Page 59 of Her Irish Savage

And then he reaches for his burner. He puts it on speaker and punches the screen to call Rónnad’s number.

She answers on the first ring. “You got my gift?” Her Boston accent sounds fake, like she’s an actor in some black-and-white movie, probably something Patrick would like.

“What the fuck’re ya doin’?” he demands, his accent gone thick. “Where’re ya gettin’ th’ dosh?”

She clicks her tongue, like a mother schooling a child. “I’m not working for you.”

“Ya may not’ve put yer dirty money into my account, but yer answerin’ t’ me all the same.”

“I made my promise to the girl.”

“’N’ I mademypromises t’ that same girl.”

That’s news to me. Sure, Patrick brought me to Boston. And he stayed by my side as I buried my da. But a promise?

I look at the box of donuts on the counter, next to the golden bag of chocolates. I think about the groceries he just put away—apples and cheese and clementines, like he lives here. Like hebelongshere.

They say something, the food he’s brought home. Just like the words he directs to his phone, his brogue thicker than ever. “Speak, ol’ woman. Or I’ll hunt ya down. I’ll find ya in th’ middle o’ th’ night. I’ll drag ya t’ my car, ’n’ I’ll take ya to a place where no one’ll hear ya scream, ’n’ I’ll cut th’ words outta ya, right b’fore I break yer fuckin’ neck.”

He delivers his threats in a low voice, with a deadly certainty that turns my veins to ice—a million times more terrifying thanif he shouted. He won’t act in passion. He won’t be fast. He won’t offer a shred of mercy.

He’ll be an enforcer, striking a blow for his clan.

No. Not for his clan.

For me.

He’s a savage, taking aim at a crazy old lady, and I can barely swallow because I’m so fucking turned on.

When Rónnad finally answers, her words flow fast. “I’ve got my boys stealing cars. I have customers overseas, in Dubai and Doha and Riyadh. Every month, they send me a shopping list, the cars they want. High end, some of them, Mercedes and Lexus and such. But other cars too, Toyotas and Hondas and Hyundais. My boys find the make. They find the color. They take the cars off the streets, most of them. Encourage the owners with a little…direct pressure, when necessary. I have contacts at the Boston port. And New York too. Philadelphia. Baltimore. There’s almost no risk, after the containers are sealed.”

“’N’ what’re ya takin’ out o’ th’ middle?” Patrick asks.

“Five percent! That’s all! Just five percent off the top. I pass on all the rest.”

“Five percent.” I can tell from his tone that he doesn’t believe her.

He makes her go over all the details again. How many cars are on hershopping list. How many men are on her team. The ports, the containers, the bribes she’s paid up and down the Eastern seaboard.

Whenever she balks, he reminds her of his threats. He never raises his voice. He merely makes promises with the crystal clarity of a man who never needs to lie.

I could duplicate her system if I had my own team. But I’m not in charge of the Old Colony Crew—yet. If I took this game to my father’s men now, they might not do the work for me.

In fact, it makes no sense—Rónnad doing this for only fivepercent. The number of cars she’ll have to boost… The number of containers she’ll have to commandeer…

Patrick sees that too, of course. “Why?” he finally demands. “Why take th’ risk fer Fiona?”

“The sunglasses!” Rónnad says. “She gave me her sunglasses!”

He rattles something under his breath, words that end withmotherfucking sunglasses.

But no matter how hard he presses, she won’t give him any other explanation. The money is mine. No strings attached. It’s a gift, from one woman to another. Like the sunglasses were, from me to her.

Patrick finally gives up and ends the call.

Rónnad is certain she can steal the cars. And I’m certain I need the funds. So I decide to continue working with her.

And just like that, a week goes by. Rónnad keeps her end of the bargain. Seven days after her first pay-out, I receive one million dollars.

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