Page 29 of Irish Reign

“Smile, Sam,” someone shouts. “Let’s see that killer grin.”

Braiden finally gets his arm around me, and I huddle next to his side like I’m taking refuge from a rainstorm. O’Hare’s men close behind us, and we belatedly make our way to the car.

I end up in the back seat of the Bentley; Braiden takes the front. Aiofe is sandwiched between Fairfax and me. She buries her face in my blouse as O’Hare starts the slow process of navigating through the crowd without crushing anyone.

I cover Aiofe’s head with my hands, doing my best to shield her. Phones are slapped against the car windows, and shouted questions vibrate through the glass.

“You’re fine,” I tell Aiofe. “You’re absolutely fine. You’re safe. You’re absolutely safe.” I say it over and over, until the words have lost their meaning. And I know, as O’Hare finally pulls free from the church, I don’t believe a thing I’m saying.

I look back as we finally put some distance between us and the chaos. Russo is a black vulture, feeding on the crowd. And I wonder how many more times I can escape the mob’s vicious hunger.

12

SAMANTHA

Sonja calls before we’re halfway home.

“I can’t talk now,” I tell her.

“Are you eventryingto avoid reporters?”

The three weeks I’ve spent at the Rittenhouse have been the most quiet since this mess began. The hotel has no qualms about banishing paparazzi and protesters to the public park across the street. It’s not my fault everything changed today.

I want to meet Sonja’s attack with fire, but Aiofe is still curled against my side. I shift my phone to my right ear. “They ambushed me,” I hiss.

“Do you understand how damaging it is even tohearthose questions? Much less to realize you don’t have a single good answer?”

“I’ll call you when I get home.”

“This is bad, Samantha. For our case, and for the criminal investigation too.”

“I know it’s bad. And it will be worse if I don’t end this call now.” I tap the red button and drop the phone into my lap.

Braiden is staring straight ahead, as if he can teleport us to the Rittenhouse solely by the fury of his gaze. I know the lion’s share of his rage is for Russo, but I can’t help but think some of it is for me. For my giving Antonio Russo a lever. For everything I did That Night. For everything I didn’t do.

When we get to the hotel, Braiden takes Aiofe to her room. I lock myself in the bathroom of our Presidential Suite and return Sonja’s call. When she answers, she sounds like a different woman. All the fight has drained out of her, as if someone pulled the plug in a bathtub. She doesn’t even swear.

“You know how this works,” she says. “Our job is to tell a story. We make the board understand why you were up on that mountain. How you made a mistake. How you’ve spent every day of your life since then regretting what happened. How you’ve fought to make amends.”

“I know,” I say, wishing I could paint the picture she wants to display.I was there. I was wrong. I’m sorry.

But in my heart of hearts, I know I never truly tried to make amends—not for the two cousins I killed. And not for the stranger who jumped in front of my car, the vagrant who ended up shattered and alone in a ditch.

If I had a time machine… If I could go back to that one night… If I could choose not to drink the watermelon vodka or the peach schnapps… If I could just pass the joint to the next person in the circle…

But that’s all a fantasy. I can never escape my past.

Sonja drones on: “Every time these reporters get hold of you, they erase your story. They destroy the narrative. They change the focus.”

“I know,” I say again, even though I can’t control where the paparazzi find me. I can’t keep from being trapped.

“You have to seem innocent. Pure. People don’t like women who end up with bad boys.”

“Braiden’s not?—”

“Society doesn’t approve of women who have sex.”

“Every woman?—”

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