Page 65 of Irish Reign

I don’t give her the satisfaction of watching me duck. After hitting my cheek, the gold clatters on the floor, like a boxer’s teeth knocked out in the final round.

Samantha doesn’t look down. Instead, she moves toward the door with her head high and her back straight. She doesn’t deignto straighten her clothes, so I can still see that fucking tattoo where her top hitches over her trousers.

Her fingers settle on the doorknob.

This is it. This is the moment I can say I was wrong, that I spoke in anger. I can change everything by dropping to my knees, by begging.

But I’m her Dom.

I don’t beg.

Instead, I say, “Walk out that door, and you’re never setting foot in this house again.”

She flexes her wrist, and the knob turns.

“You’re on your own with Russo.”

She opens the door.

“You’ll never see another penny from me.”

Thatmakes her stop. She shakes her head like I’m a drooling eejit. Or like she pities me.

“Don’t even start telling yourself that lie. It wasneverabout the money, Braiden,” she says. “Not ever.”

And she’s gone.

28

SAMANTHA

Of course, Liam’s waiting outside. He’s leaning against the hood of the Bentley, arms crossed over his chest.

“How much did you hear?” I ask.

“Nothing.” But he’s lying. Rovers on Mars heard some of what we shouted.

I’m shaking—a low, steady tremble that makes my ankles totter in my shoes. Every breath feels like it’s going to trip a circuit breaker in my lungs. My spine vibrates, each little spasm shaking loose more of my self-control.

“Get in,” Liam says. “I’ll drive you wherever you want to go.”

He would, too. But I can’t let him do that. He’s one of Braiden’s men. The Fishtown Boys are the only job he’s ever had, the only thing he ever wanted to be when he was growing up on the streets of Philadelphia.

I hold out my hand for the keys. I don’t want to take Braiden’s car. I don’t want to owe him for anything. But hehasn’t left me with any alternative. My Mercedes is still stranded at the burned-out husk of Thornfield.

I don’t have a car. I don’t have a home. I don’t have clothes or a computer.

This is the third time Braiden and I have fought. The third time he’s reduced me to a helpless, homeless girl. The third time he’s transformed me from Sam Mott, independent attorney, into Samantha Kelly, humiliated mob wife.

I can’t take this anymore. I won’t do this again. I’m done, forever.

“Come on,” I say to Liam, because I need to hit the road.

He wants to argue. But he knows I’m right. He gives me the keys.

Somehow, I drive all the way from Ardmore back to Dover without causing a crash. My body functions like a machine, using my mirrors, looking left, looking right to check blindspots. I don’t process. I don’t think. I just act.

It’s back to the Hilton Garden Inn for me. I don’t know if the night clerk recognizes me. It’s been two months. I collect my electronic key card and one of those packets they give unfortunate travelers who’ve lost their luggage at the airport—toothbrush, toothpaste, and a comb.

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