Page 62 of Her Irish Savage

But I have to say something, so I start with, “If you’re asking if my intentions are good?—”

Before I can figure out how the hell to end that sentence, there’s a clatter of shoes on the hardwood floor outside the kitchen. Oona looks up with a start. I’ve got my Glock out of its holster before I’m on both feet.

And Fiona crashes through the door like she’s being chased by all the hounds in hell.

23

FIONA

Fifteen Minutes Earlier

Ialmost call out as Patrick closes the door to Uncle Aran’s office. I want him to stay, to hear whatever my uncle has to tell me, but I know that relying on him will only make me look weak.

Weaker.

Because my uncle is gazing down at me with the sort of tolerant smile grownups use when they watch toddlers play. I feel like I’m pedaling a tricycle or standing over a wooden stove, serving up plastic fruits and vegetables.

“Fee,” Uncle Aran says. “I’m so glad you could join me today.”

“You didn’t give me a choice. You said the future of the Crew depends on it.” Disapproval flickers across his face. I’m only supposed to agree with him. But as long as I have his attention, I say, “And my name is Fiona.”

I want him to respect me, but he only tilts his head andpresses his lips together, like he’s biting back a tolerant smile. Goddamn it. I should have ignored the fucking nickname.

I try to wrestle back command. “What’s going on? Why do you need me?”

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he says, “We missed you at mass this morning.”

I don’t know whoweis, but I remind him, “I haven’t gone to mass since I was sixteen.”

Aunt S and I used to skip church, staying here at thedúnto help Oona with the Sunday roast. After my aunt died, I let my father believe I was with one boyfriend or another. And some Sundays I actuallywasfucking someone he wouldn’t approve of, over at the Back Bay apartment.

“You’d be surprised by how much business a captain can get done at church,” Uncle Aran says.

I bristle.Hewould be surprised by how much business a captain can get done in the ladies’ room of a club. In the men’s room, too, if she plays her cards right. And wears a skirt for easy access.

My voice is brittle. “I don’t need lessons from you on how to run my clan.”

“Apparently you do,” he says, hotter than I expect. “Becauseyour clanbecame quite the topic of conversation this morning, after mass. Chief Flanagan has all sorts of concerns aboutyour clan.”

Boston Chief of Police Daniel Flanagan keeps his distance from the Crew. He never let himself be seen with Da in public. He rarely sets foot in Southie at all, unless he’s preening at a photo op to reassureThe Globethat he has crime under control.

So Flanagan attending mass at St. Brigid’sisa big deal—which Uncle Aran makes sure I understand: “Chief Flanagan is quite concerned about the increase in car thefts over the past couple of weeks. Twice the norm, he says. And moving higher.”

“How unfortunate.” I stifle a fake yawn.

“You think I haven’t heard the same rumors? I keep men onthe street, girl. Eyes at the dock. And half of Boston heard you at your sainted father’s wake. Ten million dollars to the Corman by June. You aren’t fooling anyone, Fee.”

“I’ve never stolen a car in my life!” I’m used to lying about my innocence. But I have to call Rónnad, as soon as I can get to Patrick’s burner. She’ll have to be more careful, slow down her thefts. There should still be plenty of time to hit my goal if?—

“Cut the goddamn crap!” Uncle Aran shouts, slamming one fist on his desk.

Heart pounding, I study my fingernails. Gel polish really is an amazing thing. I got this manicure eight days ago, and there isn’t a single chip.

“You’re putting the Old Colony Crew at risk, girl,” Uncle Aran says.

I meet his gaze, eyes blazing. “I’m doing all I can to save us.”

“I covered your tracks this morning, paying off Flanagan. But the car thefts have to stop. Now.”

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