Page 34 of Irish Brute

Aiofe wrinkles her nose.

Braiden says without heat, “John Bell is a good man.”

Aiofe offers a skeptical huff, as eloquent as any words she could ever choose to speak aloud.

“Don’t you start now,” Braiden says, but the warning is as soft as flannel, as if it’s been used for many years.

I can’t leave well enough alone. “Don’t youwantto go to school?” I ask. If Aiofe went to school, she could be evaluated by professionals. She could be tested, to see if her mutism has some organic cause. She could learn to interact with children her own age instead of a household of adults, at least one of whom is engaged in ongoing criminal enterprises.

But my question is clearly not well received. Aiofe hunches back in her chair. She folds her arms around her belly and tucks her chin toward her chest. Her red curls tremble around her head.

Braiden says, “Aiofe’s safer here.”

“Safer—”How, I’m about to say. But Braiden cuts me off with a glare.

He doesn’t say this is a rule. He doesn’t insist I drop my questions. But I understand I’ve hit a limit. And the last thing I intended to do when I woke up this morning was bully a silent little girl.

I sip my tea and remember not to grimace. My voice is completely even as I say, “Who do I thank for retrieving my clothes?”

Braiden accepts the change of direction. “No one. My men took care of it. I won’t put the unit on the market until next month, so just let Fairfax know if you need anything else from there.”

“You won’t— It’smycondo.”

He shrugs. “If you want to take care of the sale, you’re welcome to it. But I’ve got real estate experts who do these things every day.”

“I’m not selling.”

Braiden glances at Aiofe. She’s staring at me in fascination, as if she’s just discovered a new favorite channel on television. Braiden says, “If you want to rent it out, that’s fine too.”

“I don’t want to rent it. I don’t want to sell it. It’s my home, and I intend to keep it.”

“Why?”

I don’t expect the simple question. We’re married. Why do I need my home? I stutter for a moment before I say, “So I can stay there when I work at the freeport.”

“It’s not safe.”

“I’ll install better locks. Put up some cameras. You’ve got someone who can do that, right? Install hidden cameras?”

Braiden doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he says, “It’s not convenient.”

“It’s five fucking—” I cut myself off. Aiofe is ten years old, and she’s growing up in a house owned by a mobster. I’m certain she’s heard worse. But I rephrase: “It’s five miles from my office.”

“Which you will only be using occasionally. I’ll get you a suite at the finest hotel in Dover when you work late at the office.”

“There are no fine hotels in Dover.”

“Then I’ll talk to Trap Prince. I’ll rent one of the cottages on the freeport grounds.”

“I don’t want a cottage. I don’t want a hotel room. I want my home—the one I chose, the one I lived in, the one that belongs to me.”

“No.”

“No?” I repeat his single syllable, outraged.

“I told you yesterday morning. I like things orderly. Protected. Safe. Your condo is none of those things. Forget about next month. I’ll sell it this weekend.”

“You can’t just?—”