Mickey McElroy sat in his office in the back of the pub he operated out of in Cheetham Hill. He liked this part of Manchester; it was rough, not unlike where he'd grown up in Derry, and because of this it reminded him of home. Any reminder of home was welcome; he'd left the North out of conflict with fellow gang mates and had since taken control of Manchester almost single-handedly. Because of him, the Irish mob was now a powerful force in the city, one to be reckoned with, and with his ties to the IRA he considered himself fucking unstoppable.
They called him the Irish Diamond, and while it had been meant to take the piss, he had instead accepted this title and wore it like a badge. People would always take the piss out of him over his height, but he was a diamond, a fucking treasure and over the past few years Manchester had figured that out the hard way. He may have been a short fella but after he set more than a few houses alight and literally skinned a grass alive, people started to take him seriously.
He loved the power it brought him. Craved it. In fact, he loved where he'd gotten himself so much he had offered the olive branch to the cunts who had chased him out of Northern Ireland in the first place, the unionist bastards. Now he was bigger than they could have ever imagined, and bigger than he could have ever gotten back in Derry, so he was fucking smug about it. Why wouldn't he be? He felt like the dog's bollocks and he wanted to make sure everyone who had ever slagged him off in the past knew it.
Of course, as long as he played nice, he would be able to slowly amass his empire. He had a hand in Derry and London too, through that fucker Freddie Evans. Oh, dear old Fred thought that Mickey wasn't a real problem, just like everyone else, and Mickey was counting on that. He had to be the safe option, the bloke being cunted off, the fall man. Everyone took the piss, and took the piss, until suddenly the little Irish Diamond condensed his anger and nothing could fucking cut him. He was going to make sure everyone and their fucking cousin felt his reckoning. One day, the whole fucking United Kingdom would be his. He was sure of it. He'd make sure of it.
It had been six years since he met Freddie, and after a slow burn, the roast was almost ready to consume. The flames were so bloody close they were licking at his flesh, but he couldn't be impatient now. This was the prime time to make his move and be smart about it. The game was on and it was his turn to play. Fortunately, he had the perfect pawn.
'Boss.' The thick Bajan accent from one of his best men Franklin woke Mickey from his brief reverie. As he glanced to the tall man at the door, he was alert. 'O'Reilly's here.'
Mickey grinned fondly and gestured towards the door. 'Well, no point in wasting time. Let him in.'
The man stepped inside and nervously ran his fingers through his slick, dark hair. Mickey could tell the poor fuck was nervous, and the sight made him downright gleeful.
'Donny O'Reilly...' began the gangster, getting a feel for the words. 'That's an Irish name if I ever heard one. Sit down, mate, let's get us a drink, aye?'
Donny cautiously took the seat ahead of Mickey's great mahogany desk and folded his hands in his lap. He said nothing. He, like most people in Manchester, had heard about the city's most notorious mobster's reputation, and he was frightened by it, as he rightfully should have been. Furthermore, he had no idea what said mobster would want to do with him. He was a chancer, he ran long firms, he was hardly a fucking business man let alone any kind of actual criminal. Maybe he'd stepped on the man's toes? The idea frightened him right down to the bone. If Mickey wanted him out, he'd pack a bag and be on the next flight out that night. Donny wasn't a fighter, and he wasn't looking for the opportunity to be brave. He just wanted a quiet life, to make enough quid to keep himself sustained. That was all. He never meant to hurt anybody.
He was preparing the speech in his head as Mickey filled two tumblers of golden Irish whiskey; one for Donny, the other for himself. As if reading his mind, he went on, 'Now, Donny—if I may call you Donny—I bet you're wondering why I brought you here. I can imagine how frightening it must have been for a car to pull up ahead of you at your place of business and order you to come here, right?'
He laughed, and Donny felt himself laughing nervously too. Of course Mickey knew it was frightening. That's why he did it. He needed to keep people on their toes, especially little low-time fucks like O'Reilly.
Pushing forward one of the tumblers, Mickey instructed, 'Drink.' Donny obeyed as if it were holy water.
The mobster waited for him to down a significant portion of the whiskey, leaving his own untouched, before finally speaking his peace. 'You come from London, don't you, Donny.'
The chancer nodded a few times, regretting the burn of the liquor that had coursed down his throat, because his words came out a bit gravelly. 'Yeah—well, sorta. I was born here, but I come down to London when I's about fourteen years old. Me mum, y'see, was...'
Mickey raised his hand and Donny clamped his mouth shut. 'I understand, mate. I also understand that you were married to Freddie Evans' sister, am I correct in that assumption?'
Donny couldn't stop his brows from raising in genuine confusion and curiosity. 'Yeah... Yeah, that's right, Mr McElroy. Sir. Actually, I still am, technically. We're both Catholic; thought it wouldn't be right to divorce.'
Mickey sighed in relief, as if suddenly everything was falling into place. Which, in a way, it was. 'I admire a good Irish Catholic, Donny. And I am a firm believer that us proper Irish Catholics should stick together, should we not? We're a minority here; you know as well as I do how we're treated in this country. So, I think we both could benefit from an alliance.'
Donny swallowed thickly and nodded. 'An alliance, yeah,' he said. Was this his chance? To become more than just some chancer? To work with the big timers? This was what Frankie had wanted, wasn't it? Well, maybe with Mickey's help, he would finally be able to measure up to the impossible standard Frankie's brother had set ahead of him. Maybe Frankie would take him back. Maybe he'd be able to see his son again.
He knew it wasn't right of him to have left like he had however-many years before, but now, in his forties, he was realising what was important to him; family, bonds, and blood. He would put everything they ever fought about behind him if he could get back together with her, if he could rekindle the relationship he had with Junior.
Mickey saw the twinkle in Donny's eyes, and knew that with him right where he wanted him, he would be able to make his move.
Checkmate, Freddie Evans.