Page 60 of Her Irish Savage

I can’t just let the money sit there forever. I withdraw fifty thousand dollars in crisp hundred-dollar bills, half-expecting the transaction to draw unwelcome attention from the feds. But no one at the bank blinks an eye. I stash the money in my safe in the closet, feeling like I’m paying Aunt S back for something.

The second million comes in even faster, only three days later. The third arrives two days after that.

And then Uncle Aran calls, demanding that I meet him at thedún.

22

PATRICK

Fiona won’t listen to feckin’ reason.

I tell her not to meet with Dowd, that she has nothing to gain from answering his summons. She says she’s not afraid of him, that she has to put him in his place before she becomes his Queen, and now’s as good a time as any.

I tell her not to go to thedún, that she shouldn’t meet on his territory. She says her father’s name is on the city records, thedúnhas been Ingram property for more than one hundred years, and she’ll be conceding something vital if she treats it like Dowd owns it now.

I tell her she still doesn’t know that witch’s game, that no one takes all the risk and pays out ninety-five percent of the take without having some ulterior motive. She says she’s not an idiot, and that she appreciates my looking out for her, but there isn’t an angle to this that she hasn’t already considered.

And then she calls me Daddy.

I take her to bed, just as she intends me to do.

She’s a good little girl. She comes when I praise her, three separate times, because I think that might be enough to change her feckin’ mind about the trip to Dowd.

But then I’m pulling on clean clothes, a new shirt and trousers I bought to hang in her closet. My shoulder holster feels like a bridle. I pocket an extra magazine for my Glock.

And I drive her over to the feckin’dúnbecause I’m notactuallyher da, and I’m not her boss, and there’s nothing I can do if she’s determined to risk her goddamn, gorgeous neck.

Dowd sees us in his office, which is another bullshit power play. As Clan Chief, he’s had a private room in thedúnfor decades; it’s the same one I stood in after Da died. It’s the same huge desk, sized for a man who uses paper and pen in his daily work. It’s the same executive chair, framing him like he’s the villain in a movie made from a comic book. It’s the same row of gilded plates on the wall, awards from the South Boston Eire Association, honoring him for his fine work over the years.

“Thank you for bringing Herself,” Dowd says, with a civil tone that almost makes me forget he’s a feckin’ animal.

I nod, because the alternative is speaking to him, and I don’t trust what I might say.

“You can wait in the kitchen,” Dowd says, not bothering to look me in the eye.

That requires an answer. “I’m happy to stay here.”

“I wasn’t asking, Cujo.”

There’s a knife behind his words that only a fool would ignore. But the past three weeks have turned me into an eejit, because I turn to Fiona and say, “I’ll stay.”

Her eyes are bigger than the fancy gold plates behind her feckin’ uncle. She swallows before she remembers to throw back her shoulders, before she raises her chin. She looks at a point somewhere north of my forehead when she says, “That’s okay, Patrick. I’ll swing by the kitchen when I’m through.”

It hurts more than I expect. I’ve known from the moment I wrapped one of my kitchen towels around a bag of frozen peasthat Fiona Ingram had her own agenda—first with Madden Kelly, then up here in Boston. She’s determined to take over her father’s empire. She knows that’ll cost her, and she’s prepared to pay.

Nevertheless it feels like pure shite, being part and parcel of the currency she’s handing over.

I could call her bluff. Refuse to go. Keep her safe, at least until I’m cut down by the men Dowd surely has in earshot. The Crew knows I fight like a savage. Dowd must have taken that into account when he planned this goddamn summit.

Summit. Not exactly. A summit is a meeting of equals. And Fiona Ingram isn’t an equal to her uncle. Not in this room. Not inside thedún. Not in the city she’s called home for all her twenty-four years.

And if I disobey her now, I’ll make her worth even less.

So, God help me, I leave her in that feckin’ snake pit. I make my way to the kitchen, clearing my throat outside the door, so I don’t take anyone by surprise.

And sure enough, Oona Maguire is sitting at the head of the scrubbed wooden table when I enter the room. She’s in the middle of fixing Sunday roast; that’s a leg of lamb in the roasting pan and a mountain of potatoes she’s peeling for roasties.

“Have a seat, Paddy,” she says, nodding to the chair next to her. “I’ve just put on the kettle. I thought you might want a cuppa.”

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