“That’s enough of that,” Fergal says. “You see, Carlo? She’s safe and sound. I can’t promise that she’ll stay that way, though. I think you get my meaning.”
“She’s your daughter,” I tell him. “Your own f*****g daughter and you tried to kill her. You sent armed thugs after her. And now—Jesus, Fergal, even for a man like you, this is messed up. All we have in this life is our loyalty to family. Without it, we’re no better than junkies holding up the corner store.”
“I have never claimed to be anything but a criminal. Now, if you’re done with the poetry, I think we’ve got business to discuss.”
There’s a waver in his voice, sort of like a drunken man’s. I wonder how much he’s been drinking tonight. Maybe the pain of losing his hand sent him to the bottle. Maybe he’s slightly unhinged. Or, pe
