Page 84 of Irish Brute

I didn’t know, that night. I’ve learned, over the years.

I offer up the only explanation I’ve had for ages—the one I whisper to myself when I jerk awake from nightmares: “I would have hit him if I was one hundred percent sober. He moved too fast. He was too close to the car when he lurched onto the road.”

Russo says, “If you truly believed that, you would have admitted what happened long ago.”

He’s right.

I was drunk. And high. I killed a man, an absolute stranger, and I never made any attempt to find his family. I killed my cousins and left Gianni to take the blame. I corrupted Eliza, making her an accessory after the fact. And for eleven long years, I’ve pretended none of it happened.

I’m a monster.

“I made a mistake,” I plead. “Please don’t do this.”

“You’re a killer.”

“Please…” It’s not too late. His finger still hovers over his phone.

“The worst kind of killer,” Russo says. “Because you put the blame on poor Gianni.”

“Don Antonio…” I beg.

His finger lands heavily on the screen. “Good luck, sweet Giovanna.”

I’m close enough to hear Braiden’s phone buzz in his pocket.

Russo starts to leave. He reaches the door flanked by his Mafia colleagues, only turning back at the last possible moment. “What sort of man am I? I nearly forgot to thank you, Giovanna. The information you provided about the port was exactly what I needed. Without you, we never could have intercepted tonight’s shipment.Grazie mille.”

The lie splits his face into a grin, as if he’s some sort of deranged clown.

I’m stunned. “I didn’t?—”

He interrupts with ruthless efficiency. “Ciao, bella.We will talk soon.” Finally, he leaves, carrying his lies and devastation into the freezing winter night.

I whirl toward Braiden, digging for words to explain.

He already has his phone out. He’s staring at the screen, scrolling down for more. I don’t know if he’s looking at evidence from that night on the mountain. Maybe he’s already getting a report about the stolen drugs, about how Russo got them, about how much the Fishtown Boys have lost.

I stretch for his arm, but he steps beyond my reach. “Braiden…” I plead.

He looks at me like I’ve sprouted horns and leathery black wings. When he speaks, I can’t begin to recognize his voice: “What the fuck have you done?”

34

BRAIDEN

What the fuck have you done?

I say the words to Samantha, but I’m asking myself the same question.

To Samantha: How the fuck did you take money from a Mafia don’s wife and think your secret would stay hidden forever?

And also to Samantha: What the fuck did you tell Russo about my contacts at the port?

To myself: How the fuck did you ignore your Clan Chief, your only brother, when he told you your port contacts were compromised?

And to myself again: How the fuck did you roll over and let Fiona Ingram take the whip hand upstairs, in the one meeting that determined your entire future and the future of your clan?

Because it’s all there on my phone, proof of how my life has fallen to pieces in just one hour.