Page 34 of Her Irish Savage

Instead, I smell amber and oak, the warmth of fresh-turned earth baking in the sun. I feel the velvet-covered steel of muscles at rest, even though they’ve been trained to kill. I hear the rough whisper, so soft it’s more a vibration than actual sound, “Stop worrying,Scáthach.Go to sleep.”

I want to know what he’s calling me, but not enough to risk his backing away. He has me. I’m safe. The nightmares won’t come while he’s here.

So I move my lips but make absolute sure not a whisper of sound slips free. “Yes, Daddy.”

12

PATRICK

I’m not a total feckin’ coward. I wait until Fiona’s out of the shower before I leave the apartment. I look her in the eye and tell her I’ll be back by mid-afternoon. I ask if she needs me to pick up anything while I’m out.

I can be a civilized human being.

But the keychain she gives me burns like a bar of uranium in my pocket. The brain squirrels want it to mean something. They want to chew on it. Bury it so they can enjoy it later.

Lying on that couch last night, replaying that disaster of a wake, I couldn’t stop thinking of the girl behind the bedroom door. I wanted to soothe her. To protect her.

The Bell was clanging, calling me into the boxing ring, telling me to start a round. Don’t think. Just act.

Just go be her Daddy.

But how fucked up is that, when the reason she needs comfort is because her real father’s dead? How can I think about calling her my little girl when she’s in the middle of mourning?

I swear to God, I think she said it. So soft, Ifeltit, instead of heard it.

Daddy.

But that’s not enough. That’s not right. The scrambled signals in my brain aren’t an excuse to take advantage of her.

So we spent last night sleeping in that bed, instead of fucking. And this morning, instead of figuring out a dozen ways to make her scream the one word my twisted brain wants to hear, I’m out of the apartment.

I should go for a run. A long one. Get ten miles in, enough to tire out my body and get the brain squirrels back in their cage.

But I’ve never been good at doing what I ought. I’m back behind the wheel of the Land Rover before common sense—and my morning meds—can kick in.

I take the long way around Southie, staying close to the water. Emotions are sure to be high at thedún,with folks hung over from the wake and the Crew gearing up to put Kieran Ingram in the ground. No reason for a chance encounter to turn sour.

A smart man would skip going to Yankee Roast altogether.

I’m not a smart man. Or maybe I’m just stewing in nostalgia. Twenty-five years is a long time to be away from the streets where I was born, where I joined the mob, where I thought I’d live forever.

I end up parking three blocks over from the bakery. This part of town is busier than the last time I was here. I hurry past a handful of little bistros, a yarn store, and a shop selling chocolates that cost nearly as much as my Glock.

Yankee Roast looks like it’s enjoyed the high tide. The outside has a coat of fresh paint; the door is a brighter blue than I remember. There are tables on the sidewalk now, and decals on the door announce delivery through three different services.

A bell rings as I walk in. I’m slapped in the face with thesmell of cinnamon and coffee, with fresh-baked bread and melted chocolate.

Kimi Mulroney is working behind the counter. An apron covers her faded plaid shirt, and her sleeves are rolled up as she wipes down a counter with a clean white rag. She’s thinner than I remember; her face is drawn in a way that’s more than tired. Her head is wrapped in a brightly colored scarf, and I’m willing to bet she’s lost her hair.

“Motherfucker,” she says, in a tone that’s equal parts greeting and a warning to get the hell out.

“Kimi,” I reply.

“It’s Kimberly now.”

I nod, but I don’t repeat her name. “Looks like business has picked up.”

“After twenty-five years? Yeah. Things have turned around.”

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