Page 45 of Irish Reign

“Don Antonio,” I say.

Braiden’s jaw clenches at Russo’s title, but I need to make this pitch as appealing as possible. Antonio Russo is a lazy tomcat, and I’m one of those feather toys, tied to a fishing pole. I need to flutter, to flail. I need to look so much like a wounded bird that Russo can’t resist pouncing.

“I thought everything would blow over,” I say, allowing my voice to quiver. “The information you released about my graduation night… But you heard Braiden, that night at the Rittenhouse.”

I don’t know who the fuck you are.

From the expression on Braiden’s face, he remembers exactly what he said. His fingers flex, and I know he remembers clamping down on my biceps. He dragged me to our suite, where we both used words like knives, slicing fast, stabbing deep.

And now I’m carving us again. I hope—I pray—that I’m using a scalpel this time, sacrificing as little flesh as possible. But even a scalpel can be deadly. Braiden executed his brother with one.

“I would never let afrociolike that say such things to my woman,” Russo says.

Braiden doesn’t need to understand Italian to know his manhood is being questioned. Russo’s tone is enough to drive Braiden back to the window. Every line of his body is a master class on rage.

I swallow hard and tell Russo the truth: “Braiden lied to me.”

“What lies did he tell, Giovanna?” There’s a hunger beneath the question, a bottomless pit I’ll drown in if I’m not careful.

“Y— You already know about Birte. And now he says he’ll take another wife. Fiona Ingram. He thinks that will make him General of the Grand Irish Union.”

“Thatmorto di figashould be put down like a mad dog,” Russo says.

Braiden whirls from the window and tries to swipe my phone off my desk. I block his hand with my arm and point toward a chair with a commanding finger.

If Braiden truly were cunt-struck the way Russo says, he’d obey me. Instead, he stomps back to the window. I raise my voice, praying Russo can’t hear the angry footsteps.

“I can’t live like this, Don Antonio. The shame… I want to hurt him. I want him to know what it’s like to lose something that matters to him. Something he cares about.”

“This is a lovely story, Giovanna. But why are you telling it to me?”

“You can help me, Don Antonio.”

“I do favors for my family, Giovanna.”

“I understand that now. I made a mistake. I want to come back. I want to be your family.”

Silence, while Braiden glares out the window.

I worry that I’ve said too much, too quickly. That Russo smells the trap. I force myself to go on, testing the ground with every word, trying to find a path through a forest of hate.

“Don Antonio… I— I know people in your family bring you gifts. Things to show gratitude for all you do. I would like to give a gift to you.”

“I have no use for another man’sputtana.”

Braiden growls, and I try to cover the sound by pleading, “Not my body, Don Antonio. I know I lost that chance when I walked away before. It’s information I want to give you. Facts you can use to beat Braiden at his own game.”

Silence again, but he’s the one who breaks it this time. “I am listening.”

“If I could just see you… If we could talk…”

“You know where I live, Giovanna. In the same house where you came to take my money the night you killed three people.”

The house where he murdered Eliza. I’ll never go there. Not even to get revenge.

But I’m so close to landing him. So close to getting what I need… I leak out a little more real fear, hoping it sounds like uncertainty. “Braiden’s men watch me all day, every day. They’ll kill me if I try to come to you.” And then, like the idea has just come to me, I say, “Maybe… No…”

“What are you thinking, Giovanna?”

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