Page 28 of Irish Reign

Braiden’s hands knots into fists. I want to slap the sneer from Russo’s face. But neither of us does a thing because Aiofe’s already terrified.

“Do not cry,principessa,” Russo says. “You can visit the grave of your auntie. You can ask her to watch over you. There is only a small chance that grave will be unsafe.”

“Rory!” Braiden barks, his Captain’s voice off its leash.

O’Hare scoops Aiofe up like she’s a pile of laundry. The side of his hand crashes hard on Russo’s wrist, forcing Aiofe’s hair out of the intruder’s grasp. O’Hare’s long legs manage the steps two at a time, and he shifts Aiofe’s head to his shoulder as he carries her to the replacement Bentley that arrived only this morning. Fairfax hurries after with one apologetic glance, as if he knows he can be of no concrete assistance with Russo on the prowl.

Russo’s men gather close behind him. He shakes his wrist, channeling all his hatred into a glare at Braiden.

“Don’t waste your time,” Braiden says. “Birte will be buried in her family plot, in County Cork.”

This is the first I’ve heard of the plan. But under the circumstances, I approve.

Russo turns his bullying to me. “Will Kelly send you away as easily, Giovanna? After he tires of yourfiga?”

Braiden bulls forward. “Say one more word to my wife?—”

“But that is the problem, is it not? My Giovanna is not your wife. Not after you strong-armed your so-called priest to do your wedding.”

For one blind moment, I think Father Brennan has betrayed us. I wonder how Russo threatened him. I wonder how long Father Brennan held out before he caved.

But then I realize Russo has never spoken with the defrocked priest. He learned the truth from someone even closer to Braiden.

Braiden draws the same conclusion. “Don’t believe everything my brother tells you.” He remembers to use the present tense, because no one else on these steps knows Madden is dead.

“Your brother?” Russo sounds politely confused.

“Do you suck Madden’s cock?” Braiden demands. “Or only let him fuck your guinea arse?”

Russo’s men surge forward, all three moving as one. Russo, though, holds up a commanding hand. He clicks his tongue, tsking with a mournful look at me. “Poor Giovanna. Does he kiss you with that mouth? After saying such things on the steps of a church?”

I clutch Braiden’s arm, because nothing good will come of trading more insults. “Come on,” I urge him. “Aiofe needs us.”

“Do not be in such a rush, Giovanna. When I heard you would be at church today, I invited some friends to join us.”

“Let’sgo,” I say to Braiden, because there’s no one in the world Russo could have invited that I want to see.

But before we can move toward the Bentley, half a dozen cars pull up to the curb in front of St. Columba’s. People tumble out the doors, most brandishing phones. A satellite truck parks across the street as someone shoves a microphone into my face.

“Samantha!” people shout. “Sam! Look this way! Turn here!”

And then the questions start.

“How long did you and Braiden plan your fake marriage?”

“No comment,” I say, just the way Sonja trained me.

“Was your fake marriage a tax dodge?”

“No comment,” I say.

“Was Birte Kelly pushed?”

“What the actual fuck?” I can’t keep myself from shouting.

Of course they jump all over that. Suddenly, everyone has questions about Birte—when Braiden and I locked her in a basement, how long she was our sex slave, how much of her fortune we stole. There aren’t enough “no comments” in the universe to answer the absurdities.

The instant we were swarmed, Russo stepped away. Now, he stands at the base of the steps, ignored by the media circus howling for my blood. I don’t know how many of the questions spring from the paparazzi’s imagination, and how many he planted before he arrived to torture us.

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