Page 43 of Her Irish Savage

“Fiona.” His gaze stays glued to mine. He sounds like he’sreading lines from a play as he loudly announces: “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I say.

And then, before I can think of something civil to continue the conversation—ask about his family (does he even have one?), or maybe about his health—he leans in close. Talking fast, like he’s reciting all of the Generally Accepted Accounting Principles in less than a minute, he says, “The ten million dollars you promised for the museum. You need to pull it from sources no one else knows about. Dowd will do everything he can to stop you. Call Rónnad.”

“Who?” I ask, feeling like I’ve been caught in the spray of a machine gun.

“Call her,” he says urgently. “Today.”

“I don’t?—”

He reaches out and shakes my hand. His palm is sweaty, but he’s holding a scrap of paper. He grips my fingers until he’s certain I’ve accepted the transfer.

“Who is she?” I ask. “Why are you helping me?”

But Q answers in that too-loud, too-fake voice. “Great to see you, Fiona. Wish it was under other circumstances.”

He leaves before I can force out any more questions, darting across the parking lot like a pack of wolves is nipping at his heels.

Patrick shakes his head, but he opens my door and sees me settled in my seat. He hands me my cigar box after I’ve fastened my safety belt.

I’m already studying the paper by the time he locks his own door. “What’s that?” he asks.

I show him the scrap. It’s blank, except for ten inked numbers divided into three neat groups—a phone number. But there’s no sign at all of who this Rónnad is, or why Q believes so strongly that I can trust her to get me the money I need.

16

PATRICK

Fuck.

I’m not driving back to Philadelphia today.

I remember Quentin O’Roark. The last time I saw him, he was a low-level runner, but he’s clearly found a way to succeed with the Crew. That makes sense. The man was born with a computer attached to his fingers.

But I stepped in front of Fiona because hecouldhave had a gun. He could have pulled a knife on her. Broken her neck with a twist of his hands.

Okay. Maybe nothishands.

But Fiona isn’t safe—not with Aran Dowd prowling for the King’s throne. And even though Keenan Rivers has kept to the shadows, I don’t trust him either.

The simplest thing for me to do is to pay attention to the Fishtown ring on my finger. That Celtic knot stands for something. It tells me who my true family is, where I’ve been for the past twenty-five years, where I belong.

But a feckin’ ring doesn’t say anything about a girl trying to do what’s right. Fiona dressed like a Queen today. She stood by her father’s grave as if he deserved her respect. She held her tongue when that dry shite of a priest rushed through his prayers like he was shoving a pauper in a pit.

And she nearly came apart at the seams back in the apartment, when I spared her one kind word.

I’ve been counting kinks for longer than she’s been alive. I know some people get off on praise. Plenty of subs get more from a few kind words than they do from whips or cuffs or butt plugs.

But I’ve never seen anyone turn on so fast, so bright. Fiona lit up like a feckin’ lightbulb, and my fingers are itching to pull her chain again.

When we return to the Back Bay, I linger on the little patio at the back of the house. I have phone calls to make, and Fiona needs time to gather her thoughts. I saw the way she clutched that cigar box like it was a lifeline. I’m curious about what’s in it, but I had no business asking at the churchyard when she’d just buried her da.

I check in with Rory O’Hare first. He’s been my second-in-command for a few years now; I trust him keeping an eye on our boss. It’s Saturday afternoon, but he answers on the first ring, ready with a full report. He fills me in on Kelly’s whereabouts, on his state of mind, on the day-to-day challenges of running a criminal empire from a five-star luxury hotel.

That gives me what I need to check in with Himself. But Kelly doesn’t pick up, even though I’m calling his personal phone.

On the one hand, I should be pleased O’Hare’s serving well enough that I’m not needed. On the other, I feel a bit bruised for being set aside so soon. I leave a message, saying Dowd and Rivers are chasing their own tails; I don’t think they’ll bother Fishtown anytime soon.

---