Page 27 of Irish Reign

11

SAMANTHA

The funeral is held on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. Braiden decides that one service will serve for both Birte and Grace. They lived together on the third floor of Thornfield. It only seems right they should be remembered together now.

We mourners only fill one pew in St. Columba’s. Braiden and Fairfax wear jet black suits. I don’t own a dress that’s black. My work clothes are all tailored pants and blazers, and my skirts are all riots of flowers. I decide it’s more respectful to wear trousers, like the men.

Aiofe wears a simple black frock with one row of ruffles above her knee. Her hair is pulled back with a matching ribbon. Her face looks as pale as the milk tea Braiden pours for her every morning. Her eyes are red from crying, her nose chapped from blowing.

Rory O’Hare and three of his enforcers occupy the bench behind us. I’m not sure any one of them could have picked thefirst Mrs. Kelly out of a police-mandated line-up, but the men are there as protection. They wear black and keep their mouths shut. No one could ask for more.

That’s it. No one else remembers Birte or Grace.

Braiden could have ordered Fishtown Boys to occupy more pews. He could have gone overboard completely and required wives and children to fill the church. But in the end, he decided to tell no more lies about the girl he married in Ireland, about the nursemaid he brought to the States.

Father Regis conducts the mass. He met both women, so he manages to say something personal in his short homily. He remembers Birte’s piano playing and her simple devotion to her faith. He mentions Grace’s attentiveness to Birte.

After the final prayers for the dead, Father Regis stops in front of our pew. He rests a hand on poor Aiofe’s head and prays out loud that God will comfort her. If he condemns my dry eyes and Braiden’s and Fairfax’s, he doesn’t say a word.

Father Regis heads back to the vestry. O’Hare and his men fill the aisle, a black-clad wall between us and the outside world. We four mourners follow behind, quiet shadows beneath the dark stained glass.

Antonio Russo is waiting on the front steps of the church, immaculate as ever in Armani. Three of his goons stand behind him, their brightly colored casual shirts obscene in the spring sunshine.

Braiden shoulders past a bristling Rory O’Hare. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls.

Russo’s eyes open wide in pretended surprise. “I believe you once told me that Mother Church keeps an open door.”

“You’re not inside the door,” Braiden points out. “You’re lurking on the steps.”

“Lurkis such an unpleasant word.”

“What do you want, Russo?”

“I came to offer condolences to my sweet Giovanna.”

Braiden’s shoulders seem to swell beneath his jacket. “She doesn’t need your lies.”

Russo turns to me. “Is that the way of these Irish dogs, Giovanna? They will not let you seek the comfort of your people?”

It’s bait, and I know it, but I can’t keep from biting back. “I don’t need your comfort, Russo.”

He looks hurt. “There was a time when you called me Antonio.”

I called himDonAntonio. But that was before he murdered my cousin. Before he threatened to lock me into a marriage I never desired.

“How did you even know we’d be here?” I ask, not giving him the satisfaction of calling him anything.

“I was saddened, of course, when I read about your tragedy. On the front page of the paper, no less. I paid—generously—for a mass to be said in Birte Kelly’s name. So Father Regis was only too willing to tell me when a funeral was scheduled.”

I shouldn’t be so shocked to hear the Catholic Church was bribed. Before I manage an answer, Braiden tosses an order over his shoulder. “Rory. Get Aiofe to the car.”

But Russo intercepts O’Hare before he gets the child clear. The Mafia capo kneels on the top stone step, plucking the seam of his virgin wool slacks. At Aiofe’s eye level, he says, “I am sorry you have lost your auntie.”

Aiofe looks to Braiden for reassurance, but whatever she sees there makes her more afraid. She tries to ease behind O’Hare, hiding her face against him.

“Leave the girl alone,” Braiden says, his voice deadly still. But he can’t spill the blood he wants to shed. Not here, in broad daylight. Not in front of Aiofe, who has already seen too much blood on church steps.

Russo reaches out and wraps one of Aiofe’s curls around his finger. “Such pretty hair,” he says. “Like your auntie, I hear.”

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