Page 110 of Her Irish Savage

If I wasn’t such a feral bastard, I might feel a flash of pity about the execution we’ve set in motion. Dowd doesn’t stand a fucking chance.

I delay calling Braiden Kelly as long as I can. But he’s a good captain. A fine leader of men. He deserves a straight conversation before he walks into that Four Seasons conference room for the Grand Irish Union meeting.

He answers on the first ring. “Kelly.”

I bite back my instinctive reply—Boss.Instead, I say, “It’s me.”

He’s no fool. He lets my reply sit between us for a full thirty seconds before he says, “Patrick.”

“You’ll be at the Union vote tomorrow,” I say. I don’t make it a question, because it isn’t one.

“I’ll be there,” he says. “And Samantha too, as my second.”

I’ve heard rumors, read threads on the group text for all my enforcers. For allO’Hare’senforcers, that is. They aren’t mine anymore.

“Herself is a good choice for the job.” Samantha Kelly is fierce as a dragon. She’s smart, too. She’s the match my former boss needs.

“I somehow doubt you’re calling to comment on my employment choices.” Kelly’s voice is as dry as Death Valley.

“I wanted you to know I’ll be at the meeting.” I’m careful with my words. He needs to know I’m not asking. I’m telling him how things will be. “As Fiona’s Warlord,” I say.

There’s another pause, this one longer than the first. Then, finally: “She’s lucky to have you by her side.”

“Thank you.” We both know I’m not thanking him for the praise. He’s setting me free without a fight.

“I was lucky to have you asmyWarlord,” he says gruffly.

I’m not prepared for that. I say, “Tell O’Hare?—”

“O’Hare’s doing fine.”

“He can?—”

“He can run things as he has done, since April.”

There’s a sting in that, but it’s nothing more than I deserve. I clear my throat. “About that,” I say, because it bothers me that Ididn’t tie off my own loose ends. I didn’t get Fiona the revenge she deserves. “About Madden,” I say.

“Fuck Madden,” Kelly says, like the name of his own brother is soap in his mouth.

“Fuck Madden,” I agree. I wait, in case there’s anything else he wants to tell me. I’ll never know how his bastard brother died. But I know Braiden Kelly understands how to make a man suffer.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he finally says.

That’s as clean an end as I can ask for. “Tomorrow,” I say.

When I end the call, I sign out of all the group texts for the Fishtown Boys. They know how to reach me if they need me.

They won’t.

I take off my golden ring, the one cut deep with a Celtic knot, and I shove it in my pocket. I’ll send it back to Kelly. He can give it to the next man to join the Boys.

Fiona’s waiting for me in the bedroom down the hall.

47

FIONA

Patrick and I take the elevator to the Four Seasons conference room. I twitch at the hem of my leather bustier. The scarlet matches my lips; it’s the exact shade of my fingernails. Folds of leather are sculpted into two elaborate roses that cover my breasts. I smirked when I told Patrick he could look, but he could not touch.

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