Page 24 of Blood in the Water
He hadn’t been to J.J. Foley’s since the meeting he’d had with Christophe and Farrell late last year, when they’d filled him in on Seamus’s IRA background. He’d thought Farrell was a dick, and while the other man had grown on him, he was still relieved to see Christophe sitting alone at a boothin the back of the restaurant. He had a calming presence, a way of making it seem like somehow the shit show that was Nolan’s life was going to sort itself out.
He made his way across the black and white tile, nodding at the bartender as he passed. He slid into the booth and found a beer already sitting on the table in front of him.
“Thought you could use that,” Christophe said.
He wore a long sleeve sweater, the collar of a white T-shirt visible above the neckline. It was the first time Nolan had seen him in something other than a suit or a button-down shirt, and he wondered if it was an attempt to fit in at Foley’s. If it was, it wasn’t entirely successful. Casual clothing couldn’t hide Christophe’s fine bone structure — Nolan had discovered online that the other man was the descendant of a French Duke — or the quality of the cashmere in his sweater.
“Thanks.” Nolan took a drink of the beer and sat back in the booth with a sigh. “That was quite a message.”
Christophe’s smile was noncommittal. “We wanted to make it clear that we have no ill feelings for any of Seamus’s men. It’s him we want.”
“You think the men will be able to decipher the message?” Nolan asked.
“They will when we start putting out the word that we’re looking to take over,” Christophe said.
“When will that happen?”
“It’s in progress,” Christophe said.
“How will it work?” Nolan asked.
Even Christophe’s shrug was refined. “People make small talk in the neighborhood — bars, restaurants, barber shops. It will be mostly speculation at first: who was responsible for the explosion, how much damage was done to thehouse, etcetera. Some of those conversations will lead into others — rumors of a turf war, new leadership offering amnesty to any of Seamus’s soldiers looking to jump ship at the front end of the conflict, possible ramifications of not jumping before it’s too late.”
“You don’t need Will and me to broker any of these conversations?”
Christophe studied him. “Will made it clear that would be dangerous for you.”
“It would be, but if you need me on the ground, I’m here.”
He felt strangely light, his mother’s call freeing him from the subconscious notions that had been an anchor around his feet in the weeks he’d been working for Seamus — the notion that it was all temporary, that he would eventually end up back at Glassman and Weld, that he would fall back in line like a good little blue blood.
“You’re dangerously close to the point-of-no-return,” Christophe said.
“I’m aware. Use me if you need me.”
“And Miss Monaghan?”
“What about her?” Nolan asked.
Christophe looked at him over the table. “Does using you put her at greater risk?”
“Not if no one finds out we’re seeing each other again — and they won’t,” Nolan said.
“Are you sure about that?” Christophe asked.
“As sure as I can be.”
It wasn’t enough.
12
Bridget pulled next to the curb two blocks from the apartment and leaned her head against the steering wheel. She felt like she’d been holding her breath ever since she’d pulled up outside Seamus’s burning house: while she talked with the fire captain, when she followed Mick and the others to the Westin where they rented Seamus a suite, during the hour she’d stood in the room while Seamus raged, barking orders at Mick and Oz and even Baren, who had been eerily calm.
She’d left them all at the hotel and had driven to the apartment in a fugue state, hardly aware of her surroundings, her panic making her want to crawl out of her skin.
Now she had to fight the urge to run, to race through the city streets until she couldn’t breathe, until the adrenaline that had been pumping through her veins for nearly three hours dissipated.
She got out of the car instead, hurrying toward the apartment door, desperate for the only relief within reach: Nolan.