Page 112 of Her Irish Savage

Reardon’s had enough of the bickering over my father’s death, and he lumbers to his feet. Towering over the table, he says, “I hardly need to remind you,deartháireacha, what I bring to the Union.”

I know enough Irish to understand he’s calling them all his brothers. Before I can point out there’s a sister in this room, Reardon starts to present his arguments for why he should be general.

He has a few good points—he’s the oldest man in the room, he manages a massive territory, and he handles a lot of money. But it takes him over an hour to make his pitch.

An hour, when all the men at the table become increasingly restless.

An hour, when I long to look at Rivers, to see if I can read murder in his eyes.

An hour, when Uncle Aran begins tapping his index finger against the table, a sure sign that he’s thinking about cutting off the Chicago captain’s speech.

My heart feels like it’s being battered by hummingbird wings, but I can’t let on that anything’s amiss. I can’t risk Uncle Aran figuring out that I know more than I did the last time we saw each other. I can’t chance interrupting any vengeance that Rivers has set in place.

Forcing myself to look bored, I swallow a yawn before I ask, “Braiden?”

Even if my plot against my uncle goes awry, this is a good time to remind everyone that I’m running this meeting. I’m the best captain Boston could ever name.

Uncle Aran doesn’t like my taking the lead. “Come now, Little Fee—” he starts.

Rivers cuts him off. “The man deserves to make his case.”

My uncle’s beard bobs as he takes offense. I order myself not to stare at Rivers, not to question if he’s arguing because he wants to be seen as Boston’s King or because he’s been made aware of treason so abhorrent he can smell blood.

In any case, Braiden rolls over both of them. He says, “I’ve shared the Jameson with all of you over the years. You know I’ve run a tight ship since I took over from my da. I’ve always paid heed to the Union, playing by its rules even when that’s cost me dosh. I’ll take a stand for the GIU against anyone who means us harm—mafia or bratva, yakuza or the law. By now, you all know what happened to Antonio Russo. And I suspect you’ve heard what I did to my own brother when he turned traitor on us all. I respect the Union. I respect you. And I’ll be your next general.”

It takes me a moment to realize that’s his entire speech. When I do, I hurry to fill the gap. “All right, then, captains of the Grand Irish Union.”

Rivers, though, interrupts before I can call a vote. “Anyone else putting his hat in the ring?”

Turning my voice to steel, I repeat, “All right, then, captains of the Grand Irish Union. Following our tradition, Boston votes first. Then, we’ll proceed in increasing order of seniority.” I don’t give Uncle Aran a chance to interrupt. Instead, I announce: “Boston votes for Kelly.”

Uncle Aran’s wailing must wake Da in his grave. He’s calling me Little Fee. He’s saying I have no right. He’s saying he’s Boston, and he’ll make the call, and the rest of the room shouldignore me because I’m a spoiled brat who’s barely out of diapers.

I’m spitting my reply when Rivers closes his fingers over my shoulder.

Maybe he’s trying to push me aside so he can forcibly shut Uncle Aran’s mouth. He’s probably just trying to get my attention. He doesn’t mean to brush against the petals of my bustier’s leather rose.

But Patrick snarls, leaping to his feet like he’s ready to rip out Rivers’ throat with his teeth. That puts Angus and Rivers’ Unknown Soldier on their feet.

Patrick’s left all three of his guns—the Glock, the Magnum, and the little Ruger we took from Kevin Joyce—back home, in deference to the Union captains. He looks angry enough, though, to kill with his bare hands.

I clear my throat to get his attention, but that doesn’t do the trick. He’s breathing through his teeth, short sharp pants. I didn’t see him take his meds this morning. Maybe he did, and the extra tension of wondering if Rivers received our information is what’s pushing him over the edge.

Whatever the cause, Patrick is dangerously close to snapping, the way he was on the golf course. I’m pretty sure I can break his murderous concentration if I say his name out loud. But I don’t want to sound like I’m calling my dog to heel. I don’t want to break him in front of all these men.

And that assumes I can still reach him, that he’d obey.

“Shut it!” The command comes from Braiden.

Braiden Kelly has the power to shut Patrick down. They have years of working together, decades of mutual respect. Braiden’s command pierces the scuffle like an icepick.

“Today isn’t about Boston,” he says. He looks from Uncle Aran to Rivers to me. “We aren’t here to decide which of you has the better claim. That’s a question for your own clan to debate, for your own men to manage. But none of us leave this room until we’ve decided on a general. So each of you stateyour choice. Boston’s vote is the majority, between the three of you.”

What the fuck is he doing?

I already cast Boston’s vote. I already gave him my support.Why the hell is he undermining my position?

But the answer comes to me before I can glare my fury. Braiden trulydoesn’tgive a fuck about the Old Colony Crew today. He doesn’t know that Patrick and I sent secret evidence to Rivers. He hasn’t heard about Uncle Aran’s betrayal. He doesn’t even care if I become the Boston captain.

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