Page 54 of Irish Reign

A woman in the third row raises her paddle. Marti Kingston is a relatively new freeport client; she joined us about two years ago after making a fortune leading a New York hedge fund. Now, in retirement, she spends her time decorating her seven homes. She must see the Skreen as a beautiful curiosity.

“Thank you for getting us started,” Alix says with an easy grace. “We’ve got ten million, do I hear ten one?”

A man wearing a long white robe and matching headdress gets in on the bidding. Mohammed Bakir has bought a dozen top-quality paintings at freeport auctions in the last year. He’s rumored to be building a museum in Saudi Arabia.

Alix acknowledges him with a nod. Bidding is brisk for nearly ten minutes, with eight potential buyers. Alix jumps the price steadily, easily clearing fifteen million. Eighteen. Twenty.

Four of the bidders drop out. Alix raises the price to twenty-three million dollars. Another bidder passes. Twenty-four. Twenty-four five.

As sometimes happens at these events, the final bidding is between the two who started. With the entire room watching, Kingston and Bakir alternate bids. Alix guides them up the ladder to twenty-six million dollars, to twenty-seven.

“Thirty million dollars,” comes a bid from the side of the room.

My heart seizes in my chest, even as Braiden half-rises out of his seat. Both of us recognize the voice. Antonio Russo is bidding on the Book of Skreen.

The crowd murmurs in thrilled surprise. No new bidder has raised a paddle for minutes. Kingston turns in her seat, an expression of annoyance on her Fifth Avenue features. Bakir merely sets his paddle in his lap, retiring the fight.

For the first time since taking the stand, Alix hesitates. But then she clears her throat and says, “The current bid is thirty million dollars. Do I hear thirty million, five hundred thousand?”

Kingston says, “Thirty million, five hundred.”

Russo counters. “Thirty-two million.”

Alix raises her eyebrows at the jump. Russo’s bid doesn’t make sense. Kingston might be at her limit. He might be able to get the book for less.

The bid doesn’t make sense for other reasons as well. To my knowledge, Antonio Russo has never expressed the slightest interest in art of any kind. I was in his home when I was a child, and I don’t remember paintings, much less astronomically expensive rare books.

Even if Russo has discovered a love of illuminated manuscripts, he surely doesn’t value Irish work. The man has built his entire illegal career on his Italian heritage.

There’s more at stake here, though. Because Russo might have become an art collector. And he might have a soft spot forIrish manuscripts, But there’s no way in hell that Antonio Russo would ever put a penny in Braiden Kelly’s pocket.

From the tight line of Braiden’s jaw, he’s come to the same conclusion. He climbs to his feet, as if he’s trying to get a better view of the proceedings. Of course, with his height and his broad shoulders, he looks intimidating as hell.

Marti Kingston goes to thirty-three.

Russo hesitates for just a moment. He reaches into his breast pocket, as if he’s checking to make sure he brought his wallet. But instead of taking out a billfold, he takes out something smaller. Something shiny. Something silver.

For one horrified second, I think it’s a weapon. But Russo has cleared extra security to get into today’s auction. He had to pass through a metal detector in the lobby.

His hand works the rectangle of metal like a fidget toy, passing it over his fingers and under, over again and into his palm. He seems unaware of what he’s doing, but that’s a lie, because Antonio Russo has never been unaware of his own behavior, not once in his life.

Alix stands at the front of the room. “The current bid is thirty-three million dollars. Thirty-three million dollars for the Book of Skreen. Do I hear?—”

“Forty million dollars,” Russo says.

As the crowd gasps in amazement, Russo leans back in his chair. He fiddles with the box in his hand. He glances over his shoulder, looking directly at Braiden. And he rolls his thumb over the edge of the box, sending a long finger of flame from the cigarette lighter he holds.

23

BRAIDEN

The shitehawk is going to burn the Book of Skreen.

He doesn’t care about the hand-lettered pages. He doesn’t care about the decorated margins—people and animals and buildings showing how villagers lived twelve centuries ago. He doesn’t care about the eighteen full-page drawings—knotwork so intricate it can scarcely be followed with the naked eye.

Irish monks gave years of their lives to make the Skreen. Some of them likely went blind painting its pages.

But Antonio Russo will pay an obscene amount—half again the most generous estimate of the manuscript’s value—just so he can burn it in front of me.

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