Page 12 of Irish Reign

Another shrug. “He can argue a stranger took the car. I didn’t show him the gun when we talked by the door. And I wore a ski mask when I strapped him. A gray sweatshirt too, one of those souvenir jobs: ‘Property of the Philadelphia Eagles.’ I even changed my trainers.”

“Did you have any trouble getting the car back to Thornfield?”

He shakes his head. “I drove like my grandmother, on her way to Sunday Mass. Billy Walsh let me in at the front gate. There’re cones all around the house, and crime-scene tape around Sam’s Mercedes. I parked the McLaren at the far end of the drive, took a pic, and covered it with a tarp.”

Christ. I forgot about Samantha’s car.

Someone—the chief fire inspector—is sure to have questions about a new vehicle appearing on the property. But that same someone’s going to have a lot more questions about Madden’s body, once it shows up in the ruins. I’ll deal with that when I have to.

“So what are you out, all told?” I ask Liam.

He shakes his head. “Consider it my gift to you, Boss.”

He’s paid for two whores. Bought off the Avalon’s eejit valet. I’m certain he trashed both outfits he wore, and he got rid of the gun too. The night’s cost him a few grand, even without the valet charging him top dollar.

But he gained something more than a joyride in an acid-green McLaren.

He’s proven once again that he’s a man I can trust.

I think about that neon nightmare of a vehicle. Maybe when all of this is done, I’ll have the car done up in a respectable color—red or black or even the papaya orange they use for their Formula 1 team.

Maybe I’ll need to sink it in the Schuylkill.

But for now, I can leave it as is. As far as anyone knows, Madden is whoring around, maybe following up on yet another dream gig that’ll make him a feckin’ billionaire.

I half-wish Fiona had made her bruised face public, so I could use it as an excuse for my cowardly brother lying low. But she’s chosen to protect her privacy, and I owe her that much, after all that’s gone between us.

Someone will come sniffing around for Madden eventually. And when that happens, I figure the McLaren will give me options. I can lie about my shitehawk of a brother for eons.

At least until people forget they care about a two-bit, lying, back-stabbing cunt who should have been walked off a pier years ago.

5

SAMANTHA

It takes a week for Braiden’s eyes to heal. The day that Dr. Kelleher clears him for driving, he grabs the keys to a new Jeep he’s had delivered to the Rittenhouse. He disappears for hours. I expect him to come back in a better mood, but he’s only more stressed for having skipped a day at work.

The next morning, I wake to cold sheets on his side of the bed. Sighing, I wrap myself in one of the Rittenhouse’s luxurious terrycloth robes. Fairfax has breakfast waiting in the suite across the hall.

A Thornfield breakfast was a thing of glory—fried eggs, sautéed mushrooms and grilled tomatoes, heaps of bacon and sausages, and bowls of hash. Thick hand-sliced toast was served with butter, marmalade, and multiple types of jam. Yogurt was ladled by the gallon, surrounded by berries, honey, and fresh-toasted muesli.

Here at the hotel, Fairfax compensates by ordering half a dozen breakfast platters. It’s not the same, of course. Nothing is.

I help myself to crème brûlée French toast with vanilla whipped cream. When Fairfax comes in with a fresh carafe of coffee, I gesture at my plate. “You could do better than this with a hot plate and a camp stove.”

“It’s kind of you to say so.” He hovers after filling my cup, fretting over the silver-domed plates on the sideboard.

“Pull up a chair,” I finally offer, but I’m astonished when he does. I can’t remember sharing a single meal with Fairfax at Thornfield. He and Grace always ate in the kitchen.

He plucks a croissant from a basket but sets it on his plate uneaten. He picks up a teacup, then returns it to its saucer. He reaches out and shifts the sugar bowl a quarter inch to the right.

“Miss Samantha,” he finally brings himself to say.

“Sam,” I remind him gently. That’s what he’s called me since Braiden brought me home.

“Sam,” he says, clearing his throat and studying the silverware. Finally, he looks me in the eye. “This isn’t working.”

My first instinct is to reassure him. He’s managed miracles, adapting the Rittenhouse for all of us. He commandeers meals from room service like an admiral controlling a fleet on the high seas. He reviews our closets on a daily basis, sending clothes to the hotel laundry and retrieving perfectly pressed garments. He has fresh flowers delivered from a local florist every three days.

---