two inches above her head when he heard a “shtick” and a knife flew from nowhere and pinned his sleeve to the wall. He looked up, startled to see a young Chinese man standing twenty feet away, his hard gaze locked on Rory’s face.
As stunning as the woman was who stood next to him, Rory knew he had never seen a more striking man. He was tall, slender and, yes, elegant. His expensive casual clothing was made for his lean muscled body. His dark hair hung carelessly close to his collar and his mixed Chinese European features were as arresting as they were stunning. But it was his eyes, hard, fierce, and gleaming yellow that snatched Rory’s breath.
Within seconds, the twenty feet that separated them evaporated as the young man moved next to him a graceful, dangerous predator ready to take down his prey.
Taking a deep breath, Rory said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “May I presume you are the Frenchman?”
“You may.”
“And may I also presume this lovely lass is your woman?”
“Oui. Elena is my woman… and my wife.”
Seeing the deadly possessiveness in the other man’s eyes, Rory’s stomach lurched as the ground fell out from under him. Calling on the saints, or more likely the devils that had protected him all his life, he forced himself to breathe deep.
“May I make one more assumption?”
The Frenchman nodded.
“For some reason, you have chosen not to kill me?”
Bai’s eyes twinkled and a sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Not at this time.”
Rory straightened and turned back to Elena. He reached for the nine inch blade impaling his sleeve to the wall, but as he went to remove it, Elena grabbed it. She twisted the blade hard against Rory’s wrist and pulled it out, leaving a bloody gash on the inside of his wrist. Without taking her eyes off his startled face, she handed the blood spattered knife to the Frenchman, who wiped it off on a fine linen handkerchief and returned the knife to a hidden place in his boot.
Accepting the bloodied cloth the Frenchman handed him, Rory wrapped it around his bleeding wrist and hoped his expression was as impassive as both of theirs. He said as gracefully as he could, “I am pleased to see this beautiful lass has found someone worthy of her.�
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Then nodding at his bandaged wrist, he added, “And that you have found someone worthy of you.”
~~~
At that moment, the door opened and Sean Byrne strode out. A thoughtful man, Sean had quieted his colorful Irish heritage and relied instead on his reputation as a power broker in San Francisco’s financial circles. But there was nothing like kinfolk to bring out the blarney in the most subdued of the brethren.
Sean saw them and his ruddy faced flushed with pleasure.
“Ah, good, you are all here. Bai, Elena, Rory… great, please come in. Patrick and Mike and the Governor and Nianzu are already inside. Rory, I see that you have met Bai and Elena.”
He shook Bai’s hand and then Rory’s. He leaned over and took hold of both of Elena’s hands, then bent down and kissed her on her cheek. Looking back at his towering red-haired guest, he grinned at the awed look on his face.
“Tell me, Rory, in all your days of chasing after the skirts of sweet Irish lasses, have you ever seen anything more beautiful than this woman?”
Rory’s response was careful, reverent.
“Never in all my life.”
~~
Chapter 24
Rory was accustomed to spiking any dinner conversation with raucous stories and jousted with Sean, Patrick, and Mike in their efforts to outdo one another with outrageous tales. The whisky flowed as freely as their blarney. Rory caught Wyatt winking at Elena throughout the evening as Rory and the other Irishmen preened, fighting for her attention, while keeping a cautious eye on her understandably protective husband. He saw Elena occasionally look at Bai as if to see how he was handling their awestruck overtures. Like the men, she seemed relieved that the cordial smile never left his lips.
Christ, if anything, Rory thought, Bai was the most charming of them all. He smiled at their stories; knowledgably discussed New York politics and added to their understanding of the East Coast gangs, making it clear he knew his rivals far better than they did. The ultimate weapon in his charm offensive was his intimate knowledge of Ireland. He regaled them with episodes of himself as a young Chinese boy trying to understand the ways and lore of the Emerald Isle, seeking desperately to fit in. He admitted that he finally earned his place with his fists, learning that even brawny Irish lads couldn’t withstand the charm of a savate kickboxer.
Listening to Bai’s soft cultured voice explicating forgotten moments in the history of his beloved homeland, Rory shook his head. It was hard to square the seeming incongruity of the distinguished, elegant man who had four accomplished Irishmen begging for his attention with the man in Finn’s story. And the man who had coolly burned to death twenty members of the Costa Nostra.
With a flash of insight, Rory understood the compelling power of the man holding court at the head of the table. Remembering the cold fury in Bai’s eyes when he threw the knife at him, Rory saw pure animal power in human form, ready and able to take down anything and anyone who stood in his way. At that moment, he knew Bai was as charismatic and as dangerous a man as he had met and couldn’t suppress the chill that shook his spine.
After the dessert was cleared and the guests were enjoying brandy and cigars, Rory and Sean Byrne exchanged a nod. Sean rose and asked to be excused, citing an early morning meeting. Rory was confident everyone at the table saw through the pretext, but he had told Sean earlier that he needed to have a private conversation with the Frenchman.
Turning to Bai, Rory dropped the Irish guise and spoke as the leader of an opposing gang, not merely as an entertaining dinner guest.
“I appreciate the opportunity to talk with you privately. Mike and Patrick are privy to my conversations and I would like them to stay.”
Bai nodded.
