“How’s he doing?” “He got a fucking bullet hole through his leg,” Peter says, his temper flaring. He takes a breath and says, “But he’s going to be okay.” “That’s good.” “Fucking A, that’s good,” Peter says. “Listen, Danny, I wanted to have a word with you, tell you that we got no beef with the Ryans. We already know you had nothing to do with the disgraceful action that occurred this afternoon.” “Peter, the Murphys didn’t—” Peter holds up his hand. “Don’t even bother. That train has left the station. There is no possibility of a peace with the Murphys, even if they dangle that little piece of
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