Page 113 of Tamed Enemy
My eyes, though, barely register the scrambled clothing. Instead, I’m drawn to a hospital bed set up next to the window. It glows like a spaceship from another planet, the white sheets grabbing moonlight from outside. A cluttered nightstand sits between the bed and the wall, jumbled with shadowed necessities.
Da lies flat on his back. His head is centered on a thin pillow. His arms rest by his sides. A crisp white sheet is pulled over his rounded belly, neatly turned back across his chest to reveal his black pajamas.
“Is he…”
“Alive,” Malloy says.
I realize I can just make out his breathing, the slight rise and fall, but it looks too shallow for a man his size. He’s in far worse shape than when I served him colcannon at Sunday Roast. I wonder if he’s had another stroke.
“Your da’s a shite captain,” Malloy says.
I’m supposed to defend my family. I should explain how Da’s had a difficult time. Baltimore’s not the valuable port it used to be. Money has all moved north or south. It does something to a man, needing to accept money from his daughter. The Tarasov bratva has turned every skirmish into a battle. The bratva, the bratva, always the bratva.
Before I can summon the energy to lay it all out for Malloy, he says, “He ate too much. Drank too much. Smoked too much. He forgot a captain is supposed to be a soldier.”
I stare at the slope of the sheet over Da’s swollen belly.
“He ignored his pew on a Sunday. Skipped alms for the poor. Forgot holy days of obligation. He forgot a captain is supposed to be a man of faith.”
I can’t remember the last time Da set foot in St. Brigid’s when it wasn’t Christmas or Easter—or my wedding.
“He got sloppy on the job,” Malloy says. “Leaned too hard on the milk run. Let his men skim from his take. He couldn’t be bothered to learn banking and transport, anything new. He forgot a captain is supposed to lead his men.”
Da claimed he liked the old ways. But the truth was, he didn’t understand the new. He barely used his mobile. He hired Cole to run his computers because he didn’t have a man in the Crew he could trust.
“He let the Russians run wild. They took his whores. They took his card games. They took his docks. He let them take his daughters. He forgot a captain is supposed to drive out the enemy.”
He let them take his daughters.
My cheeks heat with shame. But no—that’s not the emotion that flushes my cheeks. I’m angry.
“Go on, then,” Malloy says. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Da was supposed to do better. He was supposed to lead the Canton Crew. And if he wasn’t man enough to manage, he should have done what I’ve done. He should have turned back to family, back to Ireland, back to County Donegal. Da should have done whatever it took to make things right.
Instead, he let the Lynch clan wither on the vine.
“You’re not wrong,” I say to Malloy.
He moves faster than a man his size should do. His hand lands cleanly on the nightstand, amid the pill bottles and the cups with straws, Kleenex and alcohol wipes, all the wreckage of an endless, hopeless illness.
He comes up with a gun.
It’s a pistol. It’s heavy in his hand. It’s perfect in its form, made to do one thing, and to do it well.
Malloy settles the weapon against Da’s ear, and for just a moment, I’m back in Cole’s garage in Georgetown. I’m watching Sawyer Best handle a traitor. I’m seeing what happens when a bad man fails.
The sound is enormous. It fills the room. It fills the house. It fills the entire world. The bedroom smells of cordite and blood and after a stunned few seconds, shite. Blood blooms beneath Da’s head, soaking the pillow and spreading down to the sheets.
Feet pound on the stairs, and then down the hallway. Cameron leaps into the bedroom, gun drawn, eyes wild. The other Sawgrass men follow behind him, settling into tactical stances as Cameron orders Malloy to drop his weapon.
Malloy's hands frame his head, scarecrow-style. “Easy, mate,” he says, waggling his fingers to show they’re free from his trigger. He’s back to the controlled aggression of a wild cat, moving with absolute control as he inches his gun down to rest upon Da’s knees.
Cameron sweeps up the weapon. One of the other men finally thinks to flip a light switch, flooding the room with dingy yellow light.
“Over here, Kate,” Cameron says, gesturing with his chin.
But I shake my head. “I’m just fine, gentlemen. Himself was just explaining his plans, now that he’s running the Canton Crew.”
