Page 71 of Irish Reign

Aiofe is already in her second month of summer school. I hope St. Agnes has continued to be a welcoming place for her, that she’s making new friends and growing more comfortable in the wide world outside of Thornfield. I hope Braiden continues to send her to therapy.

I wonder if Fairfax has settled into the Ardmore kitchen. On the one hand, he has all new appliances and counter tops largeenough to butcher a lamb. On the other hand, he’s only cooking for three now. No matter how much I disliked Grace Poole, I know she was a companion for him. I hope he’s not too lonely.

My life at Thornfield seems like a distant dream. I barely had a chance to move into the Ardmore house. I can’t believe I ever wore skirts patterned with flowers. I don’t remember what it was like having my evenings free from work. And my nights…

Of course I can’t forget the things Braiden made me do. The things I wantedwhen I was with him. The punishment I craved, and the sweet, sweet release he always delivered.

But that’s gone now. Impossible. Not after all the things he said to me. All the things I said to him. Not after the tattoo that stains my spine.

That part of my life is gone. All I have left is the desperate hope that I can cage Russo before I’m forced to leave Diamond Freeport forever.

33

BRAIDEN

Finally, a glimmer of good news amid all the shite.

Rory O’Hare gets news of a warehouse outside of Philadelphia—run-down, sagging roof, cracked foundation—the type of place I’d just as soon demolish as try to repair. But rumor has it, Russo’s been using it for something.

Russoshouldbe putting his valuables in the freeport now, storing them in his personal gallery and taking advantage of the tax breaks Samantha has worked out for all of us. So I tell O’Hare to take a drive by the warehouse after midnight, to bring a few men along, just to see what’s what.

He’s busy enough with other work that he asks if I can send someone else. He wants to know if I’ve been in touch with Madden, if my brother can make the run instead. I tell him Madden can’t make it, but I’ll call Patrick back from Boston if I have to.

O’Hare says everything is under control. He makes the run that night, to prove I can trust him.

The place is packed to the rafters with fireworks.

They aren’t in the freeport because Prince won’t allow explosives past the gate. In the most recent round of security updates, he added bomb-sniffing dogs; every vehicle is checked before it’s allowed on the property.

Russo must have cleaned up after the Fourth of July, bought out everyone he could. Fireworks are legal in Pennsylvania, but not in Maryland or New Jersey. Come next Independence Day, he can drive his stash over state lines and sell them for a tidy profit, same as he would any contraband.

It takes Seamus twenty-four hours to line up our own warehouse—a newer one, a dryer one, and one we can easily keep a guard on. After that, it’s easy enough to use Kelly Construction trucks and O’Hare’s runners. The fireworks are cleaned out before Russo even suspects they’ve been discovered.

I authorize a few sales up in New Jersey. Independence Day is over, but people always want to make loud noises and see pretty lights. When a short shipment to Trenton sells out overnight, I tell Seamus to unload the rest of it—no need to wait until next July.

Seamus needs someone to coordinate driving, and I tell him to use Liam Murphy. I need to forgive the blighter. After all, the only crime Murphy truly committed was letting Samantha get that tattoo. I haven’t forgotten how persuasive she can be. The fella didn’t stand a chance.

A week after O’Hare found the warehouse, I’m a million dollars richer.

Better yet, I have other captains sitting up and taking notice. Reardon calls from Chicago to find out how I unloaded that many fireworksafterthe Fourth. Our counterpart in NewOrleans chimes in too; he imagines he can build a new market shipping into Texas.

I’m not interested in setting up a consulting business, advising either one of those captains. But it’s nice to know people are paying attention.

It’s even nicer that I landed my million bucks when the Grand Irish Union is still in disarray. Without a general to claim his ten percent, I keep every penny.

So I’m feeling rather flush as I sit down to dinner with Aiofe. She, though, doesn’t share my good mood. She spends the better part of half an hour pushing buttered egg noodles around on her plate. Every time she sighs, something twinges beneath my ribs. I’d rather be out on the front lines in my brooding war with Russo, than sitting at a dining room table with a moody pre-teen girl.

O’Hare reported Aiofe didn’t say a word when he drove her back from her therapist this afternoon. She didn’t push for a walk around the block to see the puppies at the home of one of her classmates. Instead, she went straight to her room and closed the door.

Gritting my teeth, I ask, “How was your meeting with Miss Sharon today?”

More poking at her plate. I wonder if Aiofe’s decided she’s through with talking. At least when she was silent before, she responded to direct questions with a range of expressions on her face. Hand signals, even.

“Aiofe?” I prompt, wondering how I should proceed.

She talks to her fork. “Miss Sharon said I should ask you a question if I want to know answers. Even if it’s private. Personal.”

I put down my own fork. Fairfax has given Aiofe an entire book on how her body works. I’d expect her to turn to him ifshe’s confused. But I do my level best to sound open to whatever she has to say. “What question do you have?”

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