Page 22 of Her Irish Savage

Fiona’s stirring when I come back from the jacks. “My backpack,” she mutters, and I find it by the foot of the bed. She digs out her phone but then she stares at the screen like she’s forgotten how to answer. When she finally looks at me, her face is stricken. “It’s my uncle.”

“Put it on speaker.”

She obeys, which pulls something tight in my throat.

“Uncle Aran.” Her voice is flat.

“Fiona.”

I haven’t heard him in twenty-five years. Dowd’s a Clan Chief now, his captain’s right-hand man. He’s spent his entire life in the Irish mob, and he’s made it somewhere north of sixty without being taken down by the feds, a competing mob, or fights within his own clan.

I thought about killing him myself a quarter of a century ago. He deserved it, for what he did.

But Aran Dowd is a man who gets his way. He’s got that in common with his niece. Instead of killing Dowd, I left Boston.

Fiona pulls the duvet closer, as if a feckin’ quilt can keep her safe from the shitehawk. But she’s smart enough to hold her tongue. Dowd’s the one who placed the call. He’s the one who wants something.

And sure enough, he finally says, “I understand there was a misunderstanding tonight, at thedún.”

“At my home,” she says. Good girl. She’s not afraid to stake her claim.

“At your father’s home,” Dowd clarifies. “May he rest in peace.”

Fiona doesn’t bother with religious sentiment. “Your men tried to kill me.”

“Like I said,” Dowd replies smoothly. “A misunderstanding. They weren’t expecting you to show up like that. Tonight.”

“To myhome,” she insists.

He ignores her point. “Tonight,” he repeats. “Your father’s wake isn’t until tomorrow.”

“You have norightscheduling my father’s wake.” Fiona’s voice shifts up a couple of notes. I take a step forward, lowering my chin, trying to remind her she’s a feckin’ force.

“So many locals want to show their respect,” Dowd explains. “We’re holding his funeral till Saturday. Leaving time for the Dublin family to fly in.”

“I get to decide that! I’m his d—” she catches herself, just before she saysdaughter.“Only child,” she says, like that will get her the prize she wants. “I should choose the date.”

“Wait too long and people start plotting. They need to see a King on his throne.” Dowd sounds like he’s teaching catechism to a slow student. But it’s no coincidence he useskingandhis. Fiona hears it too.

“No one’s ever pushed out a rightful Old Colony captain,” she warns.

“And they won’t now,” Dowd says smoothly. “Seven o’clock for the wake. Tomorrow night. At thedún.”

“And you can promise we won’t have any moremisunderstandings?” Fiona pushes, clearly trying to salvage some hint of authority.

“Good night,neacht.”

It’s not an answer. Some might say his calling herneacht—niece—is a good sign. Family doesn’t murder family. But I’m inclined to say he’s putting her in her place. Patting her on the head and sending her to bed. Telling her the grown-ups will take care of the Crew.

From the look on Fiona’s face, she agrees with my interpretation. “Asshole,” she breathes, tossing her phone onto the mattress.

The motion pulls the duvet away from her chest. I do my best to ignore the view, focusing instead on the point of her chin. “And what do you intend to do about it?”

“WhatcanI do? Show up for my father’s wake. Once I’m there, I’ll let everyone know in charge.”

She’s fierce. I’ll give her that. “The first thing we can do is get there early. Seven o’clock is arrival time for the public. We’ll be there by five.”

She eyes me steadily. “We?”

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