Page 87 of Irish Vice

But Patrick can help. He’s been my Warlord for years, managing all my enforcers. His hard work has created the machine we’re about to deploy tonight, the defensive barrier we’re building.

But over the last four months Patrick’s acted more like my Clan Chief than Madden ever did. Patrick is my true second-in-command. I can send him in my stead.

Fiona’s still on the phone, waiting.

“I can’t leave Thornfield,” I say. “But I’ll send my Warlord, Patrick Moran.”

A question peaks Patrick’s eyebrows when he hears his name. His gray eyes look black as he stares across the room. The overhead light glints off the silver in his hair.

It’s a shite job, telling a girl her da has died. But Patrick is calm and level-headed. Even better, he moved to Philadelphia from Boston thirty years ago. He might even have a kind word to say about Ingram, something he can dig up from his past. Or he’ll lie. Whatever’s necessary.

“Please…” Fiona says. “Come get me yourself.” It’s the second time she’s begged, and it’s not a good tone for her.

“Text me your address,” I say. “Patrick’s on his way.”

That’s the only solution I have on offer. And Fiona must hear the resolution in my voice, because she says. “Tell him to hurry.”

I forward the text to Patrick with the flick of a finger. He’s not happy to go. “You need me here, Boss.”

“I need Fiona squared away. And in a manner that won’t egg on her father’s men.”

He wants to argue, but he’s too well-trained to put any more objections into words.

I tell him: “If Madden’s eejit enough to be anywhere near Fiona, you can take care of business. I don’t trust anyone else to handle a Kelly man.”

Patrick nods his understanding. He’s followed his Captains’ orders for decades. Now, he says to his second, “Rory. Keep an eye on the waterfront. Those warehouses will be hell to take back if Ingram’s men get in.”

Rory pulls the map closer. My Warlord claps a hand on his shoulder as he hurries out the door.

I shoulder in beside Rory. Another four soldiers have arrived. They’re standing in the corner, trying to look casual,but the room is growing thick with a toxic mix of testosterone and adrenaline.

Seamus argues for my pilot to be put on call, ready to ferry me up to Boston to launch settlement talks with Ingram’s Warlordbeforebodies start dropping. Rory takes out his phone and places a call, staring at the map with narrowed eyes. He starts to give out to the person who answers, telling him he should have been here fifteen minutes ago.

I’m studying the warehouse district. Patrick’s right. If Ingram’s men get in there, it’ll be door-to-door combat getting them out. In the past, I’ve seen good men wounded in raids down there. I have to protect my Boys.

All of a sudden, the room falls silent. I figure Patrick must have come back. He forgot something. Or someone’s blocked in his car. I look up, annoyed, because I need Fiona neutralized without delay.

But Patrick isn’t standing in the doorway.

Samantha is.

38

SAMANTHA

Braiden looks up from the map spread across his desk, annoyance scribbled across his face. The fingers of his left hand dig into his right forearm, prying at the scar I know is hidden beneath his shirt.

His hair is ruffled, and I can tell he’s been clawing through it, frustrated by whatever has prompted this evening war session. His cheekbones are sharp, and I wonder if Fairfax has been feeding him properly. His muscles are strung as tightly as laundry on a line. He’s ready to bark, to snarl.

But when he sees me, everything changes.

Shock. That’s his first emotion. It’s there on his face, in the widening of his eyes, the twist of his lips.

Worry comes next. His eyebrows pinch together. His jaw tightens.

Then comes relief. His eyes close for a heartbeat that might include a prayer. His lungs fill. His mouth relaxes into something that might grow into a smile.

“Samantha,” he breathes. I don’t think he realizes he’s taken two steps toward me. I don’t think he knows his hands are out, reaching for me, welcoming me home.