Page 74 of Irish Brute
“There, lads,” he says, sounding like a field marshal. “You—spray there. No, sweep the nozzle. Like this.” I don’t know if the hissing sound is the fire extinguisher or the flames. “Take the second one,” Fairfax says. “There.”
More hissing. My office door rattles in its frame, and foam starts to seep beneath, just a few bubbles at first and then a spreading pond.
I try the knob again, and this time no one tells me to stop. The hall is filled with men from the front gate, four of them, all holding heavy metal fire extinguishers. Fairfax stands behind them, brandishing his own shiny tank, like an exorcist going after the devil.
And there’s Samantha. She’s wearing joggers and my shirt, her shoulder wrapped beneath it. Her hair is wild, and black soot stripes her face. She’s leaning toward me, straining, but she’s also got both hands on Aiofe’s shoulders, like her life force is the only thing keeping the girl from plowing through the mess of foam and ashes.
I go to both of them.
Every man in the hall is waiting for me to speak or looking to me for direction. But my wife is more important.
My hand finds the back of Samantha’s neck. “You’re safe?”
She nods.
“Take Aiofe to the nursery.”
“I want to stay with you.”
I glance at the mess behind me. Foam pools on the hardwood floor. A trio of brass candlesticks lie on their sides. Three altar candles, each as thick as my forearm, roll in the muck beside them. My office door is scorched black; the flames reached chest-high.
“Take Aiofe,” I say.
“Russo,” she says.
Russo destroyed the Hare. Russo torched poor Donny O’Keefe. Russo has bombed my clubs and taken out one of my warehouses.
But Russo didn’t make his way inside my home. The Mafia can’t get past Thornfield’s gates. Another evil worked here tonight. I know who, and Fairfax does too.
I brush a kiss against Samantha’s lips. “This wasn’t Russo. You’re safe.”
She starts to protest, but I don’t have time. I’m not ready to tell her everything I know.
Go,” I say, leaning just enough on my Captain’s voice to be certain she’ll obey.
And then I turn back to craft the lies I need to make this mess disappear.
29
SAMANTHA
It takes me over an hour to get Aiofe to stop shaking.
The nursery door is closed, but the men are still out there. I hear them talking to each other. Someone takes an axe to Braiden’s office door to make sure it’s no longer smoldering. Someone else says something about candles and spilled wax.
I want to listen to every word. I want to understand what’s happened. Braiden seemed so certain—This wasn’t Russo.
How can he know? What if Russo compromised one of the men at the gate? What if the fire was meant to be a warning, an opening salvo? Could gunmen be lurking outside the house right now? Sharpshooters waiting to pick us off as we flee the flames?
I can ask questions all afternoon, but Aiofe needs me. So I take my phone out of my pocket and launch a playlist, a set of quiet songs I use to help me unwind after a long day at the office.
Or rather, songs Iusedto listen to. I haven’t played music in weeks. Not since I moved into Thornfield Hall.
But the playlist works its magic. It covers the noise in the hall. I rack my brain for activities we can do.
We could play charades—that would be perfect for a child who cannot speak, at least until it’s her turn to guess.
I could read to her—but the handful of books on the shelf by her bed are all in Irish.
