Page 64 of Irish Brute
“Braiden,” I remind her, because we’ve met at a dozen fundraisers in the past. “And may I introduce my wife, Samantha.”
“How do you do?” asks Millicent. But she doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she waves us toward the door to her right. “Please,” she says. “Enjoy the Philadelphia Flower Show. We won’t open to the public until this weekend, but all the displays are at peak tonight.”
Samantha waits until we’re out of earshot before she leans close. Her voice is full of wonder as she asks, “A private viewing? Of the most famous flower show in the world?”
And just like that, my headache is gone.
It’s not actually a private viewing—there are forty or fifty people wandering the Convention Center grounds. And it might not be the most famous flower show in the world—I don’t keep track of shite like that.
But I’ve dropped a hundred thou to be one of the key sponsors, because that’s what a legitimate businessman does to help his adopted hometown. It doesn’t hurt to have a tax write-off; I can’t run all my business through the freeport. And it’s always nice to have an excuse to rub elbows with the mayor and the City Council—all seventeen of whom are expected to show tonight.
And all that was before I counted on bringing Samantha.
She looks around like a child caught between Disneyland, Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, and Narnia. Each floral display this year highlights a country. Somewhere in here is The Fair Emerald Isle, sponsored by Kelly Construction, above and beyond my overall gift.
“Braiden,” Samantha breathes. “It’s gorgeous.”
I let her draw me deeper into the show. She says she doesn’t deserve flowers. She claims they make her weak. But I love watching all her hard lines melt as we move from country to country.
Millicent Kennedy knows how to throw a party. Attentive waiters approach with trays of food—appetizers chosen to emphasize the international theme. There’s plenty of champagne flowing too—no glass is left empty for longer than a few seconds.
A photographer darts through the crowd, preserving images of happy donors. I know better than to take offense when Philadelphia’s finest avoid being caught in the same frame as me. But Samantha poses on my arm, the perfect image of a society wife enjoying her husband’s financial support of one of the city’s most cherished traditions.
We travel from India to Peru, from Mongolia to Spain. Samantha points out favorite displays, clutching my arm and laughing. I’d gladly buy her all of them, just to keep her this happy.
As we approach a sunny display representing Micronesia, I see Council Member Doyle across the room. The Hare is located in her district, and I never pass up a chance to remind her how we can best help each other. I make sure Samantha’s glass is full, and then I say, “I’ll catch up with you in a moment. I need to talk to Maureen Doyle.”
Samantha’s been to plenty of freeport business events; she knows how this works. She brushes a kiss against my cheek and wanders off to explore a schooner made out of cinnamon bark.
My conversation with Doyle leads to a quick chat with Mayor Thompson. Chief Morris joins us, his parade uniform impressively somber against the backdrop of flowers. Ignoring his pointed statements about the recent uptick in crime, I make a point of asking about his pet charity, an organization that gets kids off the streets and into gyms to play basketball. I happen to know that twenty-five grand a month gets transferred off their books into a slush fund for the chief’s personal use.
After Morris leaves us, his nose wrinkled as if some nearby flowers are rotting in manure, I find myself talking to the new head of airport operations. She’s thinking of rebuilding two runways, and I assure her Kelly Construction can build a winning bid.
It’s a good night. I wrap up a couple of deals and put out feelers for several more. No one presses too hard on the growing shite with Russo. And the champagne they’re pouring is the good stuff.
So I’m feeling fine when I head down the path into the floral displays. I’m impressed by the Japanese pagoda. The EiffelTower barely fits beneath the roof. Dutch tulips line canals filled with real water.
I round a bend and take in three things before I manage a breath.
The Colosseum is impressive, even when—especially when—it’s made of millions of tiny white flowers.
Antonio Russo is an uglier motherfucker than I remember.
And Samantha’s twisted arm will break behind her back if Russo raises it a quarter inch more.
25
SAMANTHA
One moment, I’m staring at the Colosseum, wondering how many jasmine flowers it took to build the ancient walls. The next, my arm is caught behind me, twisted so viciously that a scream rises in my throat. I don’t set it free, though. I can’t, because my captor covers my mouth with his other hand, crushing my lips against my teeth.
Adrenaline scorches a valley through my brain, but I’ve trained for this. I took a self-defense course the first week of law school, when I realized I’d be walking across campus alone after the Lowood library closed every night.
Raising my foot, I’m grateful for the stiletto heels I wore to match my skirt. I stomp down hard on my attacker’s foot, aiming for his toes but willing to rake his insole if that’s all I can reach.
He’s ready for me. He kicks the back of the leg I’m standing on, buckling my knee—a double threat to my balance because ofmy high heels. At the same time, he cranks his grip on my wrist, bringing my pinned arm higher behind me.
Fire flashes from my elbow to my shoulder. I tighten my abs like this is life-or-death Pilates, bending my knees for better balance. I try to rotate into the hold, the way I learned so many years ago.
