Page 58 of Irish Reign

“I love you.” I’ve said the words before. We both have. But they’ve never sounded so desperate, so heartsore, so raw.

Braiden stops, so I know he heard me. But all he says is, “Get out of here.”

He goes back to the dining room.

I do as he says. I leave. But every step I take out the door, down the steps, to the car, I pray he’ll change his mind and follow me. He doesn’t, though. Not even when the braying paparazzi slow my departure for nearly half an hour.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter.

I tell myself everything will be fine when I get home tonight.

I tell myself…

It doesn’t matter what I say. I don’t believe my own lies.

25

SAMANTHA

With Liam driving, I take out my phone before we hit the freeway and leave a message for Mary: “Hey there! Braiden was fooling around when he called this morning. Of course I’m coming in—no need for you to cancel anything. See you soon!”

My voice is so chipper, I nauseate myself.

For the rest of the ride, I study the documents Russo provided the freeport when he completed his membership application. I need to dig deeper into all the accounts he gave us, all the papers he filed, all the shipments he’s started running through Dover.

I should concentrate on following those leads. But I keep replaying my conversation with Braiden, trying to figure out what I should have said, what I could have done—short of wearing the symbol of my submission—to make it right.

I love you.

Get out of here.

By the time we get to the freeport, I’m questioning every choice I’ve ever made. But I’m so close to gaining Russo’s trust… Last week, he showed me his small scams—detergent, olive oil. Any day now, he’ll give me the weapon I need to destroy him forever.

I’ve come too far to back down now.

After I check in with a bemused Mary, Liam escorts me to the warehouse building, where freeport clients maintain their personal galleries. If he notices my fingers shaking as I press the button for the third floor underground, he doesn’t say a word. But he insists on taking point as we approach a waiting Russo.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Don Antonio.” The title scratches my throat like a toilet brush, but it does its job. Russo puffs with pride and stops looking at his watch.

“We have a lot to do today,” he says before he jams his finger onto the biometric pad. He’s leaning forward for the retina scan when Liam moves into position between us.

Russo steps back, a frown pursing his thin lips. “Your services are not required today,” he says to my bodyguard.

Liam ignores him, staying planted firmly in front of me.

“Giovanna,” Russo says. “Send your dog to his kennel.”

Liam’s neck tenses, but he knows better than to say anything out loud. “That won’t be possible,” I say to Russo.

His only reply is to state his name for me again, his tone full of warning, like a teacher disciplining a disobedient student: “Giovanna.”

I want to cross my arms over my chest, folding away from his disapproval. But I force myself to stand firm, settling my hands on my hips. “I’ll leave you to your work, then, Don Antonio. If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

His laugh ripples like the scales of a snake. “My sweet Giovanna,” he says. Before I can remind him that I’m not hissweet anything, he reaches into his breast pocket. Liam shifts his weight, clearly ready to deal with a weapon, but Russo only produces a sheaf of paper, folded lengthwise.

“I hope we can discuss these documents, Giovanna,” he says, handing me the top page. “Surely you understand my need for privacy.”

I’m staring at a federal tax form. It looks completely legitimate—last year’s date in the upper left corner, with Russo’s name and address typed into the appropriate spaces. A nine-digit Social Security Number is listed on the proper line.

---