Page 14 of Ruthless Dream

It’s fascinating hearing all the names come out of Da’s mouth. I’d think he was showboating, but there’s a naturalness as he speaks. Though, he was always good at that.

“Will a lot of people be there?” I ask, already liking the idea of putting faces to names and tucking away whatever bits of information that come my way.

“Think of it like a holiday gathering,” Da says, gesticulating as he speaks like always. Even in a moving vehicle, he has a way of making this conversation feel like we’re in a pub, catching up like old friends. “Everyone is on their best behavior. Nobody mentioning the times they’ve been fucked over and nobody mentioning the ways they might fuck a person up in the future. The food will be great, the women delectable, and knowing the Russians, the fucking liquor will be top shelf.”

He smacks out a kiss, pleased with his analysis of the upcoming event. I’m wondering just how much of that top-shelf liquor will make its way to my da.

“Jesus,” my cousin Dermot says under his breath. “It’s a fucking castle.”

“Is this where they live?” I ask my uncle.

I can picture them laughing at us now. The O’Connells staring up at the monstrosity of a house. Cars wrap around the driveway, dropping off guests. Women wear dresses and heels. Men in tailored suits.

Jesus Christ. I’ve rolled up to the Akatov mansion sporting a black eye.

“No,” Uncle Cormac replies. He’s like me. Always got one ear to the ground. Knows who and where people are. “There’s not a chance they’d let us come if this was their actual home. This is some place they’ve rented out.”

I’ve no idea where I’m at exactly, but I know we’re no longer in New York City but some nearby suburb where the rich can own land and not deal with air pollution.

“You all right, Ciaran?” Uncle Cormac murmurs. Dermot and my other cousins head inside, laughing. But I’m still staring up at the fucking turrets. It might not be the Akatov family home, but they’ll live in something similar. Everyone here tonight will probably live in something like this. Ostentatious wealth.

I’m a lad from Dublin. The butler’s pantry will be bigger than my flat back home. And before that I was living out of a room in Nora’s terrace flat.

There’s lamps here, lit up in the night with real fire, guiding guests to the giant double front doors. What it would be to just light everything up. Tear the Bratva down and show them what the working Irish can do.

Cormac’s shoulder brushes into mine. My hands remain in my pocket. I might be looking up at the grand castle, but I’m not gawking. I’m memorizing this moment. This feeling. Letting it forge me into the man who will one day surpass everyone here.

Though, admittedly, I might be jetlagged as fuck.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I clear my throat, dragging a hand through my beard before tucking it back into my pocket. We begin walking, joining the crowd of people.

This should be risky, inviting so many people of a certain occupation to one place. But Da was right, the bastard.

The alcohol is flowing, and men all around are patting each other on the shoulder.

“I thought the only neutral place was Fujimori’s,” I say. The restaurant is the one spot where an automatic white flag is thrown.

“We’re much more domesticated than you’d think.” Da appears between us and throws an arm around each of our shoulders. I don’t have to look over to know my uncle is stifling an internal sigh. “See, son. Business is done here differently than in Dublin.”

“Right, where we’re all blindly beating one another with our fists.” The uncultured Irish.

Da laughs, beating my back. “Exactly. Parlays are important here. Things cannot be rushed.”

He lets go of us, and sure enough, Uncle Cormac’s lips are thin due to being manhandled.

“Let me introduce you to some people,” Da says, and it kills me the way his face lights up. He’s going to parade me around, boasting about my achievements as if he had been there every step of the way.

I don’t like the idea, but there’s one enticing aspect to it. I meet Uncle Cormac’s eye, and he nods, understanding too.

We came here to network, and I won’t turn my nose up at the opportunity.

“Thanks, Da,” I tell him politely and follow him.

The room is huge with tables and chairs set up. Servers pass out champagne flutes, but there’s also a bar where most of the men order liquor. Da heads toward it, stopping occasionally to shake hands. It’s always the same formula. He exudes friendliness as he calls out a person’s name, shaking their hands with a firm pump and a slap to the shoulder. He even grabs a few women’s hands, kissing them.

Most keep their faces blank or sip on their alcohol to hide their true feelings. One Italian man rolls his eyes. The ladies smile but take their hands back quickly.

Fuck me. My da’s that creepy guy who has no sense of social restraint.