Page 94 of Her Irish Savage

I can’t fix this. Too much is wrong. It’s time for me to give up and go home.

But the worst part is, I won’t look any better once I’m there.

No. That’s not the worst part. The worst part is I’ll spend the night alone in my big, empty bed. I’ll toss and I’ll turn and I’ll dream about every mistake I’ve ever made.

And no Daddy will ever be there again, to make it even a tiny bit better.

38

PATRICK

The first week without meds, I feel like Superman.

I put together a new workout routine—crunches and pushups by the hundreds, squat thrusts, mountain climbers, all followed by miles-long runs.

I take the pen and notepad from the drawer in the hotel desk, and I start a list of every place I want to see in the world. There’s plenty of Ireland I’ve never been to—my family’s all from County Sligo—but there are other places too. The Eiffel Tower. The Taj Mahal. The Great Wall of China. I write everything down.

I start one of those language apps on my phone. I’ve got enough Spanish to work a drug deal with the Colombians, and that carries over to Italian when I’m dealing with old-school mafia eejits. But I’ve thought for a long time about picking up some Russian. The alphabet’s a pain in the arse, but I force my way through, one word at a time.

Sure, I sleep like shite, but waking every hour gives me achance to check my perimeter. I can keep an eye on the hotel hallway. Make sure no one’s getting into the Chevy.

Each morning, I think about reporting to Kelly. But in twenty-five years, I’ve never gone on holiday. I’ve never had three consecutive mornings I can do what I want. Three days stretches to four stretches to five, and then it starts to feel like I’ve been lying to my boss.

I haven’t. He hasn’t needed me. I still get Fishtown texts on my phone, so I can see Kelly’s running the Boys out of his new house. He’s watching the build-out on his new bar, the one where he’ll keep a back office. The clan’s going just fine without me.

Eight days after I get to Philly, I finally track down Rory O’Hare. I trained the man to be my second. I’ve watched over him for the last ten years, so I know I’ll find him at Mimi’s on a Monday night. He’ll have a go at one of the girls. Treat her to a drink after. And at midnight, he’ll be walking home, sticking to the shadows on Second Street.

I step out from the doorway of a boarded-up bank, taking a stand in the middle of the pavement. O’Hare drops into a fighter’s crouch, his fingers near the Beretta he keeps in an ankle holster.

“Forget it, boyo,” I say. “You’ll never draw in time.”

“Jaysus,” he says, standing to his full height and offering me a handshake. “Moran! What are you doing here?”

“Checking up on your sorry arse. You’re keeping Himself safe?”

O’Hare gives me a rundown on all he’s done for the Boys. They’ve been warring with the mafia for months. Things have gone to hell since February, when a summit put things to rest for a short while.

That’s the meeting Fiona ran when her da was too sick to manage.

Fiona… The squirrels treat me to a split-second slideshow—her body moving under mine, her face flushing as I call her beautiful, her voice calling my name as she comes?—

I snap my attention back to O’Hare. “Who do you have driving for Himself?”

He’s deployed his men well. He’s keeping track of all his boss’s household—Kelly, and his wife, and the girl they’re raising as their own. O’Hare’s put some thought into his men’s needs too. He’s increasing responsibility for the best of the junior enforcers. He’s doubling up where a yoke’s not quite up to speed.

He’s good at this job. The best.

“So when’ll you be back from Boston for real?” he asks.

“I’m not sure.”

“I’ve still got that Mini in the garage. The one you told me to nick.”

That’s Fiona’s car, the one she left at Madden’s. The Bell clangs, urging me to act, not think. “Sell it,” I tell O’Hare. “Send the money to the Corman Museum up in Boston. Make a donation in Fiona Ingram’s name.”

“Then Ingram’s girl is doing all right?”

“She’s fine,” I lie. Or maybe I’m telling the truth. I don’t know. Fiona’s not my business anymore.

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