Page 27 of Her Irish Savage

Rivers shoves me out of the way to get to him. Half a dozen of my father’s best enforcers join the fray.

“Gentlemen!” I say, because that’s what a captain does. She manages her men when they go too far, even when they think they’re acting in her best interest. “A toast! To Kieran Ingram!”

My diversion works—at least to the extent that Moran and Rivers back off to glare at each other. Before I can force them both to drink to Da, Uncle Aran raises his own glass.

“So the prodigal daughter returns,” Uncle Aran crows. “Your poor da’s last great wish was to see you married by Easter. Alas, you failed at that. But if he could know his little girl came back to pay her respects…”

He wipes a finger beneath his eye, and I’m close enough to see it come away dry.

“To little Fee,” my uncle shouts.

And every one of the fuckers but Moran repeats the toast: “To little Fee.”

Just like that, my uncle has locked me in a box. I’m the naughty child. I’m the bad girl who didn’t follow her father’s orders. I’m the brat—little Fee—who barely made it home to spit on her father’s grave.

I’ve never gone by a nickname, not once in my entire life. And I’m not about to accept this one now.

But Uncle Aran turns his fucking back on me. He raises a bottle of my da’s whiskey, and he tops off the glass of every loyal man in the Crew. He clamps a hand on Rivers’ shoulder, leaning close to mutter something I can’t catch.

The soldiers savor their drinks. More than one of them eyes me, taking the measure of the bad girl come home.

Suddenly, I’m sweating inside my tailored jacket. My leather pants are clammy. Swallowing an unexpected wave of panic, I wonder if my makeup is holding up, if the shame of my bruises is on display for every member of the Crew to see.

Uncle Aran turns back, as if he’s only just remembered I’m still here. “You must be tired, Fee, after coming such a long way,” he says. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen? Ask Oona for some biscuits.”

Oona Maguire was my nanny, the woman who dressed me and bathed me and made me feel safe in this nest of vipers. Da plucked her from the kitchen to take care of me and on my tenth birthday he sent her back downstairs, without a word of warning.

So Uncle Aran’s landed another blow. It’s not enough to load me down with a new nickname. Now I’m impossibly weak, exhausted after a five-hour drive from Philly. I’m only fit for visiting with a woman in the kitchen, for snacking on cookies while the grown-ups mourn.

If I go to the kitchen, I’m a child. He wins.

If I stay in the room, I’m a defiant brat. He wins.

If I look to Moran for support, if I explain that Da sent me to Philadelphia, if I shout that my uncle’s men shot at me last night, if I demand my rightful place as heir to my father andcaptain of the Old Colony Crew—anyway I play this: He. Fucking. Wins.

So I choose the least dangerous of all my terrible options. I stalk to the coffin by the fireplace. I drop to my knees, and I bow my head. Crossing myself, I move my lips in the barely remembered words of the rosary.

My uncle can’t stop me from praying over my father’s body.

I can’t afford to look up. I can’t gauge his reaction. But from the corner of my eye, I see him turn toward the front door, toward some newly arrived guest, come to honor my father. I don’t take a full breath until I hear Uncle Aran’s hearty laugh across the room.

This has all gone horribly wrong. Iammy father’s heir. This wake is supposed to bemyfirst act as captain of the Old Colony Crew.

But Braiden Kelly warned me, weeks ago, in Philadelphia. How did he phrase it?

You’re holding no cards. No one even gave you a seat at the table.

It’s seven o’clock. The room is filling rapidly now. I hear lively exclamations as men greet men. Bottles clink against glasses.

The door opens for long enough that a chilly breeze snakes across the floor. The Crew’s tone changes; their voices get softer. Laughter dies away.

I’m not surprised when I hear Father Bertram’s bass rumble, scratchy as he greets mourners. He accepts a drink, comforting whoever pours for him: “God bless you, my son.”

My fingers knit tighter.I’mthe reason Father Bertram ministers to the Old Colony now.I’mthe one who got rid of Father Colin.

I dare to look over my white-knuckled hands. Uncle Aran is holding court beside the bar. I have to blink twice, because the man he’s talking to doesn’t belong inside thedún.

It’s Nero Sacco, Boston’s mafia don.

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