Page 88 of Irish Reign

It’s not enough. It’s more than I can bear.

I read through it again, every single word. Even though my stomach feels like it’s being gnawed by bears, nothing in theopinion is a surprise. The panel despised what I did eight years ago. They were suspicious of my work at the freeport. They were revolted by my connections to organized crime.

Sonja’s text invites me to discuss the opinion with her, but there’s nothing to say. The decision is final. I cannot appeal.

It only takes a moment to forward the document to Trap Prince and Alix Key. I put their email addresses at the top of the form. UnderSubject, I type: Resignation Letter. Under that, I type: Effectively immediately, I resign from my position as General Counsel for Diamond Freeport.

I think about adding more. I could say I’ll talk to my successor, that I’ll help transfer files and responsibility, but Trap and Alix know all that. I could tell them how much it means that they stood by me through the media storm, but they know that too. I could say I’m grateful that they’ve been there through everything that’s happened with Braiden—from our wedding to our fights to…now—but there’s no need.

So I read my single sentence one last time, and then I hitSend.

Almost as an afterthought, I forward the opinion to Teddy Newland.FYI, I type into the subject field. This time, it’s easier to send the email.

The loss of a dream should be more dramatic. The end of an era should come with bright lights and trumpets. Instead, my legal career ends when I thumb off my phone and set it gently on top of Russo’s papers.

Standing, I glance over to the bed. Braiden is watching me, propped up on one elbow, his hair mussed, his eyes sharp. He waits for me to speak, but when I stay silent he slips back the corner of the comforter.

“Come on, then,” he says. “Come back to bed.”

And I do.

44

BRAIDEN

“Ready?” I ask Samantha, staring hungrily at her reflection in the elevator door at Boston’s Four Seasons hotel.

She’s wearing the suit she wore when she took apart the Delaware Division of Revenue on my behalf. When we rode that elevator eight months ago, it took all my self-control not to wrap my fist around her hair and steal a kiss. I’m minding my manners this morning, too. The meeting we’re about to attend is too important.

But I take a little comfort knowing I’m the only Captain in the Grand Irish Union who spent last night finding five new ways to make his Clan Chief come.

Because Samantha’s my Clan Chief now.

I announced my decision to my Council in a meeting last week. Seamus, of course, already knew Madden was gone. The others understood as soon as I handed around Russo’s papers. They agreed, to a man, that the Thornfield fire was too good adeath for Madden. I didn’t bother elaborating on the details of my brother’s death.

Just as I didn’t elaborate—much—on my logic for choosing Samantha to replace him. She’s smart, I told them. She’s fierce. I trust her with my life. I’m the Captain, I said, and she’s my Clan Chief, and anyone who has a problem with that can leave the Fishtown Boys right now.

No one left.

“Let’s go,” Samantha says, meeting my gaze in the elevator door.

I laugh at the vicious determination on her face. She’s perfect for her job.

When we get to the Four Seasons conference room, Samantha holds the door for me, an action that rasps against my lizard brain. But she’s underscoring the fact that she’s attending this meeting in an official capacity, as my second, and I can’t argue with that.

I ignore surprised looks from the six other Captains and their Clan Chiefs. More than that, actually. The Boston family is still a holy show, no closer to settling their leadership this morning than they were the day after Kieran Ingram coughed himself to death.

Fiona’s staking a claim because she’s her father’s only child. Aran Dowd says he’s in charge because he was Ingram’s Clan Chief for years. Keenan Rivers says the city’s his because he paid his dues as Ingram’s Warlord. All three of them crowd around one end of the table, their seconds shouldering each other for space.

Patrick Moran sits behind Fiona. Fair play to him—he phoned me first to say he’d be here. But he made it clear he wasn’t asking my permission.

Precisely one hundred days have passed since Kieran Ingram coughed out his last order. By Grand Irish Union tradition, it’stime to select our next General. We meet in Boston, because that’s Union tradition too. Every Captain gets a vote—Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Chicago, New Orleans, and San Francisco. Any one of us can stand for the job.

Fiona starts to call the meeting to order. Again, tradition. Boston leads.

I haven’t seen Fiona since Madden worked her over, but she’s at her best today. She’s wearing a scarlet leather bustier and coal-black trousers. Those stilettos have to be four inches high. She could use one to take out Dowd and the other to take out Rivers, if she wanted to resolve her succession woes here and now. Her cheekbones are sharp enough to carve emeralds.

Rivers cuts her off like she’s a child speaking out of turn. “Gentlemen—” he says.

---