Page 68 of Irish Reign

Despite everything we said last night, I want her here.

I want her brains.

I want her courage.

And yes, I want her body. I want the sheer release of ordering her to please me. I want the victory of making her come, over and over and over again, until she’s soaked and spent andmine.

Fuck. She isn’t mine anymore.

I don’t know if she ever truly was. She topped from the bottom every time I took her. She was never made to be a true sub.

Now she has Russo’s brand on her back. And she always will.

My cock has never failed me when I’ve been with a woman. But the thought of looking down at those snakes… The idea of grabbing Samantha’s hips and making those three tattooed legs stretch and move… That ink unmans me—and not because of the hateful words she spat before she walked out the front door of the house I bought for her.

Samantha’s gone. And the sooner I accept that, the better, for all the men I captain. For me.

I jam my phone in my pocket and wait for Seamus and Rory and Declan to arrive.

The Fishtown Boys are going to war.

30

SAMANTHA

Life is calm in Mary’s house.

Miraculously, the paparazzi don’t follow me here. Maybe it’s because the final episode of the Mousetrap podcast aired over a month ago. Maybe they don’t think Mary’s home photographs as well as one of Braiden’s mansions. Maybe they’re all distracted by new stories—the high school senior claiming Mayor Thompson fathered her twins, the man found with three scalped heads in his freezer, the movie star who claimed aliens possessed her as she drove her car into the Schuylkill.

I don’t know who claimed their attention. I’m just grateful to have some peace and quiet.

All three of Mary’s roommates trade off making dinner—simple, nourishing meals designed to stretch a dollar. A chart on the refrigerator lists rotating household chores—wash the dishes, clean the bathrooms, mow the lawns. A folder on thecounter holds receipts for groceries, utility bills, the occasional pizza ordered as a special treat.

My room is the smallest, at the back of the house. The double bed makes everything a tight fit. The dresser only has three drawers, and a milk crate stands in for a nightstand. The house is too old for closets, but four wooden hooks jut from the wall.

We all share the one bathroom at the top of the stairs. I buy a plastic bucket to hold my shampoo and conditioner, my toothbrush and toothpaste and hairbrush.

I rescue my suits from the closet in my office. I pick up a packet of white cotton underwear and two plain, matching bras. I sleep in an over-size gray T-shirt that was on sale at Wal-Mart.

Mary is gentle. Her roommates are kind. No one fights; no one even raises their voice. I feel like I’m wrapped in tissue paper, covered by bubble wrap, surrounded by packing peanuts.

There are no sharp edges to life with Mary Rivers. No passion, certainly. But no danger either.

Back at work, I write an article about a proposed new federal tax on luxury goods. It’s a long shot the bill will get through Congress, but I send my summary to every freeport client. I add a personal note to Russo:Depending on your personal inventory, this might be a concern. I don’t dare say more. I don’t want to spook him, don’t want him to think I’m prying.

I don’t add a note to Braiden’s copy.

While I wait to see if Russo will bite, I live my life. After a week, Mary and her housemates fold me into the household schedule. I cook dinner on Mondays. I take out the trash on Wednesdays. I unload the dishwasher on Fridays.

It’s all so simple. So easy. So safe.

At the freeport, I complete my final review of Trap’s plans for the monthly gathering of his richest clients. Diamond Ring activities always require sign-off from Legal. I decide if we need to contact our insurance providers or if we need local lawyers oncall with bail money. The July get-together is costly but simple: A finish-line suite at the Miami Formula 1 Grand Prix.

The Friday before the race, I renew my argument that I should be there. Our clients might have questions about their gambling winnings, about how large windfalls are handled by the tax code.

Trap finally agrees. I tell my housemates that I’ll be away for the weekend. On the Friday before the race, Trap takes a photo of us standing beside his private plane and texts it to the entire Diamond Ring.

Trap

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