Page 56 of Irish Reign

He nods toward Samantha and the table she’s commandeered at the front of the room. She’s got a dozen different documents, all of them in triplicate—for the freeport, for Boyle, and for me. “Your woman has some things for us to sign,” he says.

“Worse than buying a house,” I say. I glance at the book, locked in its bulletproof box. “What will you do with it?”

“For now?” he asks. “Put it in my gallery, here at the freeport. That’s the way we turn a profit, right?”

After what he’s paying today, it’ll be a long time before he profits on the Skreen. But I say, “That’s the way.”

I let him lead the way to the front of the room.

24

SAMANTHA

Last Friday, Russo lost the Book of Skreen.

This week, he gets his revenge, running me ragged.

On Monday, he requires my presence as he takes delivery of the first shipment destined for his gallery. Other tax haven clients manage loading in without the direct oversight of Diamond Freeport’s General Counsel, but I give in because I think I might see something, evidence in the case I’m building against him.

In the end, though, I only witness several hundred cases of laundry detergent, stacked to the ceiling by hard-working young men. I’m sure the jugs fell off a truck somewhere along the Eastern seaboard, but it’s hardly the type of theft that would put Russo behind bars for a lifetime.

On Wednesday, Russo demands my company again. This time, the shipment is barrels of olive oil. I’m certain the liquid in those drums is nothing but cheap vegetable oil with a bit of greenfood coloring. But, again, no agricultural fraud will put Russo away for life.

On Friday, Russo keeps me waiting all day, but no shipments make it through the freeport gates.

Russo blames the fuck-up on Independence Day, which falls on Saturday, but I’m certain he’s testing me. Figuring out how much time I’m willing to give him. How long my leash is from Braiden’s controlling hand.

Throughout the week, I remind myself I’m not just doing this for Braiden. I’m doing it for me. I’m destroying Russo because he killed my parents. I’m getting revenge for what he did to Eliza.

The fact that my husband wants his head in a sack and his body at the bottom of the Schuylkill just makes the job a little sweeter.

So far, though, I have nothing to report to Braiden. That makes breakfast a rather tense meal, the Monday after Independence Day.

I enter the dining room, briefcase in hand. Liam waits in the Bentley outside, but I’m willing to uphold house rules, at least to grab a bite of breakfast before we hit the road.

“No,” Braiden says, barely looking up from the first of his newspapers.

“Good morning to you, too,” I say. I pour myself a cup of coffee and grab a piece of toast from the silver rack on the table.

Braiden sets his teacup onto his saucer with the precision of a watchmaker. “You won’t be going to the freeport this morning.”

I glance at Aiofe, who is watching us with the rapt attention most children reserve for video games. If she’s nursing a sugar hang-over from polishing off Fairfax’s July 4 cherry pie, she’s hiding it well.

“I’m already late for a meeting,” I say evenly. I retrieve a peach from the bowl on the sideboard, as if that will appease my over-protective husband.

Braiden takes his phone out of his pocket and taps an already-stored number. After a gap that must cover four or five rings, he says, “Mary, this is Braiden Kelly, calling for Samantha. An emergency has come up at home, and she won’t be able to make it in this morning. Please cancel all of her meetings, and she’ll reschedule at a future date.”

“You controlling bas—!” I only cut off my shriek because Aiofe’s eyes have gone as wide as her plate of eggs. Furious, I collect my briefcase and head for the door. I can set my assistant straight once I’m in the car.

Which is a great plan. I just don’t take into account how quickly Braiden can move when he’s motivated. His hand falls heavily on the front door, slamming it shut before I can slip outside. When I whirl to face him, he uses his body as a cage, capturing me between his arms.

“Let me go!” I shout, not caring anymore if Aiofe overhears. Fairfax either, for that matter.

“No.”

The same one-word dismissal as when I walked into the dining room—no explanation. No justification. No argument.

But this time, he shifts his weight. He moves his hands from the door to my wrists, pinning my arms in place. He rolls his hips, trapping mine against the door. I turn my face to the side.

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