Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110671 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110671 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Kellan might’ve come off as laid-back and charming, but the guy wasn’t fucking around. Being in debt to him was likely not a pleasant experience.
When the seven minutes were up, Gray shut off the program and slowed down to a walk. He chugged from his water and winced at the pain flaring up in his thigh. Maybe he was done running for tonight.
He stepped down from the treadmill and blew out a heavy breath.
There was something he’d told himself to google later, and now he couldn’t remember what it was. He’d thought of it when he’d left the church and been told Father O’Malley wasn’t available today.
Dammit. This was gonna bug Gray. It had to do with Kellan Ford, he remembered that much.
Over by the rack of weights, he grabbed a yoga mat and sat down with his water bottle to stretch his leg.
His affiliation.
That was it!
As he leaned forward, essentially folding himself in half to touch his toes, he used one hand to navigate his phone. He groaned under his breath when his tendons protested. Then he thought back on one of the tattoos he’d seen on Kellan’s arm and typed Sons of Munster into the search bar.
Holy shit, that was a lot of hits.
Wikipedia seemed like the best place to start.
The Sons of Munster is a crime syndicate that operates out of Chicago and Philadelphia, with factions in New Jersey, London, and Dublin. [citation needed] The organization originated in the south and southwest of Ireland, when two families, the Murrays and O’Sheas, joined forces to help the Irish Republican Army fight for Ireland’s independence[1]…
“Jesus,” Gray mumbled and scrolled down.
The Philadelphia branch is considered the largest and is run by O’Shea affiliates.[7] Little is known about the syndicate’s leadership in Philadelphia. Names of interest include Shannon O’Shea and his two sons, Patrick and Finnegan O’Shea. Shannon was exonerated from all charges[8] in the Murray Uprising[9], while Patrick and Finnegan were charged with…
Gray straightened and scanned the following paragraphs. Most names were links to their own Wiki pages, and it went on and on. Kellan Ford was part of this. Gray couldn’t find his name anywhere, but the tattoo said it all. He was associated.
Gray had barely managed to escape the clutches of one mafia, and now he’d sat down and had a beer with someone from another, similar organization?
Had he lost his fucking mind?
At the same time…
No. He wasn’t gonna go back and forth again. He’d flip his shit.
As if sensing Gray needed a stabilizer—or good news—Willow’s response popped up at the top of the screen, and Gray clicked on the message.
It will take some time. They don’t keep IDs or pictures—or any paper trail, for that matter—but I am following the transactions and narrowing down the possible candidates one by one. It helps that the buyer is American. I will find him.
Thank fuck. Gray scrubbed a hand over his face and felt his shoulders sag with relief. He and Darius had given her all the info they had on Jackie’s buyer. What he looked like, his accent, how he dressed, and anything of interest he’d uttered during meals. Darius had been able to provide more intel than Gray, obviously. Back on the yacht, Gray’s biggest focus had been on staying alive.
This was good, though. He wasn’t erasing Kellan’s number anytime soon, but he could at least let go of that option for the time being. He would wait for Willow—a bit longer.
After another night of reliving the horrors of his recent past, Gray made himself a cup of coffee in his room, pouring two packets of insta-mix into the paper mug, and hoped the caffeine would keep him alert. Then he got dressed and headed out.
The weather was nicer today. Blue sky, not a cloud in sight, but it was frigid.
The church Kellan Ford had directed Gray to was in a working-class neighborhood with a predominantly Irish population. Next to the church was a small square where Gray could count at least six shops and pubs that used Celtic or British fonts for their signs.
It was easier to find parking out here. He parked on the street in front of the square and spotted a nun at the nearby bus stop. She had five young girls with her and laughed at what one was speaking animatedly about.
Four old men braved the cold and shared two benches in the square.
A mother walked her son briskly across the area.
A guy came out from a corner store and opened a pack of cigarettes.
It was all so ordinary, the whole scene, and yet Gray’s chest burned with envy and sadness. He wanted the ordinary. His ordinary existence had been ripped away from him. He missed the time when his biggest issues were about making ends meet and whether or not his coach would ever leave his wife.