Page 79 of Irish Reign

He barely twitches his wrist. The gun flicks toward the cold fireplace on the far wall, and my ears are filled with a singlesharp report. I flinch as if I’ve been shot, and I hear pieces of brick crumble onto the andirons.

“Boss!” The door to the study flies open hard enough to hit the wall behind. The two goons from the kitchen tumble into the room, their own guns drawn, their eyes wild.

“I am fine,” Russo says. “Leave us.”

The men are already relaxing, confident once they see their master with his weapon. I wonder how many naked women Russo has tormented here that neither soldier looks surprised to find me like this.

The men do as they are told. They leave, shutting the door firmly behind them.

And Russo says, “Do not keep me waiting, Giovanna. I have told you once. I want you on your knees.” He sights casually down the barrel of his gun. “I will not ask a third time.”

I believe him. I believe every word he says. He murdered my cousin for challenging him, for sleeping with another man. And in my heart of hearts, I know he intends to murder me.

But if I try to leave, he’ll shoot. If I try to argue, he’ll shoot. If I try to plead, he’ll shoot.

I don’t see a way out. I’ll never reach the Bentley. I won’t hit the interstate and make it back to Dover. But I have to do something. I have to keep moving. I have to give my brain a chance to unlock, to come up with a way out.

So I cross the room. I kneel in front of Russo. I’m light-headed, and I sway, and I put my hands on his knees to steady myself.

My fingers are dangerously close to the engorged rod I can see beneath his pants. I swallow hard and start to look away. But when I turn my head, I’m stopped by the pressure of his gun against my jaw.

I expect it to be hot from the bullet he fired into the fireplace. Or maybe I expect it to be hot because he’s the devil. Or maybe because…

“Oh yes,” Russo says, as if he read my mind. “This is the gun I used to kill Elisabetta. Can you smell her stinkingfiga? Can you taste her?”

He slides the barrel from my jaw to my lips. I try to pull away, but he grabs my hair with his free hand. Pulling hard, he forces my head into his lap, grinding my cheek against his pulsing hard-on.

I open my mouth to scream, and he shoves the gun past my teeth. My lips are crushed by steel. I buck against his hand, but I can’t get free. I try to thrash my head, but he only presses me harder into his thigh.

“Tell me, Giovanna,” Russo says, as if we’re chatting about the weather. “Are you afraid to die?”

39

BRAIDEN

Speeding along Highway 30, I discover how easy it is to break ninety with the McLaren’s massive engine. I also learn that Madden kept a sawed-off shotgun under the passenger seat.

I glance at my phone as I cross into East Falls. The red drawing pin that marks Samantha is still now. She’s arrived at Russo’s place.

Four months of my brother’s nagging chews at my brain. His ghost haunts this feckin’ car.

Madden pulls at the cuffs that tied him to the table in Thornfield’s infirmary. He whispers: Samantha started life as Giovanna Canna. She’s been Russo’s tool all along. That’s why she refused to wear my collar to the freeport. That’s why she took Russo’s brand. That’s why she’s driven to the shitehawk’s lair.

Madden fights the forceps I used to destroy the shattered bones of his face. He argues: No sane woman would face Russo in the middle of the night. She wouldn’t enter his home.Wouldn’t lock herself behind his gate, behind his security. Not unless she knew Russo wouldn’t hurt her.

Madden writhes beneath the scalpel I used to dissect him. He howls: That’s why she got the fucking tattoo. That’s why she wouldn’t drop her mad plan to get Russo’s tax papers. She’s been a Mafia plant all along, playing her Dom for a fool.

I don’t want to believe him. I don’t want him to be right. I want to find another reason Samantha’s come to Russo’s home in the middle of the night.

Madden screams: She’s blowing him! She’s fucking him! She’s bending over and letting him take her up the ass!

I drive the scalpel into him again, severing his limp prick. He bleeds out in my brain when I’m a block from Russo’s compound.

Pausing at a stop sign, I take a deep breath, using my exhale to saw off the spikes of adrenaline in my blood. I’m through with thinking. Through with feeling. It’s time for cold, hard instinct to take control.

I offer up a prayer to whatever saint is responsible for wreaking bloody vengeance. If whoever’s on guard tonight is new… If he doesn’t recognize Madden’s McLaren… If my brother didn’t come here often enough for the guards to wave him through…

Maybe I do have a patron saint. Or maybe Samantha does, and everything Madden said is a lie, and she needs me more than she’s ever needed anyone before. But the gate cranks open as I approach at a steady pace. My hands are at ten and two on the steering wheel. The Walther points to midnight.

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