Page 90 of Irish Reign

That puts Rivers in a bind. He doesn’t want to agree with Dowd on anything. But as much as he hates his rival, he hates me more. Plus, he gets the added thrill of tweaking Fiona. “I vote for Reardon too.”

Fiona may be fighting for her political life, but she’s no idiot. She takes back control as if this had been her plan all along. “Boston votes for Reardon, then.”

Her eyes are flint as she stares at me. I think of all the jousting we did when she was down in Philadelphia, all the ways she fought to show her strength. I’m glad Patrick stays standing behind her, even after all the others take their seats.

San Francisco votes next: Reardon. I’m losing, two to nothing.

New Orleans votes for me. I’ll have to take Samantha to the Crescent City sometime. We can enjoy some blues and pay our respects to the clan. The vote sits at two to one.

Reardon’s next. Three to one.

Baltimore hesitates. On the one hand, Reardon will reward him if he’s the vote to end the battle. On the other hand, I’ve always played fair with my southern neighbor. When I’ve expanded territory for my Irish butter game, I’ve made a point ofpushing west from Philadelphia, or north into New Jersey. I’ve left Baltimore room to grow.

Now, I watch his lips purse, ready for theRin Reardon. But in the end, he sinks back in his chair, saying, “Kelly.”

That makes it three to two, and I vote for myself. Three to three.

There’s one vote left: New York. Connor Boyle has watched the proceedings silently, his face settled in its usual unreadable calm. Boyle has seen me at dozens of Diamond Ring meetings. We’ve raced each other, bet against each other, and drunk beside each other. He saved the Book of Skreen from Russo. He sent Rider out to fight on my side at Fenway.

But Boyle’s relatively new to running New York. He made his billions through green energy, not by managing a mob family. He’s junior to everyone at this table except for the Boston scavengers.

The safe thing is for Boyle to vote for Reardon. Side with the senior man. Earn respect. Consolidate his own position for a future run at the title, once he’s spent a few years managing his own clan.

Boyle’s shoulders are as broad as the Brooklyn Bridge. He doesn’t give a hint that he feels the weight of every eye in this room. His narrowed eyes look gold as he studies Reardon. They turn green when he looks at me.

Other men might give a speech. They might make it clear they’re giving a gift, might hint at what they want in return. They might draw things out, reveling in their power over some of the most powerful criminal overlords in the country.

Boyle says, “I vote for Kelly.”

Reardon takes his loss like a man. He shakes his head like we’re all making the biggest mistake of our lives, and he sighs as if he’s trying to knock Boyle over with the power of his breath alone. But he gets up from his seat and walks around the table tome. He holds out his hand, and we shake. And then he offers a conceding grip to Samantha, recognizing my Clan Chief as well.

I fetch the bottle we’ve all been ignoring on its table by the door, a small-batch Jameson that was twenty-two years old when Ingram was sworn in as General. I pour for all of them—Captains and Clan Chiefs alike—and Samantha carries the glasses around.

There’ll be more tonight, centuries-old traditions that we’ll honor. All the captains here will come to my suite upstairs. They’ll bind their oaths with blood and fire. We’ll all drink again, with a new bottle I’ll track down this afternoon, one that will be held over for whatever man replaces me, may that be decades down the road.

I raise my glass to all of them, but I take extra care to catch Boyle’s gaze. He looks back, as still as ever, and I wonder how I’ll repay my debt.

For now, though, my Clan Chief leads the toast. Samantha’s voice is steady and strong as she proclaims, “To Braiden Kelly, General of the Grand Irish Union!”

And with one voice, they all respond: “To Kelly!”

45

SAMANTHA

Ihurry through the small cemetery behind the church of Santa Caterina, letting memory guide my feet. I haven’t been in this Philadelphia graveyard for years, not since the funeral for my Zia Sara.

I was bitter then. Angry. I resented needing to upset my schedule, just so I could stand by a gaping hole and squeeze out a single blood-hot tear for Sara Canna.

Then, the only thing I could focus on was how she made me feel like an imposition. She barely tolerated my sitting at her table. She despised my sleeping under her roof. On her best days, she ignored me. On her worst, she told me I was stupid, greedy, ugly. She never passed up a chance to remind me that I should be grateful she took me in.

Now, I understand my poor aunt a little more. Zia Sara had already lost her husband to cancer. Then she lost her brother—my father—to Antonio Russo’s mad plans. By granting merefuge, Zia Sara exposed herself to her don’s wrath. Every time she looked at me, she saw danger to her own children.

Now, I find them all, not far from the stone wall that surrounds the cemetery. Zio Matteo. Zia Sara. Gianni. Giorgia.

My shudder is pure reflex when I see the date on those last two tombstones. That Night. A nightmare I’ve lived for so long, it’s engraved on my blood.

I’ve brought flowers—five bouquets stolen from the stash for tomorrow. Aiofe had a hand in choosing all the flowers, insisting on tulips and peonies and chrysanthemums. I put one bunch on my uncle’s grave and another on my aunt’s.

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