Page 116 of Her Irish Savage

My plan was to order enough that both the cook and the waitress would remember us days later, maybe even weeks, if that’s how long it takes for the cops to ask us to prove our whereabouts. Fiona accepts the challenge like she’s going for a gold medal in eating.

We both drink enough coffee to fill a tanker truck.

By six, the morning crowd starts to arrive. Fiona makes her usual scene, leaning over the counter to call a farewell to the cook. I ask for a cash register receipt, which earns me even more of a stink-eye than I get for the tower of plates stacked on our table. But I end up with a piece of paper saying we left the diner at 7:12.

One more Uber. We pay surge pricing because it’s morning rush hour, but I don’t give a damn. Fiona falls asleep with her head in my lap, poor little bit. I rest a hand on her shoulder, replaying how she slayed, running the Union meeting.

Traffic is worse as we near the hotel. Gridlock jams the intersections. Drivers lean on their horns, and my phone gives me a message that I’m paying Uber even more because my ride has taken longer than expected.

The driver keeps saying he doesn’t know why this is taking so long, that traffic is never this bad, especially not in August. We creep forward, one block, another, another.

I shake Fiona awake as the car finally turns onto Boylston, one block from the hotel. She sits up slowly, with the dazed look of someone who should have had at least six more hours of sleep. “What—?” she starts to ask.

But she stops. And she stares. We both do.

A dozen police cars surround the brick front of the hotel, blue and white lights flashing like strobes at a fashion show.

49

FIONA

Patrick and I stand on the sidewalk across the street from the hotel, gawking like all the people around us. Dozens of cops scurry between cars, some in uniform, others in suits. I quickly realize their attention isn’t on the front door of the hotel or the lobby. Instead, the police are focused on the side of the building.

Crime scene tape stretches across the entrance to an alley. A group of reporters has already gathered; they’re shouting questions from the sidewalk, but no one gives them any answers.

Patrick grabs my hand and leads the way across the street, taking advantage of the traffic jam to keep from getting killed. He shoulders a path to the front of the crowd, pulling me with him until we both peer down the alley.

Three overfilled dumpsters line a brick wall, huge and green and stinking in the August heat. A dozen cops cluster around the middle one.

Uncle Aran lies spread-eagle on top of a pile of black trash bags. The front of his shirt has been slashed, the white fabric now stiff with darkened blood. A pile of entrails spills over his belt, their scarlet mottled with black.

His hands stick out from the ends of his sleeves. They’re already swelling in the morning heat, but even from here, I can see that his fingers jut at impossible angles. His arms bend the wrong way, too. So do his legs.

There’s a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, and a line of blood that runs into his tattered beard. A rat the size of a shoebox hangs out of his mouth.

A crime scene investigator approaches with a camera, and one of the cops moves to get out of her way. The policeman bangs his hip against the corner of the dumpster, and a cloud of flies swarms up from the pile of ruined meat that used to be my uncle.

I gasp, but the sound is drowned out by the frantic shouts of reporters. Patrick turns to me, his face a blank canvas.

I need to tell him I’m all right. I can manage this. This is what we planned for. This is the only logical end for a man who betrayed his family, his clan.

Before I can speak, though, my phone buzzes. It’s tucked inside my corset, where I’ve held it the entire night. I’m inclined to let the call go, but Patrick reaches inside his own pocket. He pulls out the burner he used to send the kill order.

He taps the screen on his phone as I reach for my own. It only takes a moment for me to see the messages, identical, from an unknown number.

Job complete

My fee: Control of the Crew

---