Page 17 of Her Irish Savage

“We aren’t equals,” she says. “I’m his captain.” She’s like a child, announcing the Easter Bunny will deliver baskets after midnight. The Tooth Fairy will take her front tooth and leave her a silver dollar. Good old Santy will fill her Christmas stocking.

“Fiona—”

But I don’t get to say the rest. Because she pulls back firmly on the latch. She climbs out of the Land Rover, steady on her towering heels. She throws back her shoulders, and the light from the streetlamp cascades over her catsuit. She heads toward thedúnlike she’s Queen of all the Celts.

“Stop!” the guard on the right shouts.

Fiona doesn’t stop.

“You are not welcome here,” says the guard on the left, like he’s memorized one line for a school play.

Fiona keeps on walking.

“This house is the property of the Old Colony Crew,” the first man announces.”

Fiona pauses then, one foot on the curb. She cocks a hip. Twists her lips into a knowing smile. And she says very loudly, very clearly, carving out each syllable like a perfect diamond, “Then this house belongs to me. I’m Fiona Ingram. Queen of the Old Colony Crew.”

Gunshots echo down the street like the voice of an angry god.

7

FIONA

My ears are ringing, but I can still make out the sound of an engine racing behind me. An engine, and Moran shouting: “Fiona! Move yer feckin’ arse!”

I stumble toward the car. One of my shoes catches on a manhole cover, and my ankle turns. That sends me tumbling forward, but the Land Rover’s there, the door open. I’m still fighting for balance when Moran grabs my wrist. He yanks so hard I think my arm’s coming loose from its socket. My already bruised ribs crash hard against the center console.

Tires squeal, and Moran peels away. My legs are half-in, half-out of the vehicle. Moran grips my biceps like a vise, anchoring my throbbing ribs against the gearshift.

He takes a corner wide. Slams down a block like he’s on the straightaway of a Nascar track. Turns left, then left again, hurtling down an alley.

He only releases my arm after he’s thrown the car into Park and punched the emergency brake.

“Close your door,” he says, voice surprisingly mild, like he’s talking about the weather.

“They fired at me!”

“Close your fucking door.” His tone is still perfectly even. I wonder if he’s some sort of sociopath.

I scramble clumsily, half-kneeling on the seat before I get my legs inside. Once I’m sitting, my stilettos force my knees to an awkward angle, too close to my chin. I realize I’m leaning forward, trying to draw a full breath against the constriction of my catsuit.

I close my door.

The instant it latches, Moran shoves the car into gear and flies down the alley.

“They tried to kill me,” I say, as he returns to a city street.

“Bullshit.” He ignores a stop sign.

“Didn’t you hear those shots? They wanted?—”

“To scare the shite out of you.” He soars through a red light too. “You were three feet away. If they wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now.”

Southie sails by—sagging houses and tired cars and dimly lit packies with beer signs hanging in their barred windows. “I didn’t think they’d?—”

“You didn’t think.” He cuts me off. “Period.” He finds one of the streets that crosses beneath the interstate. Shabby tents line the underpass.

“My father made me his?—”

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