Chapter 11
11
SAMANTHA
I ’ve been to plenty of black-tie events. The freeport has them all the time, at least once a quarter. That’s what our clients expect.
I know how to twist my hair in a sophisticated up-do. I can paint on everything from a full smokey eye to subtle lash-lengthening mascara, from statement lips to a bare sheen of gloss. I’m able to apply three coats of nail polish without a single smear, on my fingers and my toes.
The first fancy event I ever attended was my parents’ tenth wedding anniversary. I was five years old, and my party-dress was Barbie pink, with layers of lace from my chin to my knees.
After That Night, I knew I’d never wear frills or flowers again. I dressed in classic black. Strapless or over one shoulder. Maybe a sweetheart neckline. The fabrics were always sleek. Always severe.
But this is the first formal event I’ve attended since Braiden and I said our vows. This is the first where I’m bound by house rules.
The hem of my skirt sweeps the floor. Laid out on my bed in the pool house, it covered a generous half-circle. The background silk is black, setting off a riot of huge, blowsy flowers—peonies and chrysanthemums and tulips in a dozen shades of pink and purple and gold. My top is all black, which might violate Braiden’s requirements, except the sleeves and back are so sheer I look naked. A fuchsia belt cinches my waist, as wide as my hand. Best of all, the skirt has pockets—like my wedding gown. Like all the clothes I love.
I wait to leave the pool house until I know the party is in full swing. Braiden is entertaining in the ballroom, where the parquet floor covers half a wing on Thornfield’s ground floor. I’ve walked by it before; the doors are kept open year-round. Smoked mirrors line one wall. A fireplace large enough to roast an ox fills another.
Tonight, the room swarms with tuxedos. Starched white shirts. Slim black pants with shiny stripes. Shoes that gleam like molten glass. Emerald cummerbunds, emerald waistcoats, emerald neckties—some straight and more pulled into bows.
Braiden told me he was inviting all his made men, every one of the Fishtown Boys who’s sworn a loyalty oath. This is Braiden’s true family, more than Madden is, more than Birte and Aiofe. Far more than I, the woman he shacked up with after a sham priest told a few lies.
I pluck a champagne flute from a nearby waiter’s tray. For just a moment, my stomach twists into a painful knot. Less than a week ago, Braiden and I were at that other party, the one where I was attacked by a man pretending to be a waiter. We still don’t know who put out the hit.
The champagne is sour, but I drink it down like medicine. This ballroom is the one place in the world where I know I’m absolutely safe. No killers are getting into Thornfield. Even the men carrying trays are Braiden’s runners, Fishtown Boys, safe and secure. Not an assassin among them.
I swap my empty glass for a full one.
I’m the only woman in the room. The testosterone is so thick in the air, it feels like sunscreen. Each man takes up more space than the laws of physics allow—with their height, their wide shoulders, their hearty laughs and catcalls.
Wait.
There is another woman.
Fiona Ingram is in the far corner. I missed her at first because she’s wearing a tuxedo like the men. Like their trousers, at least. She hasn’t bothered with a jacket. Her backless shirt has a halter collar, drawing attention to her long neck and bare shoulders. She’s wearing four-inch heels, and she’s holding a champagne glass as if it’s a scepter.
The men swarm around her like ants on honeycomb. Fiona throws back her head and laughs at someone’s joke. She traces a finger down one lucky man’s chest. She looks across the room, measuring whether her game is working.
She’s staring straight at Braiden.
He’s deep in conversation with Madden—standing a little too close, looking a little too tense. Braiden’s hair is ruffled, which means he’s been running his fingers through it. He raises a glass of amber liquid and tosses off half his drink, sucking air through his teeth before he dives back in to whatever point he’s been making. He doesn’t seem to be aware of Fiona at all.
But Madden is. His eyes dart toward her like he’s a starving dog, and she’s a meaty bone.
My glass is empty again. A nervous boy with acne scars on his cheeks walks by with a tray. I trade for a new, full flute and go back to my survey.
All right. I’m not the only woman here. But I’m willing to bet I’m the only civilian in the room. And the only Italian too. The men here know me as Samantha Kelly. Some of them met me as Sam Mott. But the name on my birth certificate is Giovanna Canna, and I learned Italian from my nonna before I learned English.
As long as I’m tallying up differences, I’m pretty sure I’m the only lawyer here too. One man near the windows is showing another his wristwatch, and I’m willing to bet a year of my freeport salary he’s telling a story about how it fell off the back of a truck. A tall man with wavy red hair takes a money clip out of his pocket. He counts out a dozen bills, and I catch the light glinting off Ben Franklin’s high forehead as he hands the money to a colleague.
I’m General Counsel at Diamond Freeport. I know how the law can bend around facts. I’ve spent years stretching obscure legal theories to the breaking point. But this is the first time I’ve been in a room where I’m certain every other person has committed enough felonies to go away for life.
