Page 55 of Irish Reign

And there’s not a thing I can do to stop him.

I glance at Samantha. Her head is bowed. Her eyes are closed. She might be reviewing every statute and regulation she’s ever read, but I’m willing to bet nothing will save the Skreen.

Caught at the front of the room, Alix Key looks like she’s trapped in a nightmare. She can’t do anything to stop Russo either, not if he’s willing to pay.

“Marti?” she asks.

But the woman in the front row shakes her head. She slips her paddle under her seat, as if she’s afraid she might make a bid by accident.

Alix looks at me, stricken. But she knows the rules as well as I do. I’m the consignor. I can’t bid.

“F— Forty million dollars,” she says. “Going once. Going twice?—”

“One hundred million dollars.”

The bid lands like a ton of rain-soaked wool, sodden and dark and far too heavy to shift. Connor Boyle stands as the crowd swivels. His shoulders fill the space of two ordinary men. He’s nearly a head taller than anyone else in the room.

He nods to Alix, eyeing the ceremonial gavel in her hand.

She startles and gets back to work. “One hundred,” she says quickly. And before Russo can decide it’s worth an extra sixty large to ram his prick up my arse, Alix ends the auction: “Going once. Going twice. Sold to Connor Boyle.”

“Puttaniere!” Russo shouts. Even furious, though, he’s not stupid enough to go after Boyle. Instead, he shoulders his way out of the room, sending a waiter flailing to save a tray of champagne flutes.

The freeport explodes in reaction. People ask each other if they actually saw flame coming from that lighter. Small groups gather around Marti Kingston and Mohammed Bakir, consoling them about their respective losses.

Other people converge on the lectern, congratulating Alix on the auction. A couple of freeport clients shake her hand, and I suspect that her composure has gained her at least one more sale on her increasingly busy calendar.

Samantha still sits in her chair. Her head is still bowed. Her eyes are still closed.

I settle a hand on her shoulder. “It’s over,piscín.” I pitch my voice just loud enough for her to hear.

When she looks up, her eyes are haunted by a lifetime of fear. “He would have done it, just to spite us.”

“It doesn’t matter. He lost this round.”

I can see she wants to argue. But people are gathering, reaching out to shake my hand, congratulating me on the sale.

Samantha takes a deep breath. I watch her transform like a flower going from bud to blossom. She physically sets aside the ghost of Giovanna Canna and puts on Samantha Kelly like a feckin’ crown. She makes her way to the front of the room, where she has paperwork to manage.

Waiters approach with champagne. I take a glass, and then I carry one over to Connor Boyle, who’s surrounded by his own sudden fan club.

“To Connor Boyle!” I announce, raising my glass. “Proud new owner of the Book of Skreen!”

“To Connor Boyle!” the crowd salutes. Boyle looks me in the eye before he drains off half his glass.

It’s half an hour before I’m able to speak with him alone. “I never knew you were interested in manuscripts,” I say.

“I wasn’t, before today.”

“You chose a deadly one to start with.” Deadly—I mean it in the Irish way. A good one. A great one.

He hears something different. “I’m not afraid of Russo. Any guinea gobshite who thinks he can burn Irish treasure needs a lesson.”

“You delivered him one today.”

He eyes me for a long moment. “Don’t be thinking this changes my thoughts on the Union,” he warns. Before I canassure him the Union has been far from my mind, he says, “I’m still thinking Reardon’s the man for the job.”

“You’ve got your right to vote.”

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