Page 48 of Her Irish Savage

Instead, I spin my fidget ring and gulp the last of my coffee. It’s surprisingly good, without an ocean of salt dumped in.

Fiona makes a show of being fascinated by the mugs. There’s one of those jam tarts left on the plate, and she pushes it around with her index finger. She’s too busy avoiding my gaze to put it in her mouth.

In fact, avoiding me leads to her collecting the dishes and bringing them inside, like she’s been paid to do the work. Shetakes her time, maybe talking to Hannah or Kimi; with the sun’s reflection on the window, I can’t see what’s happening in there.

But when Fiona comes out the door, she walks directly to the Land Rover. She’s all legs and tits and shiny black hair. She’s opted for a strapless lace bustier, and she’s wearing tight black trousers that look like they’d feel slick under my palms. They cut off mid-calf, allowing her to show off her shoes—five-inch stilettos with cuffs around both ankles that make me think of every wicked thing I’ve ever made a woman do.

I follow her to the car like a dog on a feckin’ leash.

We’re halfway to the townhouse, and she still hasn’t said a word. So I go ahead and start the fight.

“Sunglasses aren’t the last thing she’ll want from you,” I say, staring at a red light like it’s the most important thing in my life.

“No shit.” Fiona seems fascinated by her manicure. Her fingernails look like they’ve been freshly dipped in blood, and she’s studying them like they’re engraved with all the secrets of the universe.

“No one hands out hundred-grand gifts without expecting something in return.”

“Contrary to what you seem to believe, I’m neither a child nor an idiot.”

“She’s not your fairy godmother.”

“Jesus Christ,” she shouts. “Give it a rest.”

I hold my tongue for five full minutes. That takes us into the heart of Back Bay. The space in front of the fire hydrant is open, so I take it.

She gets out before I put the car in Park. Barely looking both ways, she crosses the street, and she’s got her key in the door as I come up behind her. She turns the stairs into a track meet, and I’m honestly impressed at her speed in those heels.

I wait until she’s slammed and locked the door before I say, “There are worse things than going back on your promise at the wake.”

“Are there?”

I’ve seen Fiona scheming. I’ve seen her egging on a room of grown men, making every single one of them believe they’ve got a chance to fuck her. I’ve seen her recovering from a beating she never deserved.

But I’ve never seen Fiona furious—until now.

“I made that promise to myfather,” she says, spitting out the word like it’s acid on her lips. “That means something. Not like—” She cuts herself off.

“Not like what?” I press.

She storms into the kitchen and assaults the cupboard, taking out a bag of coffee.

“Not like what?” I ask again.

She slams a filter into the coffee maker. Throws coffee into a grinder. Pounds the button until the entire apartment is filled with the racket of beans being reduced to dust.

When I can finally be heard, I repeat my question a third time. “Not like?—”

“Him!” she shouts. “Not like my father. Not like Saint Kieran, holy captain of the Old Colony Crew.”

She grabs a mug like she’s thinking of using it to brain me.

“He made me sit at his table, family dinner every fucking night, and I was never allowed to say a word. But I did it. He ordered me to attend the mayor’s Patriots Day fundraiser, year after year after year, even though every single person in the room sneered like I smelled like fish. But I did it. I visited family in Dublin, I brokered a peace in Philadelphia, I knocked down Braiden Kelly in favor of a mafia piece of shit, because that’s what my father told me to do. Everything. I fucking did it.”

“Fiona—”

“I shot four men on his orders, after he said I wouldn’t have the guts to follow through. I proved I was a good soldier. I showed him.”

“You—”

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