Page 26 of Irish Vice

I tighten my hands on the wheel. She’s wearing black leather pants and a matching corset laced up the front. Her stiletto heels look like they’ve dug into more than one man’s dangling bits. I can’t see where she’d hide a riding crop, but it’s all she needs to complete her little dominatrix outfit.

“Not dressed like that, you aren’t.”

I know it’s the wrong thing to say the instant the words are out of my mouth. So I’m not surprised when she curves her scarlet-painted lips and says, “Fuck that,” she says. “You’re not my da.”

If she were Samantha, I’d turn her over my knee.

If she were Samantha, I’d punish her for weeks, just for showing off her wares like that.

If she were Samantha, I’d never be having this conversation.

But she’s not Samantha. She’s a business associate, with hopes of learning from me about how I manage my billion-dollar cartel. And she’s making me late for a whole round of meetings.

“I’m not your da,” I agree. “But I’m responsible for keeping you safe as long as you’re in Philly. Change your clothes or stay at Thornfield.”

She considers fighting back, but it seems that Fiona Ingram is ultimately a practical businesswoman. She opens the car door and slips off the seat.

“I’m leaving in five,” I warn.

She replies with a single jutting finger.

I lean back while I wait, banging my head against the padded headrest.

Fiona Ingram is feckin’ trouble, with a capital, hand-lettered F. My goal is to show her how boring life is in Philadelphia. There’s nothing for her to learn about my operation. She might as well go home and pester her da for a role in Boston.

The sooner I can convince her of that, the better. The trickwill be getting Ingram to accept her return without starting a war.

Anotherwar.

Russo’s already chewing away at my right side. I can’t afford to have the Grand Irish Union go after my left. Because Ingram’s exactly the type of spiteful shitehawk to have a go at me, if he thinks I’ve insulted his daughter.

Fiona’s got one thing going for her—she’s a quick dresser. She’s back in the Jeep in little more than a minute. She didn’t bother swapping out those leather fuck-me pants. But she’s put on a sapphire-colored jacket that covers her from chin to thigh. It’s got five buttons and every one of them is done up. And it isn’t even leather.

It’s cut tight enough that I can guess her feckin’ bra size, but I’ll count this one as a win.

“Tame enough for you, old man?”

I don’t take the bait. Instead, I put the Jeep in gear and head toward Fishtown.

But her taunt sticks with me, as I merge into the fast lane on 30. I’m only thirty-five. Hardly ready for a walker and adult diapers.

“How old are you, then?” I ask, like I haven’t been brooding for the past five minutes.

“Twenty-four.” She sounds defensive.

Younger than I thought. But I ask, “Why hasn’t your da married you off by now?”

“He’s tried.”

We cover a few miles, but she doesn’t share any details. I’m not opposed to digging. “Kieran Ingram’s Captain of the Boston Mob,” I say, like it’s news to her. “General of the GIU. I’d expect him to have some strong feelings about your future.”

“What’s that street sign say?” She points to a black and white shield ten yards down the road.

“Highway 30?”

“U.S.Highway 30,” she corrects. “We’re not in the old country.Da can’t tie me up and drop me on the steps of some church and expect the priest to look the other way.”

She’s wrong. Ingram could do exactly that. Money talks. And Mob money has a louder voice than just about anyone else’s.