Page 29 of Irish Vice

“I just took you on the milk run.”

She purses her lips, puffing out a sigh of dismissal. “You let me see your marks. Some of them. Not even half, I’m guessing. I want to see your men. That is, if you aren’t afraid to show me.”

“Nothing about you frightens me, Fiona.”

“I’ve killed four men.”

“Closer to seven from what I’ve heard.”

She doesn’t like that. Some of her kills leave her ashamed. That’s good leverage to have. I need more details.

But she isn’t through yet. “If you’re not afraid, Kelly, then let me meet your Council.”

“I’ve nothing to hide. You can meet every one of my made men.”

“Fine,” she says, those feckin’ lips curling into a smile.

“Fine,” I repeat.

And that’s how I end up telling Fairfax we’re having two dozen for dinner on Friday night.

11

SAMANTHA

I’ve been to plenty of black-tie events. The freeport has them all the time, at least once a quarter. That’s what our clients expect.

I know how to twist my hair in a sophisticated up-do. I can paint on everything from a full smokey eye to subtle lash-lengthening mascara, from statement lips to a bare sheen of gloss. I’m able to apply three coats of nail polish without a single smear, on my fingers and my toes.

The first fancy event I ever attended was my parents’ tenth wedding anniversary. I was five years old, and my party-dress was Barbie pink, with layers of lace from my chin to my knees.

After That Night, I knew I’d never wear frills or flowers again. I dressed in classic black. Strapless or over one shoulder. Maybe a sweetheart neckline. The fabrics were always sleek. Always severe.

But this is the first formal event I’ve attended since Braidenand I said our vows. This is the first where I’m bound by house rules.

The hem of my skirt sweeps the floor. Laid out on my bed in the pool house, it covered a generous half-circle. The background silk is black, setting off a riot of huge, blowsy flowers—peonies and chrysanthemums and tulips in a dozen shades of pink and purple and gold. My top is all black, which might violate Braiden’s requirements, except the sleeves and back are so sheer I look naked. A fuchsia belt cinches my waist, as wide as my hand. Best of all, the skirt has pockets—like my wedding gown. Like all the clothes I love.

I wait to leave the pool house until I know the party is in full swing. Braiden is entertaining in the ballroom, where the parquet floor covers half a wing on Thornfield’s ground floor. I’ve walked by it before; the doors are kept open year-round. Smoked mirrors line one wall. A fireplace large enough to roast an ox fills another.

Tonight, the room swarms with tuxedos. Starched white shirts. Slim black pants with shiny stripes. Shoes that gleam like molten glass. Emerald cummerbunds, emerald waistcoats, emerald neckties—some straight and more pulled into bows.

Braiden told me he was inviting all his made men, every one of the Fishtown Boys who’s sworn a loyalty oath. This is Braiden’s true family, more than Madden is, more than Birte and Aiofe. Far more than I, the woman he shacked up with after a sham priest told a few lies.

I pluck a champagne flute from a nearby waiter’s tray. For just a moment, my stomach twists into a painful knot. Less than a week ago, Braiden and I were at that other party, the one where I was attacked by a man pretending to be a waiter. We still don’t know who put out the hit.

The champagne is sour, but I drink it down like medicine. This ballroom is the one place in the world where I know I’m absolutely safe. No killers are getting into Thornfield. Even themen carrying trays are Braiden’s runners, Fishtown Boys, safe and secure. Not an assassin among them.

I swap my empty glass for a full one.

I’m the only woman in the room. The testosterone is so thick in the air, it feels like sunscreen. Each man takes up more space than the laws of physics allow—with their height, their wide shoulders, their hearty laughs and catcalls.

Wait.

Thereisanother woman.

Fiona Ingram is in the far corner. I missed her at first because she’s wearing a tuxedo like the men. Like their trousers, at least. She hasn’t bothered with a jacket. Her backless shirt has a halter collar, drawing attention to her long neck and bare shoulders. She’s wearing four-inch heels, and she’s holding a champagne glass as if it’s a scepter.

The men swarm around her like ants on honeycomb. Fiona throws back her head and laughs at someone’s joke. She traces a finger down one lucky man’s chest. She looks across the room, measuring whether her game is working.