Page 48 of Irish Reign

Prince mutters under his breath, just low enough that I can pretend I don’t hear. I clench my fists, though.

Prince apparently can’t help himself—he says something else, and this time I catch the phrasemotherfucking Mafia prick. I’m in complete agreement with his assessment, but the words sound like a challenge to me. I’m just deciding I can’t ignore them when Prince shakes his head and stomps back to the main building. It’s like he’s got a billion-dollar empire to run or something.

I take a few deep breaths, then wait a bit before I head back to his office tower. I’m giving both of us a little time to forget how close he came to openly questioning my honor. When I get back to Samantha’s office, she looks up from her computer screen.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Everything’s fine,” I answer tightly.

“Trap stopped by. He said he’s asking Russo to join the Diamond Ring.”

“Good.”

“He dropped this off too. Said he wanted you to have it.” She passes a bag across her desk, the plastic kind you get at a grocery store.

Inside is a fine-grain wooden box. The wordJamesonis burned into the front, along with a familiar coat of arms. A label boasts that the whiskey inside has been aged for eighteen years.

I shake my head, wondering how many different peace offerings he keeps on hand. But I’m not about to toss it back.

“Do I have to be worried?” Samantha asks.

“Not about this,” I tell her. And when she still looks concerned, I repeat myself. “Not about this.” And I add a word, so I know she’ll believe me. “Piscín.”

20

SAMANTHA

Outside the freeport conference room, Liam eyes Don Antonio, automatically registering all the places where the Mafia boss could hide a holster—shoulder, waist, and ankle. Russo tolerates the exam with cool disdain, unbuttoning his double-breasted jacket and twitching the hem of both pant legs high enough to show his smooth silk socks, both free of ankle holsters.

“Will you join us?” he asks my bodyguard, contempt dripping from each word.

“That won’t be necessary,” I say, my voice shaking. I’d give almost anything to have Liam stay beside me. But Russo has to think he’s won.

So Liam takes his usual seat outside the conference room. And Trap waits inside, along with senior staff from every major department at the freeport.

Trap and I have led meetings like this dozens of times. We work well together, showing off the freeport’s business. Trap presents the tax haven’s history with his usual blunt efficiency. We pride ourselves on secrecy—our client list is confidential—but Trap can truthfully say we protect the wealth of senators and princes, of Fortune 100 self-made billionaires and trust-fund nepo babies.

I’ve memorized my lines for today like an Oscar-award-winning actress. I can cite statutes and regulations from state and federal governments, along with the legal codes of Palermo, Rome, and Milan. I love this part of my job, highlighting the challenges we help our clients navigate.

But it’s hard for me to concentrate today. The entire time I speak, Russo eyes me without blinking. The corners of his mouth curl in the slightest hint of a carnivorous smile.

This is the man who had my parents murdered, planting a bomb in their car on a knife-sharp New Year’s Eve nearly twenty years ago. A headache starts to gnaw at my right temple, and I can’t resist the urge to try rubbing it away. My scars from that night feel like worms under my fingertips.

The freeport’s head of accounting presents the usual charts and statistics like they’re the key to solving climate change. Our director of import-export, our chief curator, our head of information technology—they all follow the script like Russo is an ordinary man. Like he isn’t capable of ordering every one of them dead by morning, along with their families and friends.

I do my best to pull on the camouflage of a good freeport employee. I laugh at my colleagues’ harmless jokes. I frown at their tales of government overreach. I nod when I should and shake my head when it’s appropriate, all the while trying to forget that the monster across the table shoved his pistol between my cousin’s legs and pulled the trigger.

Finally, finally,finally, Trap wraps up the dog and pony show, saying to Russo, “As I’m sure Samantha’s told you, we have a special group of freeport customers, our wealthiest clients who have some unique needs. I’d like to personally welcome you into the Diamond Ring, Antonio.”

It’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard Trap make without swearing. He stands and extends his hand.

My boss abhors human contact. His left hand is shoved in his pants pocket, deep enough to hide five quick contractions of his fist. I’ve worked with Trap long enough that I barely register the tic.

But I see Russo catch it. The don’s eyes narrow a tiny fraction as he stores away the gesture, filing it for future use. I didn’t think it was possible to hate myself more for bringing this killer into our midst.

Not one of my colleagues—not even Trap—sees the red lasers skittering across their chests. They don’t know Russo has marked them as prey. They hand the Mafia boss their business cards as they leave, telling him they’re happy to help anytime, anywhere, with anything that will make his time at the freeport more pleasant.

I can’t say the same. I can’t follow them out of the room. I’m the only one who understands the true danger, and I’m the only one who has to stay.

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