Page 55 of Irish Vice

“Have a good afternoon.”

I’m almost to my room when she says, “Is marrying me such a terrible thing?”

Turning back, I remember every blow her father’s men gave me a week ago. I force myself to close the distance between us. I’m taller than she is by a head, and I must outweigh her two to one. But she doesn’t flinch, not even when I say, “I have a wife. Two, in fact. No man needs a third.”

“Birte’s not your real wife.”

“The church records in County Cork say different.”

“Grace Poole told me what happened. You’ve never taken that shattered girl to bed.”

Jesus Christ. I should have sent Grace home when I had the chance.

Fiona goes on: “And Madden told me about the priest who married you to Samantha.”

Fucking gobshite. I’ll put him on the plane with Grace. Get them both out of my life forever.

“Listen to me, Fiona. I’ll only say this once. I’m not buying the annulment your father demands. I’m not leaving Samantha. There will never be a third Mrs. Kelly. Not by Easter. And not any time after that.”

“Don’t test my da,” she says.

“Your da is a sick old man, and he won’t win this time.”

“I’m not sick. And I’m not old.”

“You’re not a man, either.”

I practically hear the tumblers turn over in her brain, the crack of defiance clicking into place. “Don’t testme,” she says.

I reach out a hand to cup her cheek. Her skin is cooler than I expect it to be, as if she’s been carved out of glass and left overnight in the garden. “I know you want to be a good girl,” I say.

“I’m not a girl!”

She pulls away, as I knew she would. My fingers burn, because there’s only one woman on earth I want to call my good girl now, and I just left her, soaked and satisfied in the kitchen downstairs.

“Gooddaughter, I should have said. You’re doing what your da tells you, and there’s no shame in that. But he can only play the cardshe’sbeen dealt. And this time he’s got a losing hand.”

“What about me?” she demands. “What aboutmycards?”

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand. And I know it’ll break her heart when she finally learns the truth. But that doesn’t keep me from saying: “Fiona, lass. You’re holding no cards. You never have. No one even gave you a seat at the table.”

I leave, so she doesn’t have to. And as my shower pounds the scar on my forearm, I try not to think of how she looked, hearing truth for the first time in her life.

22

BRAIDEN

The air is soft outside St. Columba’s as we gather after Easter Sunday Mass. Samantha and Aiofe are round the corner in the churchyard, filling an Easter basket with eggs hidden by the good ladies of the Altar Guild. Birte’s at home with Grace Poole, because I don’t trust either of them in public.

Fiona’s holding court on the pavement, leaning against Madden’s neon green McLaren and baiting my crew. The dress she’s wearing is as far from an Easter frock as possible—all black leather, with belts and buckles that look like a detailed illustration of the devil’s work. Her lips are bright red and shiny, and her laugh makes promises I know she’ll never keep.

Madden stands on the edge of the crowd. I haven’t seen him since I broke his jaw and from the set of his teeth, he’s still wired shut. His necktie is pulled too tight around his throat. It looks like he’s lost weight after three weeks of drinking dinner through a straw.

None of that keeps him from undressing Fiona with his eyes.I close the distance between us, angrier than I have any right to be. When I cuff his head, I use the side of my hand so the blow is harder than it looks. “Don’t mess with her.”

“Or what?” The words are slurred because of the metal in his mouth, but he’s clearly not backing down.

I don’t have an answer for him. Same as I don’t have an answer for Kieran Ingram, who’s sure to nail me with today’s deadline. There was never a question of my sending Birte back to Ireland, not with her as mad and broken as ever. And I won’t drive Samantha away. I’ll always be two marriages over the limit to meet Ingram’s demand.