Page 30 of Irish Vice

She’s staring straight at Braiden.

He’s deep in conversation with Madden—standing a little too close, looking a little too tense. Braiden’s hair is ruffled, which means he’s been running his fingers through it. He raises a glass of amber liquid and tosses off half his drink, sucking air through his teeth before he dives back in to whatever point he’s been making. He doesn’t seem to be aware of Fiona at all.

But Madden is. His eyes dart toward her like he’s a starving dog, and she’s a meaty bone.

My glass is empty again. A nervous boy with acne scars on his cheeks walks by with a tray. I trade for a new, full flute and go back to my survey.

All right. I’m not the only woman here. But I’m willing to bet I’m the only civilian in the room. And the only Italian too. The men here know me as Samantha Kelly. Some of them met me as Sam Mott. But the name on my birth certificate isGiovanna Canna, and I learned Italian from mynonnabefore I learned English.

As long as I’m tallying up differences, I’m pretty sure I’m the only lawyer here too. One man near the windows is showing another his wristwatch, and I’m willing to bet a year of my freeport salary he’s telling a story about how it fell off the back of a truck. A tall man with wavy red hair takes a money clip out of his pocket. He counts out a dozen bills, and I catch the light glinting off Ben Franklin’s high forehead as he hands the money to a colleague.

I’m General Counsel at Diamond Freeport. I know how the law can bend around facts. I’ve spent years stretching obscure legal theories to the breaking point. But this is the first time I’ve been in a room where I’mcertainevery other person has committed enough felonies to go away for life.

I’m guilty myself. I’ve taken three lives.

Once more, my glass is dry. It’s only champagne. I’m used to handling much stronger alcohol.

I swap glasses again, but better safe than sorry. I’ll get some food in my stomach. Make sure my drinks don’t go to my head.

I cross the room to a table filled with Fairfax’s most delicate offerings, arrayed on serving platters like intricate mosaics. There are miniature lamb chops finished with a perfect mince of mint. Crisped rounds of potato topped with gleaming caviar. A charcuterie tray crowded with ten types of cheese and a stunning array of paper-thin meats.

I’m swallowing a stuffed zucchini blossom when someone comes up behind me. Too close for comfort, he leans into my back. His whisper feels like rancid oil poured into my ear. “Of course you go for the guinea food.”

“Madden.”

He leans across me, reaching for one of the caviar potatoes. I can either take a step back or let his head brush my chest. I move, which angles me into a corner of the room. I’m trapped by the table, cut off from the crowd.

Madden chews and swallows without shifting his weight, without opening a path for my escape. He wipes his greasy lips with the back of his hand.

I clutch my champagne glass tightly. I’ve seen Braiden use a flute as a weapon. I can shatter the crystal against the wall and bring it up in one smooth arc, bury it in Madden’s throat and watch him bleed out on the ballroom floor.

Jesus. I reallyama killer.

Madden says, “I’ll give you one thing. You’re not wearing a wire for your goombah pimp.”

He eyes the sheer sleeves of my top. I’m queasy at the thought of him staring at my near-naked back. How long was he behind me before he spoke?

Madden says, “You’ll just have to remember everything you hear. All the Fishtown plans you’ll pass him while he takes you up the arse.”

“You’re drunk,” I say.

“Not even close.”

“Then you’re insane.”

He eyes me like I haven’t said a word. “Maybe youarewired. What have you got beneath that skirt? What’s strapped to your leg?” He makes a move, like he’s going to reach beneath my hem.

I wish I had a pistol strapped to my leg—maybe the nine millimeter I bought to defend myself when I lived alone in Dover. But I’m supposedly safe in Thornfield now, my handgun nowhere close. So I lower my voice like I’m issuing orders to a mad dog. “Touch me and I’ll scream.”

“So little brother Braiden can come save you?” He twists the words into a child’s taunt.

I’m a civilian, not a gangster. I grew up in the Mafia, not the Mob. I’m a lawyer, not a criminal. But I know exactly how to castrate a man like Madden Kelly.

“He’s yourCaptain, asshole. Because your father thought your mother was only good for a fuck, not for a family.”

Madden surges toward me like a pit-bull on an iron chain. The wall feels like a sheet of ice against my spine, as if my sheer top has been dissolved by my spiking pulse.

I smell whiskey on his breath. His cologne stinks of sandalwood and something else, something sharper, something rank: Fear.