Page 20 of Irish Brute
“Himselfwas too busy throwing me at you to say a thing.”
“Exactly,” Madden says with infuriating certainty.
I stare out my window, because that’s better than giving him a piece of mind and confirming I’m absolutely powerless. Myhands clasp each other in my lap, and enough light gets through the heavily tinted windows to make my new gold band glow.
Is liomsa tú.
This is my first lesson in what it means to belong to the Irish Mob Captain, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.
Without thinking, I slip my fingers into the pocket of my dress. I’m fishing for my phone out of habit, but of course it isn’t there. My cell—along with my wallet and ID—is in my pocketbook, back in St. Columba’s basement, where Alix helped me into my wedding gown. Lost, for now. Maybe forever.
Braiden told me he lived in Ardmore. What he didn’t say was that his neighborhood is filled with huge oak trees and even larger houses—mansions, every one. Or that he lives at the end of a winding road, behind a ten-foot-high stone fence topped with iron spikes. That there’s an actual guardhouse at the entrance, and a gate that makes most prisons look slap-dash.
Eoghan rolls down his window and sets his hand on an electronic pad. He turns his face toward a reader; I see red lasers map his eyes. He offers a salute to the narrow-eyed guard sitting inside the brick checkpoint, and he waits for the gate to slide open.
I swallow hard as we work our way up a twisting driveway. I’m not getting out of here on my own. Not if Braiden decides I’m not allowed to leave.
But Don Antonio isn’t getting in,I tell myself, finding comfort where I can.
The house sits on the crest of a grassy hill. The sun is already low in the sky, and the three-story building looks almost black in the shadows. Snow still lurks in the corners where two stone wings take flight from a central hall.
I crane my neck to take in the rows of windows, most of which are lined by dark curtains. Something catches my attention, high and to the right, but by the time I turn my head,there’s nothing to see. The nape of my neck tingles, like I’m every victim in every slasher movie ever filmed.
“Let’s go,” Madden says.
“Where?” I resist, even though I know I don’t have a chance.
“You heard Himself. The safe room.”
Madden’s got my arm again, in that grip I can’t ignore. He bulls his way through the front door and down a long hallway to the left. Mahogany book shelves alternate with glass-fronted display cases. Madden stops in front of a long run of leather-bound volumes. I just have time to recognize plays by George Bernard Shaw when Madden presses his hand against the underside of a shelf.
The entire bookcase swings away from us silently and a light begins to glow in the space that is revealed. We walk down a short hall to a luxurious den.
I take in a pair of heavy couches, upholstered in forest-green leather. A huge television screen fills one wall. Liquor bottles and glasses glint on a brass-fitted cart, next to a sleek black refrigerator. The thick rug under my feet muffles sound as I move further into the room.
I recover enough to say, “I expected something a little rougher.”
He flicks a glance back to the entrance. “Top of the line work from Kelly Construction. The door weighs half a ton. There’s six feet of cinderblock around us, lined with steel and Kevlar. Separate air-handling system, heating, cooling. You’re safe in here from fire, chemical weapons, and a nuclear attack.”
“Jesus,” I breathe.
“There’s food in the fridge. Water too. The jacks is through that door.” He nods toward the far end of the room. “Remote control for the telly,” he says, pointing to a silver wand on the arm of the couch. He turns back to the hallway.
“You aren’t leaving me here!” I say.
“You’ll be safe,” he says.
I glance toward the door. There’s no visible knob, only an electronic plate. “How do I get out of here?”
“You don’t.” He crosses the room in three long strides.
Too late, I start to follow. “Madden!” I shout.
But the door is already closed behind him.
9
BRAIDEN
