Page 91 of Irish Vice

“Youwere the spy. You always were. But the limerick Fiona…”Left on my desk. I’m about to say it, when I realize the truth. “She didn’t write the limerick,” I say flatly. “Youdid.”

He laughs like I just shared the punchline to a filthy joke. “Took you long enough.” He smacks his lips as if he never learned the difference between kissing and devouring. “All I did was borrow Fiona’s lipstick.”

I fight the urge to slip my finger past the trigger guard. Aiofe squirms, trying to turn her face away.

Madden grunts as he tightens his grip around her throat. “Ingram said you made quite an impression in Southie. Demanding to see Fiona. Threatening to bring the FBI. But Fiona was with me in Philly, the whole fucking time.”

My entire trip to Boston… The nightmare fight with Braiden that followed… Moving from hotel to hotel to hotel in Dover… Trying to duck my death sentence…

All because of Madden.

The urge to shoot him is a hot wire threaded into the base of my skull. But if I fire, his hand might spasm. He might get off a shot. He might hurt Aiofe.

So for now, I need to make Madden feel smart. Feel safe. Feel like the type of man who would never dream of harming the terrified child he’s holding hostage.

I look into his flat brown eyes and try to sound like we’re two ordinary people having an everyday conversation, like neither one of us holds a gun. “You must have been planning this a longtime. Blowing up the garage tonight… How did you know Aiofe and I would come to the safe room?”

He cackles like a child torching an anthill with a magnifying glass. “Fuck the two of you. I knew my pussy brother would come. He’d hide like a little girl.”

But he didn’t.Before I can point out Madden’s mistake, Aiofe starts to struggle. I don’t know if it’s the “little girl” that sets her off or the thought that Braiden’s a coward. But she spits something in Irish and tries to land an elbow in Madden’s ribs.

He yanks her neck back like he’s jointing a chicken.

“Aiofe!” I say, more terrified than I let myself sound. I stiffen my arms, resigned to taking a shot, because I see no other way to save her.

Madden counters by digging his weapon into the bone beside her eye. She stops fighting, but her entire body vibrates, her hair swirling like she’s charged with static electricity.

No.

Her curls don’t move in an electric current. They sway in anaircurrent.

I glance over her shoulder. Down the hallway. Toward the door I closed and locked. Into the shadows—where Braiden crouches, body taut as wire, a pistol glinting in his hand.

41

BRAIDEN

Samantha is beautiful and she’s terrible, like Ireland’s ancient goddess of war, the Morrigan. She’s shrouded in black and white, the unforgiving uniform of a lethal lawyer. She was only gone a week, but her cheekbones are sharper here in the safe room. Her chin is more pointed. Her whiskey eyes boil with fierce certainty, and the scars along her hairline stand out like a silver aura.

She holds her pistol like it’s an extension of her arm. This is the life she was born to. This is the life she’s embraced.

Standing on the drive as my garage burned to its foundation, I wasn’t afraid to face Madden. But watching Fairfax talk to the firefighters, I wasn’t a fool either. My brother had to know he’d be fighting for his life. He had to be desperate. And desperate men are the most dangerous.

I came to the safe room because I couldn’t risk dying without kissing Samantha one last time.

I’m not a total lovesick fool. I left Seamus standing guard at the doorway.

Now, Samantha feels me before she sees me. Sheknows. We’re bound by the rings she still wears, the one with the Celtic knot of my Fishtown Boys and the engraved one I gave her at our wedding.

Is liomsa tú.

You are mine.

I’ll die before I see her harmed. Even if—especiallyif—that means killing my brother in the very heart of Thornfield.

42

SAMANTHA