Page 69 of Irish Reign

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When we touch down in Florida, Trap passes me his phone. There’s a text from Braiden:

Braiden

Sorry. Emergency at work. Can’t make it.

There are a million emergencies that could be real—shipments gone astray, soldiers out of line, city inspectors getting too interested in the Thornfield ruins.

But I’m pretty sureI’mthe emergency. Braiden won’t come to Miami because I’m here.

At least we won’t have to keep a medical team on standby, with Braiden and Russo in the same suite.

On Sunday, race day, I get to the track early. I’m working, so I wear my gray suit and a white top. My hair is pulled back in a neat French twist. I carry my briefcase.

Russo is the last of the Ring to arrive, except for Braiden. Trap is busy chatting up other clients, so I greet our final guestalone. “Don Antonio,” I say. Even though it’s early afternoon, I hand him his favorite cocktail, a negroni.

“Ah,” he says, after sipping the blood-red drink. “You remember, Giovanna.”

I make a point of looking down, of clutching my hands together. It’s not difficult to seem nervous; just standing next to the man who murdered my cousin sends my pulse into overdrive.

“But please,” Russo says. “I do not wish to keep you from the race.”

He gestures toward the window that looks over the track, where twenty spider-like race cars are taking up positions for the formation lap. I have no choice but to walk in front of him. His palm settles over the small of my back, over my hidden tattoo. A wave of nausea rolls through me, so strong I stumble.

Russo’s flat fingers clasp my elbow. “Careful, Giovanna.”

I don’t know if he’s telling me to watch my step, or if his warning means something more. He doesn’t release his grip until we join the others, and it takes all my willpower not to glance down at my sleeve, to see if the fabric is actually charred or if the stink of sulfur is only in my mind.

An hour and a half later, Red Bull has won the race. Ferrari takes second, and McLaren an unexpected third. I’m back at the bar, pouring a bracing tonic and lime, because I don’t trust myself with the Jameson I crave.

I feel Russo behind me, as if my tattoo is equipped with a silent alarm. He reaches for the Campari to build himself a fresh drink. I’m effectively trapped against the bar.

“Where is your so-called husband, Giovanna?”

We both look at my left hand at the same time, at the faint band of white where I used to wear two rings.

“Ah, sweet Giovanna,” he says, as if he truly cares. “Thestronzoleaves his mate.”

“Ilefthim,” I say, faster and angrier than I mean to. I try to temper my words by adding, “Don Antonio.”

He leans in close. Mysegnokindles from his body heat, sending a dull ache up my spine to the back of my eyes. “If I had known,cara, I would have sent my jet to Dover. We could have traveled here together, you and I.”

I have to swallow three times before I can speak, and then my words are only a whisper. “I wish you had, Don Antonio.”

He laughs and traces my cheek with a finger. My stomach cramps, hard and sharp. I clutch my glass of bitter tonic and will myself not to vomit.

“Antonio!” Trap calls from the front of the room. “They’re awarding the trophies.”

My knees buckle when Russo leaves, and sweat pools in my armpits. I force myself to take slow, deep breaths until my body registers that the threat has passed—for now.

It takes an effort, but I finally rally my thoughts. This is necessary. This is what I have to do, if I’m ever going to convince Russo to trust me with his most damning documents.

The Mafia don collects his winnings from other members of the Diamond Ring. They ask how he knew to put it all on Red Bull, and he laughs. “They’re gold and red. The colors of Sicily.” The ache in my tattoo flares to a sharp pang, as if the lines are etched with acid.

Russo leaves after that, claiming he has other business at the racetrack. Looking back from the door to the suite, he skewers me with one last gaze. He points his finger at me like an imaginary gun, and then he’s gone.

Back in Dover that night, Mary can tell I’m upset. She’s become a friend, yes, but she’s still my assistant at work. It would be unprofessional to tell her about the Diamond Ring, about the day at the races, about Russo.

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