Chapter 22
22
PATRICK
F iona won’t listen to feckin’ reason.
I tell her not to meet with Dowd, that she has nothing to gain from answering his summons. She says she’s not afraid of him, that she has to put him in his place before she becomes his Queen, and now’s as good a time as any.
I tell her not to go to the dún , that she shouldn’t meet on his territory. She says her father’s name is on the city records, the dún has been Ingram property for more than one hundred years, and she’ll be conceding something vital if she treats it like Dowd owns it now.
I tell her she still doesn’t know that witch’s game, that no one takes all the risk and pays out ninety-five percent of the take without having some ulterior motive. She says she’s not an idiot, and that she appreciates my looking out for her, but there isn’t an angle to this that she hasn’t already considered.
And then she calls me Daddy.
I take her to bed, just as she intends me to do .
She’s a good little girl. She comes when I praise her, three separate times, because I think that might be enough to change her feckin’ mind about the trip to Dowd.
But then I’m pulling on clean clothes, a new shirt and trousers I bought to hang in her closet. My shoulder holster feels like a bridle. I pocket an extra magazine for my Glock.
And I drive her over to the feckin’ dún because I’m not actually her da, and I’m not her boss, and there’s nothing I can do if she’s determined to risk her goddamn, gorgeous neck.
Dowd sees us in his office, which is another bullshit power play. As Clan Chief, he’s had a private room in the dún for decades; it’s the same one I stood in after Da died. It’s the same huge desk, sized for a man who uses paper and pen in his daily work. It’s the same executive chair, framing him like he’s the villain in a movie made from a comic book. It’s the same row of gilded plates on the wall, awards from the South Boston Eire Association, honoring him for his fine work over the years.
“Thank you for bringing Herself,” Dowd says, with a civil tone that almost makes me forget he’s a feckin’ animal.
I nod, because the alternative is speaking to him, and I don’t trust what I might say.
“You can wait in the kitchen,” Dowd says, not bothering to look me in the eye.
That requires an answer. “I’m happy to stay here.”
“I wasn’t asking, Cujo.”
There’s a knife behind his words that only a fool would ignore. But the past three weeks have turned me into an eejit, because I turn to Fiona and say, “I’ll stay.”
Her eyes are bigger than the fancy gold plates behind her feckin’ uncle. She swallows before she remembers to throw back her shoulders, before she raises her chin. She looks at a point somewhere north of my forehead when she says, “That’s okay, Patrick. I’ll swing by the kitchen when I’m through.”
It hurts more than I expect. I’ve known from the moment I wrapped one of my kitchen towels around a bag of frozen peas that Fiona Ingram had her own agenda—first with Madden Kelly, then up here in Boston. She’s determined to take over her father’s empire. She knows that’ll cost her, and she’s prepared to pay.
Nevertheless it feels like pure shite, being part and parcel of the currency she’s handing over.
I could call her bluff. Refuse to go. Keep her safe, at least until I’m cut down by the men Dowd surely has in earshot. The Crew knows I fight like a savage. Dowd must have taken that into account when he planned this goddamn summit.
Summit. Not exactly. A summit is a meeting of equals. And Fiona Ingram isn’t an equal to her uncle. Not in this room. Not inside the dún . Not in the city she’s called home for all her twenty-four years.
And if I disobey her now, I’ll make her worth even less.
So, God help me, I leave her in that feckin’ snake pit. I make my way to the kitchen, clearing my throat outside the door, so I don’t take anyone by surprise.
And sure enough, Oona Maguire is sitting at the head of the scrubbed wooden table when I enter the room. She’s in the middle of fixing Sunday roast; that’s a leg of lamb in the roasting pan and a mountain of potatoes she’s peeling for roasties.
“Have a seat, Paddy,” she says, nodding to the chair next to her. “I’ve just put on the kettle. I thought you might want a cuppa.”
It stings that she knew I’d be coming. Dowd must have put her on alert. Or she figured I’d be sent here, tail between my legs, the instant word spread that Fiona and I were inside the dún .
But I thank her, because the woman’s never done a thing to hurt me in the past. She might be the only true ally Fiona has inside this house. “You’ll have one too?”
