Page 82 of Irish Brute
33
SAMANTHA
Aclock strikes midnight somewhere in Philadelphia, and Sunday becomes Monday. The ship has docked by now. The container has been unloaded. The drugs are working their way through Braiden’s criminal empire, financing the Philadelphia Flower Show and St. Columba’s and Thornfield and all the aspects of the Irish Mob I’ve carefully kept myself from thinking too much about.
Russo’s been at the summit. He hasn’t had a chance to fire his weapon, to destroy me with That Night—but he will, the instant the meeting ends.
I’ve hidden the truth for eleven years, imagining and re-imagining everything that will happen when my story is revealed. For the past forty-eight hours, Russo’s kept me on tenterhooks, every twinge of my sprained shoulder reminding me of the painful reveal that waits.
Tonight all that ends.
And suddenly, I can’t bear one more minute of delay. I open the door of the suite where I’ve spent the past two days and say to Liam, “Please take me to where they’re meeting.”
He looks exhausted. “I can’t do that.”
“Then take me to the lobby.”
“I have orders from Himself. You’re to stay here.”
“Please,” I say. I need to face Russonow.
But Liam remains unmoved.
I have no choice. I fall back on the lessons I’ve learned in six weeks of living with the Mob, in decades of watching the Mafia work. “Don’t make me lie, Liam. Don’t make me tell Braiden you touched me. That you tried to force your way into the bedroom.”
His forehead creases, and he looks like a child who just found out the Easter Bunny is a lie. “Samantha…” he says.
“Oh, God,” I answer. Liam has only been good to me, patient and steadfast and true. “I’m sorry. I won’t say that. I won’t do it.” But then I add, “This is just so important…”
He shakes his head, like he’s tossing off a bad dream. But then he says, “You’ll stay by my side?”
“Of course.” I answer as quickly as I can.
“And if I say it’s too dangerous, we come back here—no argument.”
“Agreed.”
It’s nearly one in the morning at the most exclusive hotel in Philadelphia. The only danger is the man I’m about to face. And after Russo drops his bomb, no other threat on earth will matter.
We wait in the lobby for nearly an hour. In deference to Liam’s nerves—and my throbbing shoulder—I take a seat in one of the heavy leather armchairs near the hotel doors.
Finally, one of the elevators opens. Six people enter the lobby. I stand, without making a conscious decision to move.
There’s Braiden, of course, and Madden. They flank a woman who looks like Cruella DeVil’s younger, more chic sister.
Russo is there too, with a man I recognize from newspaper articles as his lawyer. The third man is Luca Scuderi, godfather of the New York Mafia. He came to my parents’ house when I was six. I cried, because my cousin Gianni said Don Luca was a skeleton come to life so he could eat the livers of little girls like me.
The woman and Scuderi say “Ciao,” and they kiss each other the European way, right cheek first, then left. Madden and the lawyer scowl and shake hands. Braiden and Russo follow course, shaking like they’re in an arm-wrestling match to the death.
Only then do they cross to the hotel doors. Only then does Braiden see me. “What the—” he starts.
But Russo cuts him off. “Giovanna!” He sounds like we’re old friends. Braiden stiffens, his fists turning to oak. Russo ignores him, saying to me, “We have some unfinished business, you and I.”
He reaches inside his jacket. Liam moves for his weapon, but he stops when Russo only produces a phone. It’s so small in his hand. It seems so harmless.
“You should have listened, sweet Giovanna. I do not make idle threats.”
“Go to fucking hell,” I say.
