Page 57 of Irish Vice

“Yer not th’ one t’ decide?—”

“Fiona’ll go home with a hundred thousand, and you’ll both be grateful for that.”

“Don’t ya interrupt me, boyo!”

“Call me boyo one more time, you miserable cunt, and I’ll come with Fiona, just to knock your teeth down your throat.”

“I’m yer fuckin’ General!”

“Then stop whoring out your daughter and act like it.”

I end the call as Ingram’s spluttering boils over into another coughing fit. “Your da needs you back in Boston,” I say to Fiona, handing back her phone.

She shakes her head, but she takes the device. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” she says.

“For the first time since you got here, I knowexactlywhat I’m doing.”

“He’ll ruin you.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

The phone in her hand starts to ring. She glances at the screen, then holds it out to me. “Tell him you’re sorry. You made a mistake.”

“I’m not. And I didn’t.”

“Tell him you need some time to think.”

“I don’t.”

“Tell him?—”

“I’m not telling him a thing, Fiona. Now answer the call and let him know you need his plane. Because I swear to God, if he doesn’t send it, I’ll put you on commercial.”

But she doesn’t answer the call. She waits until the ringing stops, and then she thumbs a button, cutting off whatever follow-up Ingram might try.

“I’m not leaving Philadelphia,” she says.

“You’re a grown woman. Do whatever you want. But I’m calling Fairfax right now and telling him to have your bags outside Thornfield’s gate by sunset.”

Fiona glares as I take my phone out of my breast pocket. “Don’t bother,” she says. “I’ll be out of there.”

I wait, not trusting her. But she turns to the men by the church steps. “Madden!” she calls, walking toward him, all hips and tits and a smile that says she eats men for breakfast. “Can I trouble you for a ride?”

My brother jumps like someone clipped live wires to his bollocks. His grin is broad as he takes his keys out of his pocket. The metal bits shine as he tosses them into the air and catches them. Fiona doesn’t look back as he hands her into the McLaren.

Samantha and Aiofe come around the corner from the churchyard just as the acid-green car roars away from St. Columba’s. Aiofe startles at the noise, nearly dropping the wicker basket in her hands. Samantha steadies her, bending down to say something I can’t catch above the racket.

A fresh breeze catches Samantha’s dress, the one I had Fairfax carry out to the pool house yesterday. It’s a riot of flowers, all pinks and purples, and I spent too much of Father Regis’ mass wondering what she’s wearing underneath. Even now, I’m tempted to lure her back inside the church, to drag her into one of the confessionals for a few minutes of indecent privacy.

“Everything okay?” she asks as they reach me.

Without thinking, I close one hand over her hip. I lean downand brush a kiss against her lips, catching a whiff of something that smells like sunshine. Just the feel of her, the warmth of her, unlocks something in my shoulders, and I draw my first full breath since Fiona handed me her feckin’ phone.

“It is now,” I say.

Samantha’s a lawyer. She’s used to clients lying. To telling lies herself. She doesn’t believe me for a second. But I direct a pointed glance toward Aiofe, and she lets it go.

“What’s the craic, little one?” I ask, cementing the diversion.