Page 47 of Her Irish Savage

“You don’t trust me?” She laughs without any humor.

“I don’tknowyou. How the fuck am I supposed to trust you?”

She clicks her tongue, but I’m not sure if she’s protesting my swearing, my lack of faith, or Patrick’s failure to return instantaneouslywith her sweet, milky coffee. “Give me a bank account,” she says. “I’ll deposit one hundred thousand dollars by tomorrow night. One million by next Monday. The rest by June 15.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Just like that?”

She smacks her lips. “Just like that.”

Patrick finally returns. Rónnad accepts the fresh latte like she’s doing him a favor.

“And what do you want in exchange?”

She drains off all the coffee at once, as if her mouth is made of asbestos. When she sets the empty mug on the table, she cocks her head like a curious pigeon. Her braids bounce. “Those sunglasses.”

My fingers go to the frames of the glasses I picked up at the drugstore before the funeral. “You’ll deposit one hundred thousand dollars into my bank account by tomorrow night. And all you want is a pair ofsunglasses?”

She shrugs. “They’re nice sunglasses.”

“They’re rip-off designer shades I bought at CVS.”

She nods and repeats: “They’re nice sunglasses.”

She’s fucking nuts. I don’t know what sort of joke Q is playing. I don’t know if this woman is wearing a wire, or if she plans on hacking the banking system, or if this is all an elaborate scam to get two lattes and a cherry tart.

But I made my crazy vow in front of the entire Old Colony Crew. I need ten million dollars by the end of June. So unless I can figure out some way to spin it from thin air, I need Rónnad.

“How do I send you the account information?” I ask.

She digs in the pocket of one of her skirts. Patrick tenses, but he holds off from putting her in a wrist lock for long enough that she can produce a smartphone.

It’s an Apple. Top of the line. More camera lenses than my own phone, which is only a year old.

She holds the device to her face, unlocking the screen. Peering closely at the glass, she searches for an icon. Herknotted finger lands heavily on the green-and-white image for texts.

“Here,” she says, passing the phone to me. “You send yourself a text.”

I stare at the phone like it’s a live tarantula. There’s no way in hell I’m giving her my personal information.

Patrick grunts like a silverback gorilla. He takes his burner out of his pocket and I pass him Rónnad’s phone. He types in a number, hits send, and nods when the message arrives.

Rónnad returns her phone to her pocket, then points at me with an index finger so twisted it points in three directions at once. For a moment, I think she still wants me to hand over my own device. Then, I think she’s asking for a third latte. But she raises her chin, gesturing toward my glasses.

I take them off slowly and pass them across the table. Rónnad picks them up using both hands, reverently, as if they’re some sort of holy relic. When she puts them on, they cover half her face.

“Tomorrow,” she says.

And then she’s gone.

18

PATRICK

Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to go after that bitch. Shove my Glock in her face. Find out what game she’s really playing.

But one game shemightbe playing is drawing Fiona out in the open. We’re on the edge of Southie. On the border of the Crew’s territory. And Aran Dowd is ruthless enough to know his life would be a hell of a lot simpler with Kieran Ingram’s daughter in a grave.

So I’m not leaving Fiona to chase that woman.

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