Chapter 23
23
FIONA
Fifteen Minutes Earlier
I almost call out as Patrick closes the door to Uncle Aran’s office. I want him to stay, to hear whatever my uncle has to tell me, but I know that relying on him will only make me look weak.
Weaker.
Because my uncle is gazing down at me with the sort of tolerant smile grownups use when they watch toddlers play. I feel like I’m pedaling a tricycle or standing over a wooden stove, serving up plastic fruits and vegetables.
“Fee,” Uncle Aran says. “I’m so glad you could join me today.”
“You didn’t give me a choice. You said the future of the Crew depends on it.” Disapproval flickers across his face. I’m only supposed to agree with him. But as long as I have his attention, I say, “And my name is Fiona.”
I want him to respect me, but he only tilts his head and presses his lips together, like he’s biting back a tolerant smile. Goddamn it. I should have ignored the fucking nickname.
I try to wrestle back command. “What’s going on? Why do you need me?”
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he says, “We missed you at mass this morning.”
I don’t know who we is, but I remind him, “I haven’t gone to mass since I was sixteen.”
Aunt S and I used to skip church, staying here at the dún to help Oona with the Sunday roast. After my aunt died, I let my father believe I was with one boyfriend or another. And some Sundays I actually was fucking someone he wouldn’t approve of, over at the Back Bay apartment.
“You’d be surprised by how much business a captain can get done at church,” Uncle Aran says.
I bristle. He would be surprised by how much business a captain can get done in the ladies’ room of a club. In the men’s room, too, if she plays her cards right. And wears a skirt for easy access.
My voice is brittle. “I don’t need lessons from you on how to run my clan.”
“Apparently you do,” he says, hotter than I expect. “Because your clan became quite the topic of conversation this morning, after mass. Chief Flanagan has all sorts of concerns about your clan. ”
Boston Chief of Police Daniel Flanagan keeps his distance from the Crew. He never let himself be seen with Da in public. He rarely sets foot in Southie at all, unless he’s preening at a photo op to reassure The Globe that he has crime under control.
So Flanagan attending mass at St. Brigid’s is a big deal—which Uncle Aran makes sure I understand: “Chief Flanagan is quite concerned about the increase in car thefts over the past couple of weeks. Twice the norm, he says. And moving higher.”
“How unfortunate.” I stifle a fake yawn.
“You think I haven’t heard the same rumors? I keep men on the street, girl. Eyes at the dock. And half of Boston heard you at your sainted father’s wake. Ten million dollars to the Corman by June. You aren’t fooling anyone, Fee.”
“I’ve never stolen a car in my life!” I’m used to lying about my innocence. But I have to call Rónnad, as soon as I can get to Patrick’s burner. She’ll have to be more careful, slow down her thefts. There should still be plenty of time to hit my goal if?—
“Cut the goddamn crap!” Uncle Aran shouts, slamming one fist on his desk.
Heart pounding, I study my fingernails. Gel polish really is an amazing thing. I got this manicure eight days ago, and there isn’t a single chip.
“You’re putting the Old Colony Crew at risk, girl,” Uncle Aran says.
I meet his gaze, eyes blazing. “I’m doing all I can to save us.”
“I covered your tracks this morning, paying off Flanagan. But the car thefts have to stop. Now.”
I smooth the seam of my corset over my hip, taking care to emphasize the garment’s boned lining. “That’s not going to happen,” I say, back to faking boredom. “Maybe in July. After the Corman Gala.”
“I’m not asking, girlie. I’m telling.” He steps out from behind his desk, like a school principal laying down the law.
I can’t count the number of principals I’ve talked back to in my life, the number of times I was expelled for my smart mouth. So I feel like I’m belting out the refrain from an old familiar song when I say, “What have I ever said or done that could possibly make you think I care?”
His fingers curl into fists. “You will not win this game, Fee.”
I’m fucking over that nickname. But I simply freeze my tone. “I’m not aware of any game .”
He takes a step closer, using his height to make me look up. “The Old Colony Crew will never follow a girl.”
“Woman.” I settle my hands on my hips to emphasize my point .
Uncle Aran’s face flushes dark. “This is a man’s world.”
“Go on telling yourself that. But when I present a ten million dollar check to the Corman Museum, everyone who is anyone in Boston will know my name. They’ll recognize my power. They’ll understand who gets things done in this town.”
“They’ll know a spoiled little brat is throwing one last temper tantrum, trying to get the attention of her father, who’s dead and buried. By next year’s Gala, the Ingram name will be completely forgotten in Boston.”
My throat grows tight when he says dead and buried . But looking up at his overgrown white beard and his red-veined nose, I say, “The Ingram name will live forever.”
