Page 33 of Irish Vice

Fiona barely hesitates before she starts a new chant: “Madden! Madden!”

In the midst of the chaos, Fairfax is scoping out the food table. He’s brought out another platter of those yellow flower things, the fried ones stuffed with cheese. I catch him before he heads back to the kitchen.

“Could you do me a favor?”

He looks like I’ve just spoken in Swahili. I realize I don’t ask him many questions; I’m far more accustomed to issuing orders.

“Samantha’s upstairs. Can you check on her? Make sure she’s all right?”

“Of course,” he says. He was in the kitchen for my bit of poetry, but he’s too professional to ask why she wouldn’t be just grand.

I wish there was something I could give him to take to her. My ring, but she already has two of mine. A glass of whiskey, but she’s had enough of that. One of those flower things Fairfax just set out, but I suspect she’s too hepped up to eat.

Fairfax is my chief of staff. He cleans up my messes, day in and day out. I have to trust he’ll do his usual fine job tonight.

So I turn back to the crowd that’s cheering Madden’s limerick. I watch the bottle go to the next man. I see how Fiona has every lad in the room eating out of the palm of her hand. And I cheer my Fishtown Boys because I’m their Captain and they’re my men, and we’ll gladly give our lives to save each other, come whatever, fair or foul.

13

SAMANTHA

Istand in the bedroom—Braiden’s bedroom now—in front of the open dresser. The velvet box sits alone in the top drawer, like it’s on display in a museum. Like it’s something precious.

My hands shake as I open it. Framed against the jet-black background, the emerald is even darker than I remember—a gateway to a secret world, a door to a hidden dimension.

What is my collar worth? Twenty thousand dollars? Thirty?

If I sell this necklace, I can use the money to escape. I can travel all the way across country, safe in the anonymity of cash. I’m sure I can find a forger in California, same as I did years ago in New York.

A new name. A new identity. One without paparazzi following me like velociraptors. One where I’ll never practice law, never have to worry about my license being revoked. A new life, where I’ll never have to figure out who tried to kill me at the freeport.

Where I’ll never have to be chained to a man like Braiden Kelly, just to survive.

Because there’s one thing I just learned, downstairs in the ballroom: I willneverbelong in Braiden’s life.

My heart knew it, even before my brain caught up. That’s why I was so uneasy, walking into the party in the first place. That’s why I downed three glasses of champagne before saying a word to a single guest. That’s why I drank Fiona’s whiskey.

Madden’s a deluded ass, but he’s succeeded in making me understand one thing. He’ll never trust me. I could stay at Thornfield for a hundred years, mastermind a thousand illegal deals for Braiden, endure a million drunken parties with the Fishtown Boys.

But I can never erase the fact that I was born Giovanna Canna. That Russo claimed me before Braiden ever could. That my family was Cosa Nostra, my blood is Mafia, drenched in the citrus-and-wood Acqua di Parma cologne all of Russo’s lieutenants wear to imitate their don.

I’ll always be the enemy.

I could go to Braiden with Madden’s threats. Braiden’s still enough my husband that he would defend me, same as he rescued me from the freeport shooter.

But every night when I try to fall asleep, I see that waiter’s blood. I hear the explosion as the gun takes off the back of his head.

I don’t want to be the reason another man dies. Even a man as infuriating, as disgusting, as downright unhinged as Madden Fucking Kelly.

A roar of laughter billows up the stairs. The men in the ballroom are howling some chant, joining in another bonding ritual.

Why couldn’t I come up with a stupid limerick?

It’s easy to blame the alcohol. Champagne blurred all the edges, made it hard to pretend, impossible to think.

When I stood in the center of the room, in front of Fiona, surrounded by men, I could barely remember my own name. Amillion words scrambled in my head—nursery rhymes and Christmas carols and every poem I ever had to memorize in school.

Fighting for a limerick was like trying to net a goldfish in a pond. The words just floated away.