Chapter 33
33
FIONA
R ed.
I’m blinded by a curtain of red, darker than my dress under moonlight. I told him what I wanted. I said what I needed. I claimed that writhing sack of shit as mine.
But Patrick Moran is just like every other man I’ve ever met. He plays a good game. He says he isn’t interested in the Old Colony Crew. He acts like he’s willing to let me take the lead, to let me be his captain.
But the instant I didn’t do exactly as he demanded, he made his own choice. He took charge. He stole what belonged to me.
“Put down the gun, Fiona.”
I hear the words, but I don’t care. I continue to beat him with my fist, pounding at his chest, because he’s finally turned to face me.
“Put down the fucking gun.”
That animal sound still tears across my throat. I hear it. I know I’m making it. But I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. I want to scream at him forever.
“Goddammit, Fiona!”
His fingers close around my wrist, squeezing the pressure point above my thumb. My howl turns to a wail, and the revolver drops onto the grass.
“You fucking asshole! ” I scream.
He folds his arms around me. He’s trying to smother me against his chest. His hand spreads across the back of my head, and I hear the things he’s whispering, soft, like I’m a wounded animal, like I’m a baby he can rock to sleep.
“You’re safe, little girl. You’re fine, little girl. No one’s going to hurt you.”
“I’m not your little girl!”
“I’m sorry I used you like a shield. I didn’t have time to tell you my plan. I’m so, so sorry, little girl.”
“I’ll never be your little girl again!”
He sucks in a sharp breath like I’ve kneed him in the balls, but he doesn’t let me go. Instead he tightens his arms around me and says, “Daddy has you.”
I shove against his chest, pushing off like I’m trying to topple him into the water hazard below. He lets me go, but he doesn’t back away.
“You’re not my fucking Daddy,” I growl, planting my fists on my hips.
“ Scáthach —” he says.
“Don’t call me that!” My scream is so loud, they must hear it at the top of Old North Church.
He could break my neck if I gave him half a chance. He could punch me hard enough to lacerate my liver. Hell, he still has that fucking Howitzer of a gun—he must have tucked it into his waistband, beneath his rumpled tuxedo jacket—and a shot from that thing at this close range would turn my body into mist.
But he takes a full step back, saying, “Let’s get out of here. ”
“I don’t want to get out of here!”
“The cops will?—”
“Fuck the goddamn cops.”
I watch him swallow down an argument. I see him shift gears. “I only wanted to help you, Fiona. To keep you safe.”
“Fuck you. I can fight my own fucking bat?—”
“You can fight. But you don’t have to.”
“Of course I have to fight! Every Queen has to fight!”
“Captains issue kill orders every day.”
“ Not if they’re a fucking woman! ”
My shout is loud enough to echo off the moon. It knocks away every patronizing argument Patrick Moran could ever make.
Now that I finally have his attention, I tell him my truth. “I don’t get to captain the Crew like anyone who’s gone before me. I have to be stronger than my father ever was.”
“Your father’s dead?—”
I interrupt him. “You think I don’t know that?”
“—and buried. But you’re still giving him free rent inside your head. You’re stuck trying to be his perfect daughter. You want him to pat you on the head and tell you he loves you. Well, I’ve got news for you. That is never going to happen.”
“Go to hell.”
“He would have been ashamed by that show you put on tonight, back at the museum. Sure—flaunt your tits at a few gobsmacked mobsters. But don’t think you can go after civilians the exact same way. Limericks. Jameson. Toasts to the old country. No one wants that type of show.”
“Careful, old man. Your jealousy’s showing. You didn’t like the way those poor, bored fucks paid attention to me.”
“I don’t give one shite about society yokes. But your uncle’s another story.”
“Fuck my uncle.”
“That’s what he wants, yeah. That’s what you’re scared of. That’s why you wanted to kill this shitehawk—to prove you can pull the trigger when you face the man who sent him. But Dowd is smarter than this eejit. Richer and stronger too.”
“He’s Da’s age. He’s too fucking old to run the Crew.”
“And you’re too fucking young! You don’t have the experience. You make too many bad choices. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can figure out what you want to be when you grow up.”
My voice freezes. “I’m going to be captain of the Old Colony Crew.”
“The fuck you are.”
“When the Grand Irish Union votes in six weeks?—”
“Wake up!” He interrupts me, snapping in front of my nose. “Sure. You can wait till the Union votes to make your move. Wait till you sit on Santy’s lap, begging for a Christmas gift. Wait till hell freezes over, because you are never, ever going to lead the Old Colony Crew.”
It feels like he’s slapped me. Like he’s landed a punch in my ribs. All these weeks, I thought he understood. I thought he knew. I thought he believed in me.
I have to hit back. I have to land a blow as hard as the one he’s just struck. Harder.
“I will lead the Crew,” I tell him. “And you know why? Because I can concentrate on something for longer than thirty goddamn seconds. I can show up where I’m supposed to be on time, without setting a dozen alarms. I can keep track of a fucking key for an entire day. I can show a little goddamn impulse control and keep from blowing some motherfucker’s head to smithereens!”
His throat works. He starts to explain. Stops. Starts to fucking apologize. Stops again.
And I take my one last shot, the one I should have put into Kevin Joyce’s brain. “I can’t trust you, because you can’t trust yourself. You’re not a man. You’re an animal. You don’t belong here, Cujo. You never did.”