Page 73 of Irish Vice

She softens her voice like she’s mocking a child. “Did I hurt your little feelings?”

“This isn’t a game, Samantha.”

She flares at that. “I promise I don’t think?—”

“Stop.” I lash out with my Captain’s voice. The single syllable is strong enough to clamp her mouth shut. It’s my turn to laugh—a short, sharp sneer at the shock on her face. I speak very slowly so she won’t miss a word. “I let you interrupt before because you were scared.”

“I wasn’t?—”

“One more word now, and I’ll put you in a gag.”

Her mouth opens. Her throat works. She’s about to speak, but I see the instant she decides not to test me.

It’s the first smart thing she’s done since walking through the pool house door. Since leaving Thornfield and driving up to Boston. Since finding that fucking note and deciding not to wait for me.

She broke something this morning—an essential trust between us. And now, after what she’s said tonight, there’s no way we can ever glue it back together.

“You think this is all a game. I’m pretending to be a gangster. You’re acting like my sub. But this isn’t smoke and mirrors. This isn’t a play.” I pull my pistol from the waistband of my trousers. “This gun is real.”

She snorts in disdain, as if she knows I never loaded it with bullets. As if she’s certain I would never hurt her.

That was this afternoon, when Ingram called. This is now, when she’s cut me to the quick.

“Not one fucking word,” I warn.

I dig harder into my forearm. My scar itches like I’m six years old again, like I’m days past failing Sister, not decades. The burn keeps my fingers from wrapping around Samantha’s long, black hair. I’m too angry to touch her.

“At first it was just Madden, blowing off steam. Then it was Fiona, writing a dirty poem. But Ingram believes every fucking word. So you can be sure he’ll have every other captain in the Union on board soon. Every single one of them will know about you and Russo.”

She talks back. Of course she does. She can’t help herself. “That’s a goddamn lie.”

I won’t hurt her physically. I’ve got enough control left to keep from that. But I strike with the sharpest weapon I possess.

“How many times does a man have to hear about a bitch taking it up the arse before he knows it’s true?”

Her voice trembles. “Youknowwhat Russo did to Eliza.”

There. She’s opened the door. She’s shown me how to win.

I want to be a better man than I am. But my arm burns and my head aches and I just want this to end.

So I let my accent off its leash and say the worst words I can. “I know what yer man did t’ yer feckin’ cousin. And I know what ya let me do t’ ya. Ya like it rough, lass. Ya love it. Do you think o’ him when yer in my bed? Do ya close yer eyes ’n’ picture yer guinea boss?”

One moment, she’s standing tall and straight, chin raised high like the woman I used to love. The next, she folds around herself, caving in, sinking deep, as if I’ve landed a physical blow to her gut. When she rights herself, she’s trembling.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” she says.

She’s foolish enough to turn her back on me. She slips her feet into the shoes she left at the door. She picks up her briefcase,as if she has some important meeting to get to, even though it’s well past midnight.

I let her get halfway out the door before I land my killer blow. I manage my accent this time, because I want to make sure she doesn’t miss a word. “Go on, Samantha. Run away and don’t look back. It’s just like leaving three dead bodies on a twisting mountain road. You’re good at that.”

The glass door shatters when she slams it.

29

SAMANTHA

Itake the guards at the gate by surprise; they’re not expecting anyone to come in or out this late at night. Of course, one of them reaches out to Braiden to find out if he should let me go. Braiden is king of this rotten land. His word is law.