Page 17 of Irish Brute
Shaking my head at the lessons carved deep in my brain, I resist the urge to cross myself. I don’t practice the old ways anymore. I didn’t bother finding a new confessor after O’Rourke left the church.
But I mutter to myself as I shift the Jeep into gear: “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.” They’re the only lines I remember from a poem one of the priests made us memorize in grade twelve.
I’m half-way home before I order my mobile to call Madden. He’s my Clan Chief, my second in command, and he’s my brother too. He’ll be best man at this wedding.
He answers on the second ring, which isn’t bad because I’m certain he was sleeping. Two nights ago, he returned from his own month-long trip to Ireland, shoring up our relationship with the Grand Irish Union. The GIU is the closest we American mobsters come to having a common home—it’s the Cosa Nostra of the Irish Mob. All for one and one for all; the GIU always has my back.
Whenever Madden comes stateside after a stint in Dublin, his accent is as heavy as Granny’s piano. He likes to pretend he’s forgotten the English word for common things, and he swears his muscle memory is gone for driving on the right.
Now, he’s cursing like a bogger, shitehawk this and dry shite that, and I wait for him to wake enough to remember I’m his Captain. “What d’ ya need?” he finally asks.
“Our best maintenance man, over at St. Columba’s tonight. Make it look like damage from the snow. A quarter mill’s worth.”
Kelly Construction can fix the damage in a week, easy. My company won’t dream of taking the good parish’s money. But I’ll see Father Brennan gets through the door, no questions asked.
And that will get me the wedding I need—the one to keep Samantha safe.
7
SAMANTHA
The last time I wore a dress was for Eliza’s wedding to Don Antonio, when I stood beside my cousin as her maid of honor. Eliza had all the taste and sophistication of a sheltered eighteen-year-old princess. My bridesmaid dress was the color of the Pepto-Bismol Eliza gulped straight from the bottle before the ceremony. It was made out of too-shiny satin, with puffy sleeves, ruffles around my neck, and a giant bow across my ass.
At least this time I have a choice.
After a desperate conference with Alix Key, my closest colleague at the freeport, I have half a dozen wedding gowns overnighted from a high-end New York boutique, Gallagher Samson. The saleswoman there actually listens to what I say when I place the order. There isn’t a ruffle or scrap of lace in the entire shipment.
So now I’m wearing a floor-length satin gown, sleeveless and shimmering white. It has a crew neck and a full pleated skirt,with a hidden zipper up the back. An attached crystal belt sits above my hips. Best of all: It has pockets.
Giovanna Canna had cousins and aunts and uncles who would sit on her side of the aisle. But Samantha Mott has almost no one—a handful of acquaintances from work, my neighbor Caleb and his husband, a few folks I’ve met at fundraising dinners for Dover charities. I texted the three people from my study group in law school, but none of them can make it on short notice.
I don’t blame them. No one has ever heard me mention the man I’m about to marry. Braiden and I haven’t dated. We don’t have a cute story about how we met. “He held my hair while I puked my guts out after my cousin’s psychopathic husband violated her in the worst way imaginable” isn’t the sort of story I want to share.
Instead, I tell people I met Braiden at work. He’s a client. We’ve known each other for a few years now. We only recently realized there was something more there, that we had something special.
Trap Prince, the founder of Diamond Freeport, is skeptical, but he’s agreed to walk me down the aisle. His fiancée, Alix, is my maid of honor. She’s wearing a stunning gown, also from Gallagher Samson, a deep sky-blue that reminds me of the morning a week ago, when Braiden proposed.
Standing in the church’s cold covered porch, we’ve watched several dozen men file into church, many with wives, some with children. They’re Braiden’s Fishtown Boys, and most of them seem surprised when they steal a look at me.
There’s a commotion at the door, some hissed angry words. I look up from my bouquet of white sweetheart roses—Alix insisted, same as she did with my elegant up-do, but at least the flowers aren’t pink.
Don Antonio is shouldering his way past a trio of Braiden’s men.
Antonio Russo is dressed all in black—suit, shirt, tie, and freshly shined leather shoes. I recognize most of the crew behind him—boys who lived near Gateshead when I was growing up, now men who walk the streets of East Falls like they’re gods.
Don Antonio holds up one manicured hand, and his men fall into place like soldiers of the Roman legion. “Giovanna,” he says. His eyes pare away my pretty dress like he’s trimming extra fat from a roast.
He steps forward, and a whiff of Acqua di Parma turns my stomach. I don’t say a word—I can’t—but Trap steps between us.
“You’ll want to take your seats,” he says, like he’s used to being an usher. “The service is about to start.”
I watch Don Antonio size him up, and I start to crane my neck, looking through the church doors, toward the altar, toward Braiden, already waiting with Father Brennan. But Don Antonio knows he’s on enemy territory today. He decides to take Trap’s hint and stalks into the chapel. He and his men take seats halfway down, on the left.
The bride’s side.
As if on cue, the organist finishes the prelude and launches into the processional. I told Braiden I didn’t care about the music, but he insisted this was my wedding; I had to choose. I’ve gone with Bach—Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring—because I like the orderly roll of the notes. They’re not too pretty, not too flowery. They don’t feel like an indulgence.
Alix leans in and whispers, “Courage.” Then she centers her simple bouquet of miniature white carnations and walks down the aisle, step by elegant step, head held high like she was born to do this.
