Chapter 11
AOIFE
“What about this one?” I hold it up on the hanger in front of me, peeking over the top of it to stare at Summer on FaceTime.
My phone is propped up on the plush velvet chair inside the dressing room at Luxe Atelier with her on the other end for some much-needed fashion guidance.
I hate dresses. Or picking out clothes. Or trying those clothes on. Especially when it’s last minute.
“Oh, jeez, I like that one, too! I can’t decide. Kieran, come here and pick which one you think.”
I groan. “No. No, I don’t want his opinion. He’ll wrap me in a red garbage bag and call it good.”
She laughs.
I turn, swaying with the silky fabric in the mirror. “Where am I supposed to put my gun?”
“Aye,” I hear my dad comment from somewhere off-screen. “Now, that’s the question ye should be askin’.”
I’m glad I can’t see him. Somehow, it makes it easier.
The fact that each time I speak with him and neglect to tell him about Finn …
shit. I’m awful. There has to be movement on the case.
I haven’t spoken with Grayson since the night he took me to pick out a tree for his apartment for him to tell me. Would he tell me?
The bullshit excuse he came up with about not having lights—I pause on that. You know what …
“I think I’m going to try this one on, so I’ll let you go. Love you!”
“Love you!” Summer echoes, and I shuffle over to click off the app. It takes a few seconds to pull up an online home store, then I place the order and smile as I do. I even add a gift note.
After tucking my phone away, I strip out of my clothes and tug on the dress, which happens to be a weapon all its own.
The color is a bloodred that pours over my frame and clings to my curves.
It’s perfect in the fits-like-a-glove way, and with heels—I won’t need it altered.
The silk dips into a plunging neckline, sculpting my breasts enough to tease attention, but not demand it.
The crimson shimmers in the light, as the fabric topples over my hips and hugs my thighs before breaking into a slit that allows me to walk like normal.
For a dress, it’s not that bad. I stand on my tiptoes, checking that the hem trails just enough.
If everyone attending this charity ball tomorrow night took the money they’re spending on lavish outfits or suits and donated it to the charity they’re raising money for ahead of time, there’d be no need for it.
Add to that, this “charity” does more backward work than the crime families in Boston, so I’m not exactly frothing at the mouth to attend.
But I was invited by Mayor Carroway, whom I had a hand in getting elected.
He sits in his chair because of me, not the voters, unbeknownst to him.
Irish money greased the wheels of that election a year ago, and it wasn’t for gratitude or an invite to the biggest charity event of the season.
Nope, he owes me access. Access to contracts funneled where I say, permits approved without delay, Boston PD looking the other way when my men need breathing room.
That brass plaque may have his name gouged deep into the metal, but the power runs through the Irish.
I used to tell my dad that politicians were useful tools, that we needed to home in on the ones who’d let us dress them up and parade them around.
He always wanted to stay out of it, though, willing to keep his underground boxing ring to stay out of the city’s eye, but it’s an investment, and sometimes they pay off.
So, I don’t want to play dress-up and attend this event on Saturday, but I also need to do my part and check up on my investments.
Squeeze some assets. Put the pressure on.
Whatever you’d like to call it; there’s something about having the leader of the Irish Mob watch you from a shadowed corner as you wine and dine, all the while you feel the weight of your sellout gnawing you in your gut.
With three more spins around in the dress, I take it off and place it back on the hanger, content to stare at it while I get dressed back into my riding pants and long-sleeve sweater. I leave the other dresses selected for me to try on in the dressing room and exit with only one.
“Did you find one, Miss O’Donnell?” Tina, the sales associate at LA, is a tiny little thing. I thought I was short, all five-foot-three of me, but she has to barely clear four-foot-nine. Her black bob frames her round face, glossy bangs sweeping her forehead.
“Yes. I’ll take this one. Unfortunately, I don’t have much time to keep searching.” Or, fortunately, I add to myself.
She pushes up her chunky, square-framed glasses that dominate her face. I swear she reminds me of someone … “I’ll put this on your father’s account. Anything else?” She moves quickly, short steps shuffling herself and the dress behind the counter.
I think back to Grayson’s words. “Actually, Tina. Can you put it on my own account? I don’t know if I have one, or if I can set one up, but I’d like to make sure anything I or my families purchase is put on mine.”
She grins and types with clipped efficiency into the computer in front of her. “Sure thing, Miss O’Donnell. Anything you need.”
I dip my chin and roll my shoulders back. “Thank you.”
“I’ll have this delivered first thing in the morning.”
I shove my sunglasses on. Which is stupid because it’s overcast this Friday afternoon, but I commit to them once they’re on my face and stride toward the door.
Outside, the weather looks ominous—taking the bike wasn’t my best option.
But despite the cold nip in the air, and the heavy traffic I’ll have to weed through, there’s a lightness in my chest and I grin.
Full on bare my teeth and let out a bolstered giggle.
It’s small—stupid, even—but it’s something.