Page 91 of Irish Reign

I take more time placing the flowers on my cousins’ graves. I feel like I should kneel between them. Like I should bow my head. But in the end, I stand by their feet and talk to them, holding the last bouquet in both hands as I try to keep my voice steady.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You both deserved so much more. You should have had time to grow up. To find jobs. Friends. Lovers. You should have had the chance to leave Philadelphia, if that’s what you wanted. Or to stay. You should have been able to choose.”

It’s been almost twelve years since That Night. God, we were all so young.

“I don’t know how you’d feel about my new job. If Braiden was Mafia, he’d make me consigliere. Put my law degree to use, defending him and all his clan. But the Fishtown Boys don’t have that. At least, not yet. They call me their Clan Chief. Can you believe it?”

What would Gianni be doing now? Would he be trading stocks on Wall Street, the way he always said he would? Would Giorgia be putting the finishing touches on her first Fashion Week collection in New York?

“I’ve taken my own money,” I tell them. “Savings, from what I earned at the freeport. I’ve hired Harry Asher, a private investigator. I’ve asked him to track down everything he can about the man on the mountain. It won’t be easy, not after all this time. And there was never much to go on in the first place. But if anyone can find out who he was, Harry can.”

I don’t know what I’ll do once Harry gives me a name, an address, a sketch of the man’s life before he lost everything. If he has family, I’ll try to make amends. If he was alone in the world, I’ll try to support something that was important to him. That’s all I can do—try.

I want to say more, but I’m running out of time. I have an appointment in downtown Philadelphia at three, and I still have one more stop before then.

Clutching my last bouquet, I kiss my fingertips and reach out, first to Gianni, then to Giorgia. “I love you,” I say to my cousins. “Goodbye.”

It’s harder to turn away than I expected it to be. It’s even more difficult to walk toward the oldest part of the cemetery. The gravestones are more elaborate here. There are carved angels and, over one site, an obelisk.

I make my way to a mausoleum in the shadows of the church. It looks like a miniature Roman temple made out of white marble, lined with columns. A name is carved over the door: Russo.

Huge floral displays sag beside the door and on the steps—crosses and hearts and one gaudy blanket shaped like a horseshoe. The flowers are dried out. Ribbons are bleached by the sun. Antonio Russo is already being forgotten.

I can’t enter the locked mausoleum. I hesitate, not wanting to leave my flowers on the steps. I don’t want anyone to see them and misunderstand.

But, in the end, it’s more important that I kneel and leave them. I’ll know the truth. That’s what matters

“Eliza,” I say, rising from my knees.

But I don’t know what to say after that.I’m sorry…But her fate was set by others.I miss you…But wherever she is, she already knows that.

I forgive you,I think. But that’s not right either. Eliza never meant to hurt me when she started the affair that led to her death. She wasn’t thinking of me at all when Antonio Russo shoved a gun inside her body and pulled the trigger. She probably believed he’d never follow through on his threat; he’d never seek me out, never try to force me to take her place as his wife.

We were so young. So foolish. We never imagined evil like Antonio Russo existed. We never dreamed of what he could do.

So, in the end, I don’t say anything. I bow my head, and I think about all the good times I shared with my cousin. All the times we laughed.

And then, I really do have to leave. I hesitate at the cemetery gates, looking back at my family one last time. Then I turn toward the street, automatically scanning for paparazzi.

But once news of my disbarment became public, the press finally lost all interest in me. I’d almost be insulted, if I wasn’t so deeply grateful.

I hurry to the nearby parking lot. Liam Murphy waits there, standing beside the Bentley. He hurries to open my door as I approach, and I pick up my pace to meet him.

I can’t be late to my appointment.

46

BRAIDEN

Fairfax holds up three neckties for my approval. I choose the darkest green, so deep it almost looks black. He drapes it around my neck and starts to tie the knot, but his phone buzzes in his pocket.

After he reads the text, his sigh is more indulgence than exasperation. “Aiofe can’t find her tights,” he says.

“Go. I can manage this on my own.”

The look he gives me drips with doubt, but he heads for the door. Pausing on the threshold, though, he looks back. “Your father would be proud of you,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say, knowing that’s Fairfax’s most effusive praise. “Now, go. The last thing we want is to keep the archbishop waiting because one little girl can’t find her tights.”

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