I HAVE THIS theory.

I believe that the popularity of the Italian Mafia in films, T.V., and books, is based, in part on the coincidental influx of immigration of 20th century combined with the invention and inevitable popularity of Hollywood and the film industry. As the 20th century progressed, Prohibition and the banning of all alcohol took gang crime from a mob mentality to that of a corporate mentality. Add that onto the rise of the administrative state and the subsequent creation and strengthening of a federal police force; well, you've got yourself a bunch of criminal movie stars.

If the tables were reversed; that is, if the the Irish immigrated in the 20th century and the Italians came in the 19th century, I have no doubt that Tony Soprano would have actually been named Tommy O'Rouke and the show would O'Rourkes. After all, timing is everything.

I had planned this for my thesis had I remained in school. I was going to title it: The Fallacy of The GodFather: Organized Crime Beyond Italian Immigration.

So much for that.

What people fail to understand is that the Irish practically founded organized crime in this nation. Back in early 19th century, the majority of Irish immigrated to New York and found themselves living in slums of squalor, with Five Points being the worst of the worst. These new immigrants, poor and starving to death, began banning together into organized units with names like the Dead Rabbits, the Whyos, and the Five Points Gang.

Perhaps not very coincidentally, my McIver ancestors came over around the same time and began representing these poor, sorry souls who had been starved out of their own country and denied justice in their new one.

Thus, despite the Italian mobsters getting all the book, movie, and T.V. deals, the Irish hung in there and are still in power in certain parts of the city to this day. My family has ties to all of them either as family members or as clients, but the one we're most closely related to are the 49ers. Located on the city's west side, the 49ers run guns, drugs, whatever, while at the same time supporting The Cause back in Ireland. Allegedly, I mean. They allegedly run guns, drugs, whatever, while allegedly supporting The Cause back in Ireland.

The Cahill family are the head of the 49ers. After Big Jim Cahill got gunned down on 6th Avenue by Cosetino family associates in the 1980s, his wife Maureen took over and has been running the organization ever since. I know all about the 49ers because my family has represented them for time immemorial. When the FBI was taking down other families in the 80s and the 90s, the 49ers remained, in part because of my family's leadership and council. As a result, we maintain an excellent relationship with this group of hardworking men and women. My father held Maureen in such high esteem that he named her as one of my Godparents.

How bad ass is that, that I have a mob boss as a Godparent?

Anyway, I'd been wanting to pay Maureen my respects since I landed here, but I'd never found the time. It also doesn't help that I'm supposedly marrying a Cosetino. Even though the families made amends with each other - through money and a great deal of blood, I might add - it's more accurate to say there's an uneasy detente between the two groups. I know the moment I see Maureen is the moment I get an earful. She always liked me for her son Declan. I always liked me for her son Declan. Declan, however, liked my cousin Mary Kathryn for Declan. Men.

The nice thing about Maureen is that she'd understand why I was doing what I was doing for Jenny. She'd help me, no questions asked, because she loved my father, because she loves me, because she's a strong Catholic, and because she's a mother. So, after my little experiment implementing the federal government's policies on enemy combatants, I took the train from Brooklyn and back into Manhattan. This time I got off at Grand Central Station, went a few blocks up and west, and walked into this traditional Irish pub on the corner of 49th street and 12th avenue.

Inside was dark and dreary, with a small crowd of older men hovering over halfway empty glasses of liquor. The televisions above the bar were tuned into a soccer match. Irish flags, images of the Troubles, and republican slogans such as Tiocfaidh ár lá were written on the walls.

I walked in, dropped my bag at my feet, and bellied up to the bar. "Beer me," I told the bartender.

"I.D. me," he shot back, the grumpy gus.

I showed him an I.D. He studied it longer than necessary, but then shrugged and poured me a draft.

I thanked him as he set in front of me. "Is Maureen Cahill working today?" I asked him.

He glared at me suspiciously. "Now what would you want to be seeing Maureen for?"

I sipped my beer, all cool, and said, "She's a family friend. I've been meaning to see her since I got here, and I want to pay my respects."

"Family friend, you say? And which family would that be?"

I smiled. "The McIver Group."

He glared, turned, and walked back into the office. A few seconds later, he returned with a short, roundish woman with greying red hair, large blue eyes, and a sour expression on her face.

"I'm not expecting a visit from The McIver Group today, Daniel. They always call first...why didn't you get her card?" Then she saw me. "Well, the dead arose and appeared to many! It's little Siobhan McIver!"