“Nianzu is my lieutenant and Wyatt is my partner and closest advisor.”
Bai stopped for a moment and his eyes were cold and hard. He took a long drag on his Turkish cigarette and blew a cloud of aromatic smoke high in the air. He held Rory’s gaze and then said softly, “Elena is my wife and, as we established earlier, she is also my woman.”
Rory felt his face flush and he grimaced, acknowledging that he had not forgotten the earlier incident. From the look in his eyes Rory wondered if the Frenchman ever would. Taking a chance, he assumed the brash air of self confidence that had gotten him out of tight spots in the past.
“May I call you Bai? The Frenchman, while rich with symbolism, seems formal among friends.”
“Mais bien sûr. But, of course. Please do. I permit acquaintances to call me by my given name.”
Rory blushed again, wondering if by chance Bai had been trained by the cutting tongue and flat ruler of Sister Carmelita, who was the final impetus in the ten year old Rory’s departure from formal education.
Bai seemed to relent in the face of Rory’s obvious embarrassment; at least his next question was cordial, more in keeping with their dinner conversation.
“Tell me, Rory, how does Aldo Marcello get the minor East Coast gangs to defer to him, give him the power to run roughshod over them?”
“It’s no secret, Bai. He is the most vicious, dishonorable human being that ever walked this earth.”
“I gathered that. But there are a number of leaders who might be called vicious, perhaps some at this table. What makes Marcello different? What does he do to gain the loyalty of the other gangs?’
“It ain’t loyalty. It’s fucking, heart stopping fear. He terrorizes them.”
“Hmm, be specific.”
“I take it you know Marcello created a clever scheme where out of the goodness of his heart and a third of the profits he launders the monthly earnings of the member gangs. They get back less than a third of what they gave Aldo after he supposedly scrubs off any illegal stink.”
“Yes, I am aware of his enterprise. Why do the other gangs participate?”
“Marcello gives you one chance to join his little syndicate. Any gang leader who refuses finds one of his key men dead, killed in a barbarous way.”
Rory gave a harsh snort, then added, “In case you didn’t know, his moniker is the “Barber.” He likes to do the killing himself; he is a master with a ten inch blade. As long as his victims are securely tied, that is. My understanding is that he has a special rack he uses to spread-eagle the unlucky bastards; gives him access to their most tender places and allows him the luxury of time. He gets off on screams of terror, I’m told.”
Bai nodded in confirmation and Rory saw what looked like a mix of anger and pain in his eyes.
“Yes, one of the young girls Aldo captured described Aldo’s penchant for sexual gratification from the terrified screams of his victims.”
Rory continued, his voice thick with disgust.
“The recalcitrant gang gets their man back – in a box—not big enough to hold a full grown man, you understand, unless he was chopped in pieces first. It doesn’t take more than one, two at the most, of their members tortured to death to bring the smaller gangs around. And Aldo keeps them in line by filling their ranks with informants. God help any one who tries to bamboozle him. They don’t live to see the sunrise.”
Bai sat quietly smoking for several minutes, looking at the Irish leader.
“I understand that you have resisted the lure of Marcello’s syndicate, oui?”
Rory flushed and puffed up his chest with pride.
“You’re damn right. The only gang Aldo hasn’t been able to terrorize is mine.”
“Why is that?”
Rory smiled and allowed his satisfaction to show.
“Because I’m as good with a knife as that son of a bitch and I don’t need a fucking rack to hold the men I’m killing; even that prick Aldo understands the difference. And my men trust me; they know I’d go to my grave to protect them.”
Looking down at his bandaged wrist, he added with an awkward grin, “Maybe I’m not as good as you are, but I assume no one is as good with a knife as you are, correct?”
Bai shrugged, a graceful lift of his shoulders.
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“My knife skills are adequate.”
Rory quirked an eyebrow and wondered to himself if ever in his life he had met a cooler or more ruthless son of a bitch. He concluded, with a slight shake of his head, that he hadn’t. He shouldn’t have been surprised by Bai’s next question. It just underscored how fucking smart he was.
“Who does Marcello answer to?”
“Interesting question, Bai. Not many people would think to ask it. But you are on to something. Aldo presents himself as the king of the hill. He is a lot of things, but he ain’t a politician. He doesn’t pretend to be anything but a vicious son of a bitch. His world is the likes of me.” Rory said with a grin. “We don’t pretend to be polished. We gain loyalty with our fists and our weapons. No, I’ve long thought that Aldo has a silent partner, someone as vicious as he is, someone who handles the fuckers who fear exposure more than they do violence. Aldo’s backed by a network of politicians and moneymen like the fucking bankers who grease his laundering scheme. Someone with ‘different skills,’ shall we say, created that network and keeps the powerful assholes in line. I don’t know if Aldo is the boss or the silent one is. All I can say is that they have created a powerful partnership that makes them the strongest gang in New York coming and going.” He added with a devilish grin, “Except mine.”
It was only after he had talked at length about a range of subjects that Rory realized he was being interrogated by a master. Without much thought, he had given Bai critical information about the workings of Marcello’s gang and his own and got little or nothing in return. He decided it was time to ask the question that mattered most to him, the one he had travelled from New York to ask the Frenchman.
He took a clearing breath, then gave Bai what he hoped was his most charming smile.
