The King of New York

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The King of New York.

I was told long ago that we used to be the Lords of Killarney back when my family had authority over Ireland before the British ran us out.

Instead of crumbling like the British hoped we would, we adapted and came to America.

Like the movie, but less Eddie Murphy.

All jokes aside though, man it felt good to wield the power I did. At only 34 years old nonetheless.

Men would kill to be me and women would kill to fuck me.

The Gallagher name wielded a power for decades in this city. It was almost as if we were historical figures of sorts. Stone monuments were replaced with billboards in Times Square, reservations that were normally booked years in advance suddenly became available, models flocked to be a one-night stand for my brothers and I, and most importantly we were never crossed; and if we were there was a certain finite punishment for people who crossed us: death.

Fear was just as important as money was and we knew it.

Life seemed limitless to a Gallagher.

Especially for me, John “Jack” Gallagher.

The only part I wished I could change about this limitless life was my Pops.

He passed last year under normal circumstances; you’d be a fool to fuck with our family. The manner of death didn’t make me feel any better. I still missed his guidance— in business, in life, and in women.

He used to tell me, “Jack— this life it’s easy. The hard part is finding who you’ll spend it with. The fundraisers, the money, the business— it all becomes dreary without a loyal woman to stand by your side and help you raise a family. Start looking, enough with these whores,” He’d laugh and pour me some whiskey.

I was the eldest son, thus, the head of the Gallagher Mob— one of the 3 powerful mob families left in New York and the leading family for the last forty decades. We were as vicious as the Russians and as calculated with our businesses as the Italians. But the one thing the Italians and Russians don’t have is connection. People forget, the Irish run all the blue collar jobs— police, iron workers, railroad, water department and so on and the Irish aren’t rats. We’ll die for our honor. That’s why we held the power, loyalty runs thick through our veins. Even thicker than whiskey.

I hadn’t given my Pops words much thought this year, in fact any thought at all but my Ma’s been harping on me for some time to find a wife because she didn’t trust all the random women I brought around.

My Ma, what she doesn’t understand is she’s of a different pedigree. You see, my Ma is from an Irish Politician family, the Keeley’s, so she was brought up with class, grace, and most importantly power in her family name. That’s the thing most of these women don’t have— you can’t teach models or nepo babies either of those things because class isn’t learned, it’s engrained. So, the women like my Ma are hard to come by, especially ones that yield a powerful surname.

Knowing my luck, I’d probably have to settle for an average looking woman or a woman with a shit personality but with a powerful name.

Love can be learned, I’d tell myself. There was no such thing as love at first sight. Unless we’re speaking about my parents than they’d tell you otherwise but things were different nowadays.

Why you ask? Because nobody talked to each other anymore, women wanted to be influencers, and plastic surgery was easier to disguise.

It was hard to find a needle in the haystack and easier to find a piece of hay.

As I was contemplating my luck in finding my ideal woman, a sound came from one of the usual suspects next to me— a 5’10-foot-tall model with auburn hair and fuck me eyes. Not so ideal but she did just fine for last night. She turned over in the bed— facing me— just staring at me.

And what did I say about people not talking to each other nowadays? I rest my case.

I began to clear my throat loudly, “Oh hey, Claire,”

She gave me a pouty look and brought the blanket to cover her chest. “It’s Clara,” her face soured.

“Right, I knew that. Clara, I have a busy morning ahead. I have to get going. Can I have my driver drop you off somewhere?” I rolled my eyes away from her.

She whined, of course she had to whine. Didn’t she? “Can’t I come along?”

“I think not,” I responded as I stood up, stretching towards my long penthouse windows, admiring the skyline, hoping Claire or Clara or whatever her name was would slip out and save herself the embarrassment.

But of course, she didn’t. Typical model, thinking you’d forgo her shitty, baby like personality because of her body.

I guess— I did forget it last night. But that was trivial. A night was one thing, another day was another.

“Ok, well you’ll call me won’t you? I have a show at the Rice Foundations Benefit on Saturday, it’s about 1 hour long then I’m free the entire evening.” She responded.

I heard her shuffle clothing and shoes as she neared me.

I continued gazing out the panorama windows, purposefully avoiding her departure. “I’ll see you then,” I responded jovially.

“Alright well bye John, see you!” I heard her exit, almost prancing away with glee.

That was less painful than I’d thought it’d be.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t lying about the fundraiser. I would have to attend, mainly because anybody of any import attended and the foundation was funneling half of my mob money for me too.

A knock on my door sounded, as my brother, Killian stood before me.

“I see you had a nice morning,” he laughed as he stood at the door frame.

“I thought she’d never leave!” I laughed.

“That’s what you get, Jack. Mess around with models and you’ll get leeches.” He laughed.

“Not everyone can be lucky as you, Kil. You got lucky. A beautiful woman, with an important family, that Pops adored.” I replied to him as I headed towards my closet.

Killian did really hit the jackpot with Shannon. Not only did her family have roots in Ireland, which Pops adored of course but her father was CEO of BP. Shannon Gillings, was a perfect match. Killian was the youngest of us 4, and met her last year at some charity event. He would eventually propose but the way it goes is I had to have a wife before he had one, per our dear Ma.

“Give me 20, I’ll be out soon,” I spoke to him as I entered my closet and pulled out a tailored blue suit to start the day.

I combed back my brown hair and took one last look in the mirror. I was clean shaven, and one of the few men who could pull it off. I stood at a proper 6 foot tall with lean muscles. The last thing I inherited was my Ma’s eyes, a light gray blue color.

I headed towards my door, offering the skyline one last look from my bedroom.