His fingers clamp down on my arm, hard enough that I know he’s leaving bruises. “Not after you become a Dowd.”
“What?” I’m so shocked by his words that I can’t keep the question from huffing past my lips. I immediately hate that I’ve given him that much. I despise that he’s starting to smile.
He repeats himself, slowly and carefully, setting down each word like I’ve only learned the language this morning. “Not. After. You. Become. A. Dowd.” And then, in case there’s been any misunderstanding: “I’m putting a ring on your finger by the day the Grand Irish Union meets to name a general.”
“You’re my uncle!” I gasp, as if that’s the most objectionable thing about his insane plan.
“By marriage.” He harrumphs.
“Aunt Siobhan?—”
“Would be grateful we’ve found such an elegant solution. A Dowd marries Ingram’s brat, and the clan will be stronger than ever.”
“You are out of your fucking mind!”
“Language,” he says.
Patrick gets to tell me to watch my language—and only when we’re in bed. There’s not another man on earth who’s earned that right. So I enunciate very carefully when I say, “Sure thing, motherfucker. ”
“Get it out of your system now. Because once you wear my wedding band, you’ll stop talking like a sailor. Stop dressing like a slut, too. You’ll be a good girl, a good wife, and once I get a baby into you, you’ll be a good mother too.”
Good girl .
My stomach twists so violently over those two words that I almost miss the rest of his threat. Good girl is another thing only Patrick is allowed.
My uncle’s proposal is revolting. He’s family. He destroyed my Aunt Siobhan. I know all about his affairs, about the diseases he brought home from his cailíns .
“You’re a smart girl, Fee. This is how the Crew keeps its power.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Don’t turn me into some villain out of a Bond movie. Don’t make me say I can arrange that.”
“You’re disgusting!”
He’s still holding my arm. And now, he uses his other hand to grasp my jaw. Squeezing hard, using his certainty and his weight, he forces me back against his desk.
I’m stunned, like a fish yanked out of water. My brain has stuttered to a stop. But I feel him force my head back. I know he’s raising my face to his. His lips grind on mine, his teeth backing up his demand. As he settles his body against me, the dead weight of his erection pushes into my belly.
With a wordless cry, I bring my knee up, as hard as I can. I feel the breath whoosh out of him, and I shove him off my body.
My fingers scrabble on the door. The knob catches, and I think he’s locked me in, but then it finally turns, and I gulp a breath of fresh air. I run blindly down the hall.
Tumbling into the kitchen, I fight off waves of nausea. I want to spit out the disgusting taste of my uncle. I want to rip off my clothes, everything he touched, everything he ruined .
“Fiona!” Patrick says, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s holstering his gun.
I throw myself at him, desperate for his touch to scrub away Uncle Aran’s. I try to disappear inside him, grabbing at his shoulders, at his back, at the hard, tight muscles of his ass.
“Hush,” Patrick says. “I’ve got you.” There’s more, in Irish. He calls me cailín beag ; I know that’s little girl , and that’s all right, that’s what I want, what I need.
“Uncle Aran,” I choke out. “He wants… He says… He…”
Patrick’s palm brushes over the red marks my uncle left on my arm. I don’t have to tell him. He understands exactly what my uncle wants. He looks toward the office, and his hand drifts back to the holster nestled under his arm.
Oona says, “You’re in the dún , Paddy. Don’t be a fool.”
He looks like he wants to argue. Instead, he pulls me a little closer before he says to Oona, “I’m taking her out the back.”
She twists her hands, but she nods.
“Come on,” Patrick says to me. “Daddy’s got you now.”
Disapproval blooms on Oona’s face, the same as eight years ago, when I told her what I did to Father Colin and the others. But she crosses to the steel door that leads outside, shooting all five bolts with fingers strong from kneading bread. Poking her head out, she looks left, then right like she’s expecting company.
“Go on, then,” she finally says, directing her words to Patrick. “Get her out of here.”
His arm is heavy around my waist. I lean into his strength, letting him half-carry me down the three concrete steps. He hurries us down the brick walk to the street.
Before we duck out of sight, Oona calls out from the top step. “We haven’t finished our conversation, Paddy Moran.”
He waves a hand over his head, a signal that’s equal parts acceptance and refusal.
“I’m sorry,” I say, after he’s helped me into the Land Rover and taken his own place behind the wheel.
He’s checking the mirrors, calm, methodical, like another man might tie his shoelaces. But I see the look he throws at the glove box. I wonder what weapons he has stashed in there.
“Hold on,” he says, his attention snagged by something outside the car.
By reflex, I follow his gaze—just in time to see the two guards at the dún’s front door assume tactical stances in the middle of the road, raising their guns with stiffened arms.