Book 5: An Irish Goodbye

Cal

The Basilica of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral hums with excitement. Murmurs from the intimate crowd waiting in the pews whisper through the air, rising to the impressive ceilings as sunlight fans through the stained glass. 

I’m sweating balls in the tuxedo Tony insisted I wear. It fits like a glove–perfectly tailored–which Tony said was because his tailor is Italian, and they always know best. 

In fact, Tony’s wife, Chloe, and her mob wife minions put this wedding together for us down to the smallest detail. I don’t know half of the gathered crowd, but judging by the cheetah print and hair gel, most of these people are Saints in some way. 

The Irish Kings stand out, however, because they’re lining every exit–armed to the teeth. 

Tony stalks over to where I’m standing near the altar waiting for the ceremony to begin. He glances around, leaning in to say, “I’ve got guys outside.”

“Thanks,” I grumble, tugging at