Page 12 of Her Irish Savage

Sighing, I say, “If you’ll let me, Boss.”

It takes a minute, but Braiden finally says. “Go ahead. But don’t let me be surprised by anything you find up there.”

“You won’t be, Boss,” I promise.

Spinning my ring, it occurs to me that the texts I’ve been reading have left a pretty massive hole. Madden Kelly made it onto Thornfield land to plant his bomb in the garage. An entire crew of Fishtown Boys—my enforcers included—scoured the estate for any sign of the gobshite, only to come up empty.

But Braiden hasn’t called anyone to task. He hasn’t questioned the search. He hasn’t ordered new men to watch the gate.

My boss knows more than he’s letting on in public. I can’t ask him outright. Even with our phones secured, there are some questions no man should ever say out loud.

But I can work around that.

I clear my throat and say, “Speaking of surprises… I’ll be taking Fiona round to collect her things before we leave. Any idea if Madden’ll be there to give us trouble?”

He pauses for long enough that I have my answer. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but Braiden Kelly has guaranteed his brother won’t be wreaking any more havoc on the Fishtown Boys. On Fiona Ingram, either.

Nevertheless, Braidensays: “He was at the house last night. Blew the garage to smithereens, but no one caught him on the grounds. The boys couldn’t find him.”

My eyes narrow as I nod, my suspicions confirmed by the non-answer. I pitch my voice carefully, striving for just the right note of concern. “I’ll let you know if we see him then.”

“You do that.” Braiden says.

Someone who didn’t know my boss as well as I do might believe there’s an honest chance Madden might walk through the door any second. But I’m armed with the truth.

Now that I know I’m heading north, I’m itching to get on the road. So I say, “If you need help while I’m gone, you could do worse than asking Rory O’Hare.”

“Thanks,” Braiden says. “Safe travels.” It’s gratifying that he sounds a touch reluctant to send me on my way.

I end the call and look around my bedroom. It’s spartan. Bare. Some might say I live like a feckin’ monk.

I do best when I’m surrounded by few distractions.

Pulling a duffel from under the bed, I start tossing in the things I need. A spare pair of jeans. Some T-shirts. Boxer briefs and socks. A tight-knit sweater, because I know how cold a Boston spring can be.

Two spare handguns, a throwing knife, and a pair of brass knuckles.

Glancing down the hall, I see Fiona hasn’t moved on the couch. That gives me time to shower. Eat whatever passes for food in a kitchen nearly as empty as my bedroom. Take my meds.

And then I’ll wake the hellcat so we can head to Boston.

5

FIONA

The third time I wake, bright light pries past the window shades. I’ve lost hours; it must be after noon. I look across the room, and the leather chair is empty. My ice packs are fresh, though. And from the rosemary-sage scent of arnica, Moran applied fresh cream to my bruises.

My brain is dull, like scissor blades used to cut through plastic. I’m thirsty, and my belly feels empty, but I’m queasy too. I’m not sure I can keep down food—which might be a first for me.

My phone sits on the low glass table in front of the couch. When I lean forward to pick it up, my body is out of sync. My head feels like it’s tied to a string, floating up toward the ceiling. It takes a few breaths for my brain to catch up to my grasping fingers.

Sinking back into my nest of pillows, I hold the screen at arm’s length, waiting for it to identify my face and unlock. The room is too dark, though, or the angle is wrong, or maybe myface is too swollen. I have to type in my code to access my information.

No messages from Madden. There’s not a chance in hell I’m letting that asshole get anywhere near me, but I miss the chance to tell him so, in no uncertain terms.

There’s nothing from my clan either. No one extending condolences about my father. No one calling his lieutenants together.

That makes sense. They’re waiting for me to act.

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