Page 82 of Her Irish Savage

His face turns the color of Fiona’s dress, and I realize I’ve made a costly mistake. I should’ve challenged the gobshite to a game or two of poker before we had it out, if that’s the best he can do at hiding his emotions.

Fiona’s laugh rings out across the marble floor. A circle has gathered around her, mostly men, with a couple of curious women flashing their own feather-bright colors to get close to her. I’ve seen Fiona like this before, drunk on the attention of the crowd, flushed with the power she holds. She’s gorgeous when she’son.

Dowd says, “She’s meant for a finer man than you, Cujo.”

“So she reminds me every morning,” I answer. “After I bring her breakfast in bed.”

Fiona’s playing her admirers. “We Irish have a tradition,” she cries. “Telling limericks to mark a grand event. Here’s one my da would love.”

Christ. I’ve heard Fiona’s limericks before. She may be misjudging this crowd.

As if he’s reading my mind, Dowd says, “She’s young. She makes mistakes. But I’ll bring her in line in no time.”

Doing my best to ignore the feckin’ Bell, I fight to sound like I’m talking about the weather. “Touch her like you did the other day, and I’ll break every bone in your fucking hand.”

Fiona holds her glass aloft. “There once was a lad from Nantucket,” she begins.

Everyone around her laughs. Some think she’s funny. Others are politely appalled.

Dowd says, “I’ll touch her however I choose. That’s what a man does to his wife.”

“You haven’t been paying attention,” I say. “Fiona’s not the marrying type.”

As if to prove my point, Fiona says from the front of theroom, “Wait. That’s not right. Let’s try again. In Southie there lived a young buck?—”

This time, the laughter is a little more nervous. Marjorie sails forward, like the Queen Mary coming in to dock. “Fiona, dear,” she says. “Why don’t you tell us a little more about your father’s love of art?”

Fiona says, “There are so many stories I could tell!” She gestures toward the photo of her da and drops her voice, reeling in the crowd. From the shocked expression on Marjorie’s face, whatever Fiona says isn’t fit for polite company, but that’s never stopped my girl a day in her life.

Dowd spits, “You’re choosing the wrong side, Cujo. You’ll pay for that, the instant she’s back in thedún, where she belongs.”

“So we agree on one thing,” I say. “Fiona does belong in thedún. She’s the next captain of the Old Colony Crew.” I’ve never thought she has a chance at leading Boston’s mob. But if the alternative is letting Aran Dowd get the upper hand, I’ll throw in my lot with Fiona.

Dowd laughs, loud enough that a few art lovers look around. When he claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, the Bell tells me to twist him into an armlock, to break some feckin’ bones. I resist until he sneers, “There’s not a man in the Crew who’ll follow that minge’s lead.”

Thatdoesrequire a clear response. I grab Dowd by the elbow as I shrug out from under his hand. My fingers tighten on his ulnar nerve, the one they call the funny bone. His lips turn gray as I squeeze. “Mind your fucking mouth,” I tell him. “She’s your dead captain’s daughter. You’ll give her the respect she deserves.”

“I’ll give hersomethingshe deserves,” he says through gritted teeth. “My ring on her finger and my cock up her ass.”

I think aboutmyring, the Fishtown one, connecting with the point of his beard-covered chin. He’s spent too many years as Kieran Ingram’s second-in-command. Too much time inmeetings, figuring outstrategy. He’s soft, and I could knock him on his arse without half trying.

But the Bell hammers away, reminding me there’s an even better way to take him down a peg. Still keeping a casual tone, I ask, “When’s the last time you had Mike Barbieri’s cock upyourass?”

He stiffens beneath my hand. For a moment, I think he’ll take a swing, which would be grand, because then I could knock his teeth down his feckin’ throat. But he just spits out, “Mind your tongue, Cujo. Lies like that get a man killed.”

Maybe that’s his way of telling me he’s innocent, that my incorrect assumption could put his life at risk. But I’m pretty sure the gobshite’s making a threat, andmylife is the one on the line.

Before I can force him to take a stand—his life or mine—Fiona calls out: “To my father!” She offers her glass in a toast. At least a dozen men are eager to drink at her command. Something twinges beneath the pleats of my white shirt, and I fight the urge to tear through the crowd, tossing the eejits aside like paper dolls.

“Fiona!” Dowd calls, yanking his arm from my grasp to shoulder his way through the gala guests.

She turns a look on him that would wither an ordinary man’s wedding tackle. But Dowd’s a stupid cunt, and he wades in like he has a stand beside Fiona. The hand he lays on her arm looks like a farmer’s, claiming a racehorse that’s refused to enter the blocks. I bite off an oath and push my own way forward.

Before I can get there, Dowd delivers a kiss. He stops short of shoving his tongue down Fiona’s throat, but his fingers move from her elbow to her hip. He uses his height to force her back a step, then slides an arm around her waist to keep her steady.

She stumbles, as if she’s lost her balance on those needle-sharp heels. It’s all an act, though. Fiona’s as steady as they come, and Dowd can’t keep from bellowing when she pins hisfoot with her stiletto. At the same time, she paints a look of pure shock across her face. “Please!” she exclaims. “Uncle Aran!”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. From the cheap seats, the dry shite looks like the lech he is, trying to manhandle a sweet, vulnerable young thing.

---