The next thing I knew, she was hugging the crap out of me. I always loved Maureen's hugs. When she hugged you, she meant it.

"Pour me a draft, Danny. This is my very own Goddaughter Siobhan McIver." She sat down next to me and Daniel sat a glass of Guinness in front of her. "Jeeysus, Siobhan, you've done grown up into a supermodel. So how you been keeping?"

"Trying to get used to living here," I told her. "It's a big city and all."

"It is," she agreed. "Is that why you haven't come down to see me since you've come here? Too big to find me?"

"I've been busy, Aunt Mo."

"I've heard." She took a deep drink, then asked, "So, you really marrying the Cosetino boy?"

"I am."

She shook he head sadly. "Siobhan McIver. You know my boy Declan has it bad for you." Her face lit up in fond memory. "I remember how he'd always chased you around...he'd follow you anywhere."

I laughed at that and shook my head. "You got it backwards, Aunt Mo. I was the one chasing Declan around, not vice versa. Remember? He was busy chasing Mary Kathryn."

Mary Kathryn, blonde and perfect, Aiden's daughter, Queen of the Dance, a perfect Midwestern princess, who was currently enrolled at U of I where she was in a sorority and was studying fashion merchandising. Damn, I hate her.

Maureen furrowed her brow. "Are you sure?"

"I am."

"I never did like Mary Kathryn," she sighed. "Useless twat."

I tipped my glass. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

"Well, then." She downed the rest of her pint. "As happy as I am to see you, Siobhan, I have a feeling this is might be more business than pleasure. So what's on your mind?"

I leaned over onto the bar and swished my beer around in the glass. "I have a friend. She's missing. She's a citizen, an only child, and the daughter of a single working mother who would be devastated if anything happened to her." I got out Oksana's phone and pulled up her picture on Facebook. "This is Jenny."

Maureen Cahill may be one of the few women mob bosses in the history of organized crime, but she's also a mother. She looked at Jenny's picture, and cooed, "Ah, she's lovely."

"She is," I agreed. "One of the sweetest, most genuinely good people I've met in my life, Aunt Mo." I put the phone away. "You know, we are what we are, and we do what we do, but there are people out there who, well, who are better than we are. And she's one of them."

Maureen nodded. "I know what you're saying, Siobhan. There are lambs, and there are wolves. It's our Christian duty to protect the lambs out there from the wolves that would do them harm. So what would you be needing from me?"

I took the time to consider while I drank the rest of my beer. "I'm going to need an alibi. I got a little rough with the trafficker who took her, and while I don't think she'll go legal, she might."

"I can do that." She pulled out her phone. "Move over here, Siobhan and take a picture with your Godmother." We hugged as she took a selfie. "Now, you've been here this afternoon, visiting." She looked around the bar. "Hasn't she boys? Siobhan McIver's been here visiting all afternoon."

The old men all shook their heads as if they were a single voice. "That she has...I saw her sit down meself right here...aye. She's been here all afternoon."

Maureen handed her glass back to Danny, who filled it up for her and handed it back. "What else you be needing?"

"The trafficker said she sold her to the House of the Vettii--"

Maureen gasped and crossed herself. "That den of iniquity? Siobhan, are you sure?"

"I feel the information was solid."

"And how did you get that information, little Siobhan McIver?"

I smiled and didn't answer.

"Well then." She squeezed my hand. "You make sure you go to confession and get your soul cleansed. We do what we need to do, but we always got to make sure we're right with the Lord." The she shrieked, "Rory! Rory Cahill! Get out here, for fuck's sake!"

Rory Cahill was Declan's brother and one of Maureen's many sons. He immediately appeared, looking like a grown up version of the snot nosed kid who used to try to put gum in my hair. "Little Siobhan has a problem she needs us to help her with," Maureen told him. "Help her."

With that, she hopped off her stool, gave me a pat on the back, and went back to her office.

Back in the day, Rory Cahill was a redheaded, freckled, smug ass little kid. Now Rory Cahill had grown into a redheaded, freckled, smug ass, good looking man. "Siobhan MicIver," he purred as he leaned his back up against the bar, "aren't you awful gorgeous? Is it true you're marrying that Cosetino bastard?"

"It is. Stop hitting on me. Rory, can you get me into the House of the Vettii?"

He looked surprised and then leered. "Siobhan! I didn't know you were into that. Do the Cosetinos need money that bad?"

