Page 11 of Irish Brute
I keep my tone casual, like I’m inviting him out for a lash. But his swarthy face flushes, and both his goons take full steps forward. I don’t look at Samantha. I don’t need to see her reaction to being treated like a cut of meat.
Russo holds up a hand to stop his men, clearly intending to show he’s the one maintaining control. “You’re outnumbered, Kelly. And you’re clearly spending too much time where you’re not supposed to be.”
“I’mexactlywhere I’m supposed to be, you sadistic prick.”
Russo reacts like the weak little man he is, putting pressure on the one person in the room who doesn’t make a living in organized crime. “Giovanna,” he says. “Bettina needs you to make the right decision. I am counting to three. One.”
Samantha trembles beside me. “Two,” I say, making my voice sound bored. “Three.” I fake a yawn. “Fuck off, Russo. You’ve got a long ride back to Philly. Might as well get an early start.”
“Do not get between a man and his fiancée!”
“Excellent advice.” I step squarely in front of Samantha. “Mygealltaand I would like you to leave. Now.”
Russo snorts. “You expect me to believe you are engaged.”
“That’s my ring on her finger.”
“So when are the two of you getting married?”
“January 10,” I say. It’s the first day that springs to mind, probably because it was my father’s birthday.
“In one week,” Russo says, his words dripping in disbelief.
“Seven fucking days,” I agree.
Russo smiles, and I can count his teeth, all the way back to his molars. “And where will you be celebrating the happy occasion, Giovanna?” he asks.
I answer before Samantha can. I don’t know if she can name a single Catholic church in Philly. But I know where every Captain has been married for the past hundred years. “St. Columba’s, in Fishtown. At three in the afternoon.”
“I look forward to paying my respects.” Russo eyes Samantha like she’s a porterhouse steak.
“Mother Church keeps an open door,” I say. “But we don’t. Take your dogs and get the fuck out of our home.”
5
SAMANTHA
Idon’t know how Braiden makes himself taller, how his shoulders test the seams on his rumpled white shirt. He says, “Russo. One more thing.”
Impossibly, Don Antonio stops. His dead-oak eyes narrow. He tilts his head a little to the left.
Braiden says, “Call off your man in Philly. Now. Or there’ll be war in the streets tonight.”
Don Antonio stares at me for a full minute before he takes out his phone. He doesn’t blink as he places the call. “Drop it,” he says, like he’s calling a dog off a bone. He returns his phone to his pocket.
It feels like I haven’t taken a full breath in years.
Don Antonio says to me, “Consider that my wedding gift.” And then he says to Braiden, “Keep an eye on this one. Who knows what tricks she learned from herputtanaof a cousin?”
Braiden takes a full step forward, but Don Antonio concedes a retreat, turning on his heel and gesturing for one of his men to open my front door. The three of them leave without another word.
My legs shake so hard I barely make it to the couch. I bury my face in my hands, wondering how much Braiden heard before he swooped into the room.
Eleven years, I’ve thought I was free from all this. Eleven years, I’ve thought Don Antonio and the Russo family and the East Falls Crew were out of my life.
I took Eliza’s money and fled That Night. I knew enough to find a forger in Manhattan, to buy the documents I needed. Giovanna Canna died in a basement apartment in Queens. And Samantha Mott was born.
Samantha applied to Lowood Law School on New York’s Upper West Side. She took out loans and worked two jobs. She was editor of theLowood Law Review, and she graduated with a 4.0 average.
