Page 28 of Her Irish Savage

Sacco is paying his respects. Sacco is honoring my father.Sacco is making a very public statement that he accepts Aran Dowd as the next King of the Old Colony Crew.

The mafioso is taller than he looks in newspaper articles. Fatter, too. He’s still got a full head of gray hair, even though he’s older than my da was. His eyes are dark as they study the room, but his skin has an unhealthy yellow cast. Maybe he drinks too much. Or maybe he’s just uneasy on enemy ground.

Keenan Rivers sidles up to the don. The Old Colony Warlord’s lips twist into something that’s supposed to be a grin as he offers his hand. The men shake, which is something that might have killed my father, if he wasn’t already dead.

And what do I do? I remain kneeling by the coffin, hands clasped, neck bent, trying to figure out how I can possibly leave this room with any dignity intact.

10

PATRICK

How the fuck will I get Fiona out of here now?

Half the room is watching that guinea Sacco kiss up to Dowd, and to Rivers too. The other half is staring at Fiona as she goes through the motions of praying over her da. They’re wondering how long the show will go on, and when she’ll be tossed out on her pretty little leather-clad arse.

Well, in for a penny, in for a feckin’ pound.

I cross the room and kneel beside her. I haven’t been to church in twenty-five years, but lessons from my childhood don’t die easily. My hand moves with automatic precision, making the sign of the cross as I bow my head.

Things couldn’t have gone more arseways for Fiona. Wake or no wake, I never should have let her come back to thedún. Sure, I admire her fierce determination. It’s almost sweet, the certainty she has that she’ll win out in the end.

But if Dowd stops patronizing her for long enough to label her a threat, the Crew will follow his lead. At the very least,they’ll lock her in one of the upstairs bedrooms. At the worst, they’ll drag us both down to the basement.

I wonder if the cellar still stinks of heating oil. If the grout’s still stained a rusty brown by the drain. If anyone’s bothered to sharpen the bone saws and the cleavers, or whether the dull blades are still considered part of the game.

My shoulder blades twitch, sparking alarms to every one of my brain squirrels. I shouldn’t have my back to the room. I shouldn’t take my eyes off the Crew for a single goddamn second. But no one will know I’m not whispering a Hail Mary as I mutter to Fiona, “Ready to leave,Scáthach?”

“Don’t call me that,” she says automatically.

Despite the danger, my lips twitch. This girl has spirit. And that may be enough to get us out of here alive.

“Head high,” I murmur. “Eyes straight ahead.”

I cross myself again, and then I lumber to my feet, ignoring the shouted message from my knees that I should leave kneeling to younger men. For a moment, I think Fiona will ignore me, but then she seems to conclude I’m her best chance for something approaching a graceful exit.

She stands. She reaches out to touch her father’s stiff claws. I haven’t seen the fecker in more than a quarter century, but I have to question the morticians’ skill. I wonder if the clan still uses the Callahan Funeral Home.

Maybe Ingram really did look like a vulture at the end. My boss certainly thought he acted like one.

Fiona shifts her fingertips to rest on the center of her father’s chest, where his heart would be if he’d had one. Old Colony King. General of the Grand Irish Union.

All that power, and the gobshite’s still dead.

“Sleep well, Da,” Fiona says, in her normal voice. The sound carries to every corner of the frozen room. “I’ll make you proud at the Corman Gala. The Crew will give ten million dollars in your name. You’ll sponsor this year’s event. I promise you that.”

She brushes a kiss against her fingertips, then brings them to rest against her father’s lips. Every boyo in the room watches—and now it’s not just her leather gear that has them so excited.

Fiona just issued a challenge. She made a promise. And every man here expects her to fail.

You can’t grow up in Boston without knowing about the Caterina Marcus Corman Museum Gala. It’s held on June 30 every year, an old-school formal affair, complete with a feckin’ red carpet. Boston’s richest families gather in the museum’s courtyard, competing to show off their generosity. If your ancestors didn’t show up on the Mayflower, good luck getting a ticket.

Except the mayor’s allowed in. The City Council, too. The Chief of Police attends and the Fire Commissioner and the lucky eejit in charge of building inspections for the entire city.

But an Irish mob boss from Southie? Kieran Ingram wouldn’t be allowed to sweep the sidewalk in front of the museum. Which is why the Crew captain famously angled for an invitation—year after year after year.

Fiona might as well have just promised to build the Kieran Feckin’ Ingram colony on Mars. Or engineer a cure for hunger. Guarantee us all world peace.

I’m not certain Fiona has a credit card to her name. If she had a cool ten mill to drop on an art museum, we wouldn’t have spent last night in a closet.

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