Page 111 of Her Irish Savage

Not yet. Not until I’ve finished running this meeting.

I’m steady on my four-inch heels as we walk down the hall. I don’t even flinch when I see Uncle Aran standing beside the door.

Part of me hoped Keenan Rivers would have taken him out by now.

Part of me is glad my uncle’s still alive. I want him to see me run this meeting. I want him to know—in those final moments before Rivers kills him—exactly how I’ll run the Crew. I want him to see me in charge.

Uncle Aran has brought one of the Old Colony lieutenantsto serve as his second in this meeting. Angus Miller doesn’t have the decency to meet my gaze.

Patrick reaches the meeting room door first. That gives me the right to enter before all three men. I’m halfway to the head of the table when I glimpse the last man on earth I want to see in this room.

Keenan Rivers is leaning against the near wall, surveying everyone else who’s arrived. His shoulders are back. The sole of his right foot rests beside his left knee. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his white-blond hair is clubbed at the nape of his neck.

I’m not the only one who has dressed in leather for this meeting. Rivers looks like he just left a motorcycle outside some seedy backstreet bar. His well-worn pants are dusty, and his leather jacket fits like armor.

He pushes off the wall and comes to the head of the table with three long strides. “Fiona,” he says.

“Keenan,” I answer evenly.

Patrick and I sent the documents from a burner. There’s no way Rivers knows we’re the source. But he holds my hand a fraction of a second too long when we shake. Or maybe that’s just my own adrenaline, spiking my reactions.

A man flickers in Rivers’ wake, one of the Clan’s newer enforcers serving as a second. I’ve never spoken to him, which reflects badly on me. Once I’m Queen I’ll know every member of my clan by name.

For now, I’m wondering if I can distract the pair of them. Create some sort of forced error. Get Rivers and his second thrown out, so my chosen assassin can work on what’s really important—destroying Aran Dowd.

But if I’m caught squabbling with anyone from Boston, I’ll look like an amateur. A pretender. Not like the captain I want all the other mob families to see.

Fuck.

I sit at the head of the table before Uncle Aran or Riverscan stake a claim to the most prominent place in the room. As the other men scramble to drag over their own chairs, Patrick leans forward to whisper, “Head high. Eyes straight ahead.”

That’s what he said when he saved me at my father’s wake. He’s feeding, me power. He’s giving me strength.

I look around the room and see that everyone else has arrived. San Francisco and New Orleans and Chicago. New York and Baltimore and Philadelphia.

Philadelphia. Braiden Kelly, with his wife, Samantha, sitting behind him as his Clan Chief. I catch a glimpse of a gold ring on her hand, a Celtic knot like Patrick wore until yesterday.

My eyes meet Braiden’s across the table. I haven’t seen him since Easter. I could fill volumes with what’s happened to me since I left his mansion, since I gave up on annoying the living crap out of him. Someday, I’ll tell him I’m sorry.

But not today. Not with Union business the most important thing at hand.

I clear my throat sharply, and every man in the room falls silent. Drawing on my da’s most pompous delivery, I begin: “Grand Irish Union tradition?—”

Rivers cuts me off, his voice like a guillotine made of ice. “Gentlemen?—”

Uncle Aran follows suit, notably louder to make up for being a fraction late: “As you know?—”

The three of us are still jockeying for control when the Chicago captain pounds the table with his fist. “All right,” Mickey Reardon says. “We’re all here for the same reason—to select our next general. So let’s skip the greetings and the gossip and go straight to what matters. I’m stepping forward to serve.”

Braiden takes exception to that. “It’s good of you to volunteer, Mickey,” he says. “But I’m thinking I should be our next general instead.”

Uncle Aran and Rivers explode in predictable attacks. They shout that Braiden killed my da. They bring up old grievances. Ilet them go on because it makes them sound petty, like pasty-faced bookkeepers instead of like leaders of men.

Braiden parries their attacks smoothly, never letting his temper get the better of him. I risk a glance at his second, at Samantha.

I’ll never admit it in public, but I might have overstepped a bit when I lived in Philadelphia. Before I knew Patrick. When I still believed Da meant me to be his heir.

It’s unheard of, a woman serving as Clan Chief. Nearly as outrageous as a daughter filling her da’s shoes as captain. So I give Samantha a small, tight smile. She returns the gesture, which is as close to making amends as we can come today.

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