Page 76 of Irish Reign

“Giovanna,” Russo says. “Myuccellinosays the FBI meet Monday morning.”

His little bird. He must keep a spy in the heart of the United States Department of Justice. “Meet about what?”

“Me. My business. My taxes.”

“You need a criminal lawyer,” I say, remembering to keep my voice steady, even as my pulse launches into triple time. Every synapse in my body says I’ve won. He’s finally reaching out to me. I’m about to get the proof I long for.

“Ineedto shelter assets. And that means my tax documents must reflect certain…versions of reality. Before I meet with the FBI.”

“Fine,” I say, pushing back my sheets. “I can be at the freeport in twenty minutes.”

“No,” he says. “I will not go to Dover. You will come here, to Philadelphia.”

Immediately, I try to think of someone I can call, someone who can keep me safe in Russo’s lair. Trap. Liam. Braiden.

Before I can even begin to wrestle with the emotions of reaching out to any of them, with needing a man to keep me safe, Russo says, “Come alone,cara.Within two hours. Or I will leave the freeport forever.”

37

BRAIDEN

It’s late by the time I finally head upstairs for bed. I checked the news after Fairfax’s talking to. There was an article onThe Enquirer’ssite, a story that won’t be in print until tomorrow.

The Department of Corrections is moving forward with its Paragon plan, the project to renovate one of the state’s oldest prisons. Ray Krakower held a press conference, expressing his enthusiasm for one of the city’s newest business partners: East Falls Contracting Company.

Russo has finally leveraged the information Samantha gave him. Krakower has ducked public disclosure of his career in film. Kelly Construction has lost a fifty-million-dollar project that was virtually guaranteed.

I could hire lawyers. I could sue the DOC, demanding they re-compete the job. I could drag things out for years, maybe even a decade, and in the end, I might tear Paragon back from Russo.

But I won’t.

No matter how heated things get with Russo’s crew, I’ll let him keep Krakower. I made a promise to Samantha, and I won’t go back on that.

Once I get into bed, I can’t fall asleep. Even with the air conditioner pumping out its frozen air, the bedroom is too warm. I turn on the ceiling fan. Tap the remote to make it spin faster. Tap again for the maximum speed. Turn the whole thing off, because it feels like I’m trapped in a wind tunnel.

I throw back the covers and stalk to the window, automatically taking shelter behind the curtains, so no one can see me from outside. Best’s men are at their stations, two men each in two cars, one on either side of the street.

Still restless, I pull on the trousers I set aside when I got ready for bed. I slip into my dress shirt as well, but I don’t bother doing up the buttons. I consider putting on my shoes and socks, but I’ll be quieter in bare feet.

Something is off. Something is wrong. I prowl to the closet, stopping in front of the gun safe built into the wall. Setting my fingertips on the reader, I listen for the muffled click of the lock releasing.

Walther in hand, I make my way down the hallway. Aiofe’s asleep in her bed, clutching her stuffed rabbit like it’s a shield against bad dreams. My office is empty. Samantha’s too.

The staircase at Thornfield creaked like a cheap mattress, but my feet are silent on the new steps here. The living room is just as I left it, my newspapers stacked beside my recliner. The dining room is empty, the kitchen too.

I ease the door open to the basement. I can hear Fairfax’s snores from the top of the stairs. That doesn’t mean an intruder’s not lurking down there.

I’m quiet enough not to wake Fairfax, which is a good thing, because he’d somehow manage to make this about Samantha, if I gave him half a chance.

Back on ground level, I open the front door and step onto the front porch. I can hear wind in the trees. Cars on the cross street, four houses down. A dog barks somewhere in the next block, maybe farther away.

A shadow glides up the driveway. “Everything okay, Mr. Kelly?”

It’s one of Best’s men. His hair is cut military short, and he’s poured into his tight black T-shirt with matching denim jeans. He’s got one hand on his sidearm as he waits for my response.

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“I can move one of my men to the porch here. If you’d like, sir.”

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