Page 113 of Her Irish Savage

He just wants to be general. And he thinks he’ll get one step closer to that by diluting my vote.

Reardon finally agrees to accept a three-way Boston ballot. Uncle Aran wastes no time proving he’s not beholden to me. He cast his vote: “Reardon.”

Rivers cold blue eyes narrow. I can’t tell if he’s weighing an attack on me, an evaluation of my traitorous uncle, or the matter actually in front of him—choosing the Union’s general.

I can’t breathe. I can’t turn to Patrick. I can’t do anything but wait, hoping, praying that I’ll be able to parse whatever he says next. Rivers’ vote is like a clump of tea leaves spread across a cup, and I’m the witch trying to read the future.

“I vote for Reardon too,” he finally says.

So he’s siding with Uncle Aran, against me. Is he ignoring all the evidence we sent? Refusing to believe it? Has he even read it at all?

But everyone else in the room is playing a different game—the Grand Irish Union game—so I force myself to shrug. I pretend I planned to side with Chicago all along. “Boston votes for Reardon, then,” I say.

The voting proceeds around the table. San Francisco votes for Reardon, and of course Reardon votes for himself. New Orleans and Baltimore go for Braiden. He casts his own vote, so they’re tied, three-three.

Connor Boyle, New York’s captain, is a giant of a man. Hetakes his time, looking first at Reardon, then at Braiden. And then he says, “I vote for Kelly.”

Just like that, Braiden Kelly is the next general of the Grand Irish Union.

Following tradition, he pours a toast for each of us from a bottle of Jameson that was twenty-two years old when my da was sworn in. Samantha carries the glasses around.

I take one, as do Uncle Aran and Rivers. Patrick follows suit, and Angus and the Unknown Soldier. We wait until Samantha raises her own glass, until she calls out, “To Braiden Kelly, general of the Grand Irish Union!”

I make my answer, loud and clear: “To Kelly!” The whiskey is smooth, coating my throat with a complicated blend of oak and chocolate and just a hint of dried winter apples.

Uncle Aran pushes forward, making sure he’s the first of us from Boston to shake our new general’s hand. He acts like he’s forgotten that he cast his vote for Reardon; he’s bent on wiping clean the slate and starting new.

He makes a point of recognizing Samantha, too, touching his glass to hers. He’s building bridges, forging allies against the storm for control of the Crew.

For now, I hold back. Braiden knows he had my support. Samantha saw my bid to set things straight after the differences we had in Philadelphia. There’ll be time enough for me to speak after the visiting captains have had their say.

Patrick moves forward to shake his former boss’s hand. There’s a moment between them. A silence. A wait.

But then Braiden takes Patrick’s offered grip. He does more than that, he pulls his former Warlord in for a quick one-armed embrace. They both step back, and they turn to me at the same time. Braiden raises his glass. Patrick meets my gaze.

I lift my own glass, high enough that my stays dig into my sides. I consider calling for limericks, but this isn’t the time or the place.

The sworn captains will gather with their new general thisevening. They’ll crack the seal on a new bottle of well-aged Jameson. There will be secret oaths, ones I’ve never heard before, but I understand they’re made on blood and fire.

Down the road,I’llswear to my general. After Uncle Aran’s dead. After the Old Colony Crew makes me its Queen.

Braiden’s taken away by someone else offering congratulations. Patrick starts to make his way across the room, to me.

Uncle Aran’s still lingering among the others. He doesn’t understand his place in this crowd. He doesn’t know he’s about to be destroyed.

I look around the room for Rivers.

He’s nowhere to be found.

48

PATRICK

Fiona and I have a hotel room for the night, close enough to the captains that we can manage any Union problems that arise. I wait until Fiona’s closed the door before I tell her what I’ve been thinking from the moment she called the meeting to order. “You were brilliant.”

Her blush matches the leather roses covering her tits. “I bet you say that to all the Mob princesses you know.”

I close my hands on her hips, bringing her close enough to feel my hard-on. “Every single one.”

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