Page 108 of Ruthless Dream

I force my muscles to relax, making myself appear less annoyed. I’ve never hated spending time with my uncle. A woman shouldn’t change that.

“You talked to your father lately?”

I frown. “No. Why?”

Cormac shrugs. My uncle never shrugs.

“Should I have heard from him?” I ask.

He drinks his whiskey. “No. I’d just wandered about Walsh, is all.”

We haven’t heard from the head of the Irish Mafia since our meeting a few months ago. Walsh’s operation hasn’t been in contact since, though they haven’t run interference in any of our plans. I take it as no news is good news, especially if it means I don’t have to take any awkward phone calls with Cain Murray.

It still amazes me that my dad is so close to Walsh. Is his over-the-top leprechaun charm that vital to the Irish Mafia?

“Walsh took not just one, but two meetings with the Russians last week,” Cormac says, crossing his ankle over his knee as he leans back in his chair.

“About what?”

Cormac levels me with a look. Clearly annoyed I have no insider information.

My shoulders tighten. I remain silent.

“I didn’t think Walsh was so close to Zimin,” Cormac says.

The word ‘close’ isn’t quite accurate. What he means is, there are no current arguments spilling out into the streets.

“The Russians are tidy,” I remind. Uptight is a nicer description for Lev Zimin. And while Walsh’s Irish might seem like friendly little fellows hanging out in pubs, he’s got his thumb on everything.

The lines have been drawn in New York City for a long time. The occasional dispute comes up, but for the most part, there’s an orderly chaos to the place.

“What are you on about?” I ask Cormac, lifting my whiskey.

Cormac pauses to take a drink himself. When he sets it back down, the sun hits the crystal just the right way. It creates a rainbow starburst, the effect happier than the somber tone my uncle uses.

“Wallen’s a powerful player.”

I stay silent. He’s not said a thing about Wallen since his party. I’ve waited, wondering if he’d mention him. For a second there is relief when he doesn’t bring up Las Vegas.

“The contract for the harbor,” Cormac says, “is a good starting place, but I think you and I agree it’s just the start.”

“Of what?”

He cocks his head at my question.

I’m not stupid. I know what he’s getting out. But I want my uncle to spell out the specifics.

“He wants the head of a Russian. We can give him that.”

Physically, I am sitting in a chair in my uncle’s office. Pressure glues me to the seat, a dark, leaden feeling weighing down my limbs.

“He can’t be that stupid.”

I’m used to playing devil’s advocate. Uncle Cormac is the one who taught me how. In this line of work, you’re better off preparing for every scenario possible.

“He so much as takes out a foot soldier⁠—”

“He’s not talking about a foot soldier,” Cormac cuts me off.