Page 91 of Irish Brute

“You’re the best.” She smiles and waves over her shoulder as she heads toward the elevator.

I lean forward in my chair, doing my best to stretch my spine. My top rides up over the waistband of my black wool pants. I bought the clothes yesterday, from a little shop over by Sherman University called Daisy Chain. I ran in yesterday morning and grabbed the sweater in white, gray, and black. I bought two identical pairs of the pants, because they fit well.

For just a moment, I’d considered reaching out to that store in New York—Gallagher Samson, the one Braiden keeps on call. But I don’t have that type of disposable cash.

And I don’t need any more reminders of Thornfield, of the life I’m leaving behind.

I wipe my palms against my thighs. The pants are practical. Professional. Polished.

And boring.

I want something brighter. Something pretty. Something soft.

I want one of the skirts Braiden made me wear.

But more than that, I want someone to notice I’m working late. I want someone to care.

He knows I phoned him Saturday night. He saw two calls come in before he blocked me.

I’m not reaching out to him again.

That sounds like high school, but it’s not. I’m a danger to Braiden Kelly. To Braiden and the Fishtown Boys and anyone else in Antonio Russo’s sights. In the same way that I told Trap—that IbeggedTrap—not to be dragged down with me, I can’t let Russo get to Braiden through me.

Any more than he already has.

So I turn off my computer. I walk back to Goldenrod Cottage.

But I log on again, from the safety of my temporary home. I shop online for a trio of pretty floral skirts. My finger hovers over the button; I can pay extra to have them delivered tomorrow.

But then it hits me, with the weight of a thousand shipping containers.

I don’t deserve floral skirts. I don’t deserve a break at the end of the workday. I don’t deserve anything soft, anything comfortable. Not after all the mistakes I’ve made.

I delete the entire order. And then I call up a proposed new regulation on investment income and settle down to review the legal language.

38

BRAIDEN

“I’m telling you, Boss. This’ll be worth real money. Billions a year.” Seamus’s voice gets high when he’s excited; he sounds like some sort of cartoon mouse.

“It’sbutter,” I say.

“Look at what those guineas are doing with olive oil! Buy up the cheap stuff, slap a pretty label on it and call it ‘extra virgin.’”

“No one buys extra virgin butter,” I remind him.

“But they buy pure Irish. I talked to the missus. She says it’s real—more yellow, more fat. But we add a bit of food coloring, and who’s to tell them apart?”

I’m staring at the numbers. Feckin’ eejits’ll pay twice as much if it’s got the word Irish on it.

“Go ahead,” I say. “Figure out the supply chain and come back with a full report.”

He leaves my office like I’ve given him a birthday cake, an Easter basket, and a Christmas stocking, all wrapped up in one.I turn back to my computer, but I haven’t yet typed a word when I feel someone staring at me. I look up to find Aiofe framed squarely in the door.

“What’s the craic, little one?” I ask her.

She crosses my office and climbs up on my lap. It’s been a long time since she’s been in here. She’s almost too big to tuck her head beneath my chin.