Page 107 of Her Irish Savage

When I fall silent, Patrick finishes the story. “So you took care of things yourself. Both boys. And the fucking priest. Your first three kills.”

I nod again.

“You were brilliant,Scáthach. Feckin’ brilliant.”

For the first time since he’s called me that, I don’t want to know what it means. I just want to lie here next to him, feeling the heat radiate off his body. He’s heard the worst I’ve ever done, and he still thinks I’m a prize.

A long time goes by before he says, “What are you thinking, little girl?”

We can’t take any more truths, neither of us right now, so I force myself to grin. “Honestly?”

“Always.”

“I’m starving. And I’m trying to remember if there’s anything left to eat in the kitchen.”

“There is,” he says.

I don’t want him to leave. I hate when he’s gone. But he’s back in less than a minute, sitting up against the headboard. I curl against his side as he shifts a white cardboard box closer.

“What’s that?” I ask.

He raises the lid. A dozen miniature tarts are lined up in three rows of four, cherry filling gleaming against rich, buttery crust. I shove one in my mouth by reflex.

“Mmmm,” I moan, which makes him raise his eyebrows. “You waited around to buy these, after I called?”

“Hannah wouldn’t let me leave without them.”

“Who’s Hannah?” I ask as I down a second tart.

“The girl at the bakery,” he says. “Careful. You’ll get crumbs in the bed.”

Still chewing, I press a third tart against his lips. He takes it between his teeth, and something flips deep inside of me.

I’m debating another tart for me when I see the black plastic rectangle folded against his palm. “What’s that?” I ask.

“Dynamite.”

I sit up a little straighter and reach for the device. It’s a thumb drive. I turn it over, but there’s nothing written on the shell, nothing to hint at what it contains. “What are you going to blow up?”

“Not what. Who.”

“Who,” I repeat, and I look into his face.

The first time I saw Patrick Moran, I thought he was old. Wrinkles fanned beside his eyes. In some light, his hair was more gray than black. He was Braiden Kelly’s Warlord. He was the Crew’s failed soldier. He was a stranger, hardened and locked down, distant and aloof.

Now, he’sPatrick.

“Who are you going to destroy?”

He eyes me steadily. “Aran Dowd. And you’re going to help me do it.”

He tells me what’s on the drive, all the evidence from the feds. I’ve spent my entire life in the heart of the Irish mob. I drank down loyalty with every bottle Oona ever fed me. I’ve watched brave men make sacrifices and cowards die in shame, all in the name of the Old Colony Crew.

My uncle’s betrayal feels like a physical wound. My stomach aches like I’ve eaten bad clams. A headache sparks behind my eyes, and I realize I’m grinding my teeth.

“How long has this been going on?” I ask Patrick.

“They turned him when he was in jail. When he was waiting for his trial.”

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