"Shut up. I have a friend. She's there, and she needs to get out."

He lost his smile and turned serious on a pin's head. "I heard they did that there. I heard that some of their girls were forced into it."

"It's serious crime," I told him.

He gave me a crazy, unsettled smile. "Well, now. I might have some ideas. How do you feel about explosions?"

"I like explosions. So long as they're controlled and I can't be implicated."

"Come with me, girly. I have someone you need to meet." I followed him out of the bar and into the alley where he had parked a sweet new Dodge Challenger in a horrible shade of green.

"Nice ride," I told him as I slid into the passenger seat. "Why green?"

"I'm Irish."

"Oh please. You're a plastic Paddy just like me."

He shrugged. "I've got an Irish passport."

"So do I. They give them out as thank you for visiting gifts." I rolled down the window. "Where are we going?"

He got inside, started the car, and put on his shades. "We're going to see Madam Tessa. Queen of the Dark Arts."

"Awesome! I love Dark Art royalty!"

As Rory peeled out and whipped through traffic, he gave me the inside scoop on the House of the Vettii. Unsurprisingly, it was a whorehouse. But it had a few differences, such as club memberships and corporate sponsors. As for staff, the kitchen was five star, the service impeccable, and the girls were all blondes.

"I've heard that a lot of it's this underage shit," Rory spat as he narrowly avoided sideswiping a cab. "They bring these girls in from Eastern Europe and set them up here for all these rich pricks. It makes me sick. I mean, I don't mind the killing, and the maiming, but I hate child molesters." He cut off an SUV as he made a left hand turn from the far right lane. "Let's blow the fuckers up."

"Alrighty then," I replied as Rory double parked in front of an Upper East Side townhouse. As I got out of the car, he opened the trunk and switched out his regular New York plates with diplomat's plates.

"What's that about?" I asked.

"Diplomats don't get towed," he explained. "Do you want to put the bag back here?"

"Nah. I'll keep it with me."

"Suit yourself." He slammed the trunk then walked up a very ornate stoop and rang the doorbell.

An impeccably dress dark-skinned woman opened it. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Valerie," purred Rory. "I need to see her. I promise it won't be but a few minutes."

The woman - whose name I gathered was Valerie - smiled and looked irritated all at once. "Rory Cahill. You're a devil. A cheap, no good devil."

"I completely agree with that," I said and waved. "Hi Val. I'm not cheap, but I may be a no good devil. I'm still working that out. Anyway, I've got cash."

"Well, then. Please. You are welcome." She stepped back and let us inside.

The interior design of the Her Majesty Queen of the Dark Arts was more Ralph Lauren than Hieronymus Bosch. Nary a picture of a devil to be seen. I was vaguely disappointed.

I sat down on a couch while Rory paced. "Are you sure this is where the Queen of the Dark Arts lives?" I asked him. "I mean, it's more like where the Queen of the Junior League lives."

At that point, a tall Latina glided into the room on 10 inch stiletto boots, wearing a black leather corset, black leather pants, and her long black hair straight down to her butt. She looked kind of like the pictures I'd seen of Cher, back when she was young.

"I like pretty things," her majesty said. "Why is that surprising?"

"I mean no criticism," I replied. "I had a vision, that's all."

She walked over to me and lifted my chin. "You're sexy. I would like to instruct you."

Rory groaned.

I caught her hand and twisted it a little. "I would like to instruct you back."

She immediately pulled her hand away and whirled around to Rory. "Why did you bring a dominant to a dominant's house?"

Rory croaked.

I grinned at his discomfort. Poor Rory. "He appears to have lost the ability to speak," I answered for him. "I need help getting into the House of the Vettii tonight. Rory said that you knew how. I'm happy to pay."

"The House of the Vettii's pretty hard core," she commented with a reassessing gaze. "It's not for a neophyte."

"I won't be partaking. Can you get me in?"

She stared at me. $10,000. Cash."

"$5,000. And a vintage leather dom dress." I opened the bag and pulled out the strapless dress Oksana had given me.

She walked over to it like a moth to a flame. "Pretty," she murmured.

"Deal?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Cool." I grinned. I'd always wanted to do some Fifty Shades of Grey.

_____ * _____ * _____ * _____ * _____

Hang on Jenny, Siobhan's on her way!

Thank you so much for taking time to read Siobhan's story! I look forward to your comments, and if you liked it, please remember to vote!

©Copyright Liz Charnes May 2018

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