Page 14 of Irish Reign

BRAIDEN

The valet takes the keys to my Jeep and hands me a claim check. The doorman greets me by name: “Good evening, Mr. Kelly.” The front desk clerk offers the same greeting, as does the concierge. A bellhop steps out of the elevator as I approach, and he holds the door for me, automatically reaching inside to press the button for my floor.

Other men get off on this kind of attention. They want to be fawned over. Told they’ve got the biggest dick.

I just want the peace and quiet of living in my own home. And I spent the last three hours hearing all the ways that isn’t going to happen, not anytime soon.

I wasn’t surprised by any of the details. Not when Philadelphia Fire Commissioner Warren K. Chesterton insisted on meeting in the back room of a manky restaurant on the furthest edge of the city’s northern suburbs. It turned out Chesterton’s daughter owned the place. She was the guiltyparty for the menu’s unholy fusion of Hungarian and Japanese cuisine.

Given the antacids Chesterton downed like popcorn, he’s not a fan of the food either. But he was more than happy that we had the back room to ourselves. That privacy gave him a chance to open the briefcase I brought him. He had the nerve to count the bundled bills, as if I’ve failed to honor my payoffs in the past.

Maybe someone else has been cheating the commissioner.

Or maybe he didn’t trust a man who’s come to bribe him twice in less than a year. Fair play to him, he didn’t mention the tiled room in the basement at The Hare and Harp, the downtown bar where I used to conduct my business. He didn’t say a thing about the over-size drain that survived Antonio Russo’s arson, or the charred metal tools that hinted at the room’s true purpose.

The same way he didn’t comment on an extra skeleton in the ashes at Thornfield.

He just texted a number to my personal phone. A very large number—four times what I paid for the Hare.

Feckin’ vulture. Another grab like that, and I’ll be forced to remind him he works in a dangerous business. Men die at fire scenes all the time. Even commissioners.

So, by the time I get back to the Rittenhouse, I’m feeling assaulted by foods that should have never shared the same kitchen, ravaged by a greedy man who’ll have my bollocks in a vise if I so much as light a candle for the next ten years, and worn to a nub by the worst rush-hour traffic I’ve ever seen in the City of Brotherly Love. It’s half past eight, and I should have been here by six.

No amount of arse-kissing from hotel staff will change that.

At least the living room is empty when I get to the suite. After a week of shoring up every possible gap in our security, I’ve sent all the Boys home for a long weekend. Nothing short of all-outwar with Russo—or Boston—will make me call them in before Monday.

Stripping the knot in my tie, I head into the bedroom.

Samantha is pacing near the table in the corner. She’s wearing one of her suits, all black of course, with a white top that plunges dangerously close to an unprofessional V. Her feet are cased in heels that telegraph a message straight to my cock, and that’s before I catch a glimpse of their scarlet soles. She’s pinned up her hair with a single pencil, and from the way tendrils curl against her neck, she’s worn it that way for at least an hour or two.

“I don’t care, Mary,” she says into her phone. “Things are too busy right now. I’ll go over the Dubois contract tonight, and we can wrap up that regulatory review for Cole Wolf tomorrow. But I’ll need you in the office all day Saturday. Better plan on Sunday too.”

She notices me studying her, and she holds up a finger, telling me she’ll only be a minute. Apparently her assistant, Mary Rivers, has another complication.

“Well, have a courier deliver the documents tonight. Tell Rider we can talk at seven tomorrow. Before his other meeting.” She sighs in exasperation, shifting through the papers stacked on the table. “If I can make do with just coffee, he can too.”

Mary must have a problem with that plan as well. Samantha listens, a frown twisting her lips. “I know you can’t say it that way. But we can’t clone ourselves, and he’s being unreasonable.” With her free hand, she rubs her temple, as if a headache pounds there. “Okay. Send me the draft. I’ll read it tonight. After Dubois’ contract. It should only take an?—”

I’ve heard enough.

It’s easy enough to pluck Samantha’s phone from her hand. I don’t bother greeting Mary; we’ve spoken often enough.“Change of plans,” I say. “Samantha has a family emergency. Clear her schedule till Monday. She won’t be taking any calls.”

My fingers falls on the red button before either Samantha or Mary can protest.

The look Samantha gives me is pure outrage. “You have no right?—”

“I have every right,piscín. We have an agreement, you and I.”

She looks around the hotel room, gesturing as if I’ve lost my mind. “We’re not at Thornfield,” she says.

“Did I ever say my rules were limited to Thornfield?”

“Houserules,” she says.

“This is our house now.”

I watch her line up arguments. I won’t be surprised to hear that she’s memorized the entire Pennsylvania Code, or at least the sections that apply to the hotel industry. Fully intending to distract her, I pluck the pencil from her hair. As long black curtains fall around her shoulders, I step back to study her furious face.

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