Page 10 of Irish Reign

He’s the most over-protective S.O.B. I’ve ever met in my life.

“I’ll be back by 2:30,” I say. “Which you’ll know by staring at your own damn phone.”

His feral grin almost makes me glad I’ve given him a victory.

4

BRAIDEN

Samantha’s trip to Dover proceeds without any problems. She’s back to the Rittenhouse suite at 2:29, precisely one minute before her promised return, which makes me wonder how long she loitered in the lobby before coming upstairs. She’s followed the rules, though, so I have no right to complain.

“I’ll be working in the bedroom,” she tells me.

I understand she’s chastising me for keeping her from her freeport office. If we weren’t surrounded by half a dozen of my Fishtown Boys, I’d make her pay for the insubordination. Both of us could use the release.

But wearesurrounded by my men, all of whom are suddenly busy, studying their phones or the paper maps we’ve spread out on the table.

Plus, my eyes still ache like the bleeding wounds of Christ.

And I need toseemy sub if I’m going to discipline her properly.

“Fairfax is serving dinner at six,” I tell her pointedly. I want both of us to believe I still make the rules.

She doesn’t reply.

I wait until she’s closed the bedroom door before I lock myself in the jacks off the living room. I run water in the sink, because luxury hotels don’t provide the sort of soundproofing I used to enjoy at Thornfield. Two days living here at the Rittenhouse, and the lack of privacy is already driving me mad.

Wrestling my phone out of my pocket, I’m pleased to discover I can keep it a full handspan from my nose as I tap the screen. That’s progress.

Liam Murphy answers on the first ring: “Boss?”

“I have a project for you.”

“Sure thing, Boss.” If he’s hoping I’m about to send him back out with Samantha, he’s smart enough to keep his voice neutral.

Which is the only reason I tell him, “I want my brother’s car.”

I’ve spent the better part of the day thinking about this.

Chances are, the McLaren is in plain sight, somewhere in Philadelphia. Madden planted it somewhere before he sneaked onto Thornfield land, armed with a pipe bomb to take out my garage. My brother was stubborn and impulsive and he never met a rule he wouldn’t break for the sheer hell of it. But he’d make sure to leave himself a clear alibi, all the same.

I want the car picked up, because I don’t want anyone asking uncomfortable questions about Madden’s whereabouts. I don’t want people wondering why a car worth half a million dollars is sitting somewhere, unattended.

The Fishtown Boys are used to the back and forth between Madden and me. There’s not a man on my crew who would question my boosting my brother’s car. And once I get the McLaren locked behind Thornfield’s gate, I’m pretty sure no one will think to ask when Madden’s taking it back.

“Boss?” Liam asks. He’s not arguing. Not telling me it’s a shite assignment. Not saying it’s impossible. But he honestly seems not to understand.

“Madden’s McLaren. I want it parked at Thornfield by midnight.” And just in case he’s thinking of cutting corners and boosting it off some street somewhere: “With the keys.”

“Do you know where it is?” He’s good. There’s not a hint of grievance in his voice.

“Track it down.”

“You’ve got it, Boss,” Liam says.

And the confidence in his voice actually makes me believe he’ll get the job done.

Liam Murphy is as good as his word. He returns to the Rittenhouse at a quarter to midnight. My eyes are aching—tired as well as burned—when Seamus opens the door to the suite. But I can see the glitter of the keys when Liam drops them in my hand. He passes me his phone, too, with a picture of the ugliest acid-green car I’ve ever seen in my life, safe on the driveway in front of Thornfield’s burned-out ruins.

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