I’m guilty myself. I’ve taken three lives.
Once more, my glass is dry. It’s only champagne. I’m used to handling much stronger alcohol.
I swap glasses again, but better safe than sorry. I’ll get some food in my stomach. Make sure my drinks don’t go to my head.
I cross the room to a table filled with Fairfax’s most delicate offerings, arrayed on serving platters like intricate mosaics. There are miniature lamb chops finished with a perfect mince of mint. Crisped rounds of potato topped with gleaming caviar. A charcuterie tray crowded with ten types of cheese and a stunning array of paper-thin meats.
I’m swallowing a stuffed zucchini blossom when someone comes up behind me. Too close for comfort, he leans into my back. His whisper feels like rancid oil poured into my ear. “Of course you go for the guinea food.”
“Madden.”
He leans across me, reaching for one of the caviar potatoes. I can either take a step back or let his head brush my chest. I move, which angles me into a corner of the room. I’m trapped by the table, cut off from the crowd .
Madden chews and swallows without shifting his weight, without opening a path for my escape. He wipes his greasy lips with the back of his hand.
I clutch my champagne glass tightly. I’ve seen Braiden use a flute as a weapon. I can shatter the crystal against the wall and bring it up in one smooth arc, bury it in Madden’s throat and watch him bleed out on the ballroom floor.
Jesus. I really am a killer.
Madden says, “I’ll give you one thing. You’re not wearing a wire for your goombah pimp.”
He eyes the sheer sleeves of my top. I’m queasy at the thought of him staring at my near-naked back. How long was he behind me before he spoke?
Madden says, “You’ll just have to remember everything you hear. All the Fishtown plans you’ll pass him while he takes you up the arse.”
“You’re drunk,” I say.
“Not even close.”
“Then you’re insane.”
He eyes me like I haven’t said a word. “Maybe you are wired. What have you got beneath that skirt? What’s strapped to your leg?” He makes a move, like he’s going to reach beneath my hem.
I wish I had a pistol strapped to my leg—maybe the nine millimeter I bought to defend myself when I lived alone in Dover. But I’m supposedly safe in Thornfield now, my handgun nowhere close. So I lower my voice like I’m issuing orders to a mad dog. “Touch me and I’ll scream.”
“So little brother Braiden can come save you?” He twists the words into a child’s taunt.
I’m a civilian, not a gangster. I grew up in the Mafia, not the Mob. I’m a lawyer, not a criminal. But I know exactly how to castrate a man like Madden Kelly.
“He’s your Captain , asshole. Because your father thought your mother was only good for a fuck, not for a family. ”
Madden surges toward me like a pit-bull on an iron chain. The wall feels like a sheet of ice against my spine, as if my sheer top has been dissolved by my spiking pulse.
I smell whiskey on his breath. His cologne stinks of sandalwood and something else, something sharper, something rank: Fear.
Madden’s afraid of me. Or he’s afraid of what I’ve said. Or he’s afraid of what he’s doing, cornering me on the edge of a crowd, where Braiden is only a shout away.
He growls: “Someone needs to teach you some respect, bitch. Put you on your knees and give you something real to gag on.”
“You’re such a big man, aren’t you? Threatening to rape your brother’s wife.”
“I wouldn’t fuck your scabby cunt if?—”
A high laugh trills in the air, the sound of honest amusement, of humor and flirtation. Madden jerks back like someone tased his crotch. I look over his shoulder and see Fiona in the precise center of the room.
She strikes a pose, jutting out one hip and raising her glass to the chandelier. “I’ll see your limerick, Declan Fitzgerald. And I’ll raise you another.” She folds both hands around her whiskey, her schoolgirl pose ruined by her bare shoulders. “There was a young fellow named Tucker…”
Before she can finish her rhyme, Braiden looms behind Madden. “Not walking into another wall are you, deartháir ?”
Madden glares, but he doesn’t try to answer. Fiona finishes her filthy poem, and the room explodes with laughter.
Braiden extends his hand to me, like he’s asking me to dance. Or maybe he’s helping me across a yawning chasm. “Mrs. Kelly?” he says.
I want to tell him that’s not my name. I didn’t agree to take his, even when I thought we were legally married. But under the current circumstances, I won’t place even the smallest wedge between us .
Madden’s a liar. Madden’s a jerk. Madden’s a paranoid, delusional moron with a fixation on my being Russo’s tool.
But Madden is also Braiden’s Clan Chief, his second in command. Whatever squabbling the brothers have done for thirty-five years, they’ve figured out how to make things work. I disrupt that balance at my own peril.
Fiona calls out from her circle of admirers, “Sam! Come on! It’s your turn now. Let’s hear your dirtiest limerick!”
I’ve left Braiden waiting all this time—too long. And now every man in the room is staring at me, waiting for me to join in the fun.