Page 12 of Irish Vice

“You’re disgusting,” I snap.

He moves faster than my eyes can follow. I don’t realize he’s grabbed a cue until the maple rod is pressed against my throat. Madden’s trapped my body with his; my shoulders are crushed against the solid wood door of my wardrobe.

I react automatically, falling back on self-defense training I mastered when I was in law school and returning home alone from the library, well after midnight most nights. Stiffening three fingers, I drive at Madden’s throat, putting all my strength into the short, sharp jab. At the same time, I grip his left wrist, turning into his arm and forcing my body weight against the joint of his elbow.

He drops the cue in surprise. It’s still rattling on the floor when I bring my knee up hard, smashing into his nose. Blood starts to flow as I stretch for the cue. He gets there first, but I kick at his wrist before he can bring the wood up between us.

He staggers back three full steps as I scream, “Get the fuck out of here!”

This time, I see every move he makes. His knees dip. His hand grips a holster at his ankle. Light flashes cold on steel as he comes up with a pistol.

“Not so brave now, are you, cunt?”

By reflex, I hold up both hands. His laugh is liquid as blood drips down his chin. He saunters forward one step, two. I back away until I’m once again stopped by the armoire.

The gun is ice against my carotid, so cold the muscles of my heart start to freeze. My eyes are open as wide as possible as I try to glimpse his finger on the trigger without turning my head. He raises his wrist, pressing harder into my throat. I barely feel his knee digging between mine.

“I know what you’re up to, bitch.” His spittle lands on my cheek. “You’re fucking my brother and running back to Russo.Take the Irish through the front door and the guinea up your arse. But when I catch you with that Italian gobshite, I’m blowing your fucking brains out. Got it?” The nose of his gun carves a divot in my throat. “Got it, bitch?”

I swallow, which only makes me feel the gun more. He’s delusional, but that won’t save me if he decides to pull the trigger. I nod my head once. My lips form the words, but I can’t make myself say them out loud. “Got it.”

Madden shoves one more time before backing off. “Christ,” he says, pressing the back of his hand to his nose. “Look what you did.”

As he stalks into the bathroom, I slide down the door of the wardrobe. I end up with my head between my knees, my neck bowed as I try to remember how to breathe.

A few minutes or an hour or a century later, Madden comes back to the main room. He throws a bloody washcloth at me. It’s one of the new ones, lavender now splotched with crimson. I cringe as it hits the floor beside me.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“Go where?” I’ll never get in a car with him. I wonder what other weapons he’s carrying.

His laugh is cruel. “To the main house. Braiden sent me to fetch you to dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say automatically.

“He said you’d say that. I have Himself’s permission to throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the dining room.”

As if you need permission.

I think it. But I don’t say it out loud. I won’t do anything more to taunt the time bomb in front of me.

Instead, I push myself to my feet. I run a hand through my hair. I tug on my skirt, settling it firmly over my hips.

Madden nods approvingly. “You’ll want to look your finest,” he says. “We’ll have the whole family sitting around the table. Along with a very special guest.”

I refuse to ask. Instead, I concentrate on making it to the main house under my own power, trembling legs and all. Every step, Madden follows behind, breathing noisily through his swollen nose, and I know he’s my enemy for life.

6

BRAIDEN

Dinner is the single longest meal of my life.

Despite coming in on his day off, Fairfax has worked his usual magic. He serves up a full Sunday roast—leg of lamb, potatoes, the spring’s first asparagus, and Yorkshire pudding. I keep Aiofe in her place to my right and Samantha to my left. Birte sits by Aiofe, Madden next to Samantha. I put Fiona at the foot of the table.

She can report back to her da that she has a place of honor. And she can’t get close enough to put a knife between my ribs.

Sheclaimsshe’s only here to learn how I run the Fishtown Boys. Shesaysher da means to make her captain of the Boston crew after he’s gone, may that be many years in the future. Sheinsistsshe’d be a fool to stir up trouble for me down here.