Chapter 38
38
SAMANTHA
B raiden looks up from the map spread across his desk, annoyance scribbled across his face. The fingers of his left hand dig into his right forearm, prying at the scar I know is hidden beneath his shirt.
His hair is ruffled, and I can tell he’s been clawing through it, frustrated by whatever has prompted this evening war session. His cheekbones are sharp, and I wonder if Fairfax has been feeding him properly. His muscles are strung as tightly as laundry on a line. He’s ready to bark, to snarl.
But when he sees me, everything changes.
Shock. That’s his first emotion. It’s there on his face, in the widening of his eyes, the twist of his lips.
Worry comes next. His eyebrows pinch together. His jaw tightens.
Then comes relief. His eyes close for a heartbeat that might include a prayer. His lungs fill. His mouth relaxes into something that might grow into a smile .
“Samantha,” he breathes. I don’t think he realizes he’s taken two steps toward me. I don’t think he knows his hands are out, reaching for me, welcoming me home.
I want to run to him. I want to bury my face in the crease of his neck. I want to breathe the cedar and spice scent of him, fill my lungs, fill my soul.
But there are too many words we have to say, too many mistakes we have to make right. His men are watching, and something important is at stake. The Fishtown Boys look like they’re plotting a campaign.
And I have to tell them they have a new enemy.
I should take Braiden aside. I should spare him hearing the news in front of everyone. I should give him a chance to absorb the blow before he has to act.
But there isn’t time to be kind. There isn’t space for softness. Not when Madden and Russo have met seven times in the past week. Not when Madden was in East Falls last night.
So I meet Braiden’s gaze. I swallow all the things I want to say—that I’m sorry, that I didn’t fight fair, that I’m back. I shove aside all the emotion, all the longing, all the sleeplessness and sorrow of the past week.
And I say, “Madden.”
Braiden doesn’t blink. “What about him?”
“He’s working with Russo.”
“He—”
“I have proof. Pictures. Time stamps.”
“How—”
The world explodes before he can finish his sentence.