Her smile is genuine as she heaves herself to her feet. I suspect there aren’t a lot of men who talk to Oona here. She’s invisible to the Crew, making meals happen, keeping the fridge well-stocked. But no one sees a woman working behind the scenes.
She brushes a gnarled hand against my shoulder on her way over to a cupboard. After fetching a second mug, she reaches for a brightly colored tin. It takes some effort for her to work the lid loose, but then she reveals a cache of homemade shortbread. She sets a dozen squares on a plate.
I fiddle with the sugar bowl in the center of the table. I shift the creamer. My fingers find the ring on my third finger, and I spin the titanium band, trying to beat back the brain squirrels.
I shouldn’t have let Dowd call me Cujo without fighting back.
I shouldn’t have left Fiona behind.
I shouldn’t be sitting at this table like a feckin’ child.
The electric kettle comes to a boil, its eerie blue light switching off. Oona takes the lid from a stoneware teapot. She pours in a bit of hot water and swirls it around to warm the pot. Tosses in a handful of dark leaves from a battered green tin. Fills the pot with water. Sets a strainer over the first mug and waits.
And it occurs to me, as I watch Oona Maguire’s perfect efficiency, that she might have some useful information to share.
I wait a few minutes, until she’s poured for both of us. The tea is black as tar, and I don’t blame her for cutting hers with a dollop of heavy cream. I salute her with my mug, and when I take a sip, it tastes like close calls and late nights and the first time I ever bled for the Crew. I chase it with a bite of shortbread that crumbles over my tongue like crystallized butter.
“You still have a way with the baking, Oona.”
“The only sweets Aran Dowd will eat,” she says with pride, going back to peeling her potatoes. She doesn’t have any way of knowing she’s opened a door wide.
I march through before she can get suspicious. “Except for Dunkin’,” I say.
“Aran won’t touch those lumps of lard!” She sounds indignant .
I push a little harder. “I’m certain I saw him there, just the other day. On Beacon Street, near Back Bay.”
Oona laughs. “Listen to you, pulling my leg. You know as well as I that if Aran got a sudden mad itch for store-bought shite, he wouldn’t cross out of Southie to scratch it.”
I laugh too, because I don’t want her remembering we had this conversation. But when I raise my mug to my lips, I try to recall the face of the man who sat across from Dowd. The face that was familiar that day. The face that still lingers in my memory, just beyond my grasp.
I change the subject before Oona can think too much about Dowd straying. “Father Bertram’s words were lovely at the funeral.”
She makes a face. “Father Bertram’s learned to recite a few good prayers.”
“That cigar box you gave to Fiona. She was certainly pleased to get it.”
For the first time since I’ve entered the kitchen, Oona looks at me with suspicion. “Herself’s told you that, has she?”
“I could see, just from the expression on her face. And later, when she was going through her treasures…”
Oona shakes her head, her lips turned up in the faintest hint of a smile. “You’ll not get me telling my Fiona’s secrets that easily. If you want to know what’s in the box, you’ll have to ask her. Honestly, Paddy. Do you think I was born yesterday?”
She ruffles my hair before she carries my mug to the counter. Shortbread, strong tea, and now an old woman treating me like a kid. I’m surprised by the wash of warmth I feel.
As Oona tops off my mug with hot tea from the pot, she offers her own overly casual observation. “Fiona’s not yet twenty-five years old.”
I don’t say anything, because every direction from here is dangerous.
“How long has it been since you left Boston?” Oona asks. She sets my mug on the table with enough force that a little tea splashes over the side. Rather than clean it up, she stares at me with watery blue eyes that don’t blink.
That’s a kinder question than she could have asked. She doesn’t say, “How long has it been since your wife died?” Or, “How old would your son be if he’d been born alive?”
I’m willing to bet every cent I’ve earned in the last ten years that Oona knows the answer. My life shattered twenty-five years ago, and yes, Fiona Ingram is young enough to be my daughter, and no, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do about that.
But I have to say something, so I start with, “If you’re asking if my intentions are good?—”
Before I can figure out how the hell to end that sentence, there’s a clatter of shoes on the hardwood floor outside the kitchen. Oona looks up with a start. I’ve got my Glock out of its holster before I’m on both feet.
And Fiona crashes through the door like she’s being chased by all the hounds in hell.