He says solemnly, “He always knows everything.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes heavenward. “Is there anything I can get you? Coffee? Brandy? It’s chilly out here.”
When he hesitates, I say, “There’s no way in hell he’ll know. He’s not even here.”
After a moment of internal debate, he says gruffly, “Coffee would be quare.”
“I don’t speak Irish. Is that a yes?”
“Aye. Thank you.”
“What about the other guys? I’ll put a pot on, how about that? Whoever wants one can just tap on the door.”
I don’t give him time to answer, I simply smile and slide shut the door, then go into the kitchen and rummage around in the huge pantry for a coffeemaker. I can’t find one, until I discover it’s built right into the wall in a little niche next to the fridge.
It takes me another ten minutes to figure out how to load the beans I found in the pantry into the damn thing and get it working. By the time I go back to the slider with a cup of hot coffee for Spider, three more hulking men in black carrying rifles are milling around just outside the pool of light on the patio.
“Hi, guys! I’ll just go back and get the pot. Hold on a sec.”
I give Spider his mug, then return to the kitchen and get a few more mugs and the pot of brewed coffee. Then it’s back to the breakfast room, where I distribute the other mugs and fill them, feeling a little like Florence Nightingale without all the gore.
Deciding the guys need a little sustenance, I find tea biscuits and chocolate chip cookies in the pantry and arrange them on a plate that I bring out. Soon there are a dozen men on the patio, and my mood has improved.
There’s nothing like having a bunch of hunky men around to lift your spirits.
“Does anybody feel like playing cards?”
When that bright suggestion is met with blank looks and total silence, I say somberly, “Oh, that’s right. I heard Irishmen are the worst at cards. Now, who told me that? I can’t remember. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it! Have a great night, guys. And thank you for doing such a good job protecting the place. I really appreciate it.”
I turn back to the door. A gruff voice says, “Whoever said Irishmen can’t play cards was a bloody eejit.”
Grumbles of agreement greet me as I turn around again, smiling. “I thought so, too. Maybe somebody could teach me how to play poker? I’ve always wanted to learn.”
An hour later, I’ve got two dozen men crowded around the kitchen table, and I’m three hundred dollars richer.
Wide-eyed, I stare at the pile of money in front of me. “Wow, beginner’s luck is a real thing!”
“So is sandbagging. And disobeying orders.”
At the sound of Declan’s voice, every man in the room freezes.
I look up to find him staring at me from behind the circle of men with his arms crossed over his chest. The men part silently, moving aside so there’s a clear path between me and Declan. Someone audibly gulps.
My ass stinging, I put my feet up on the table, smile at Declan, and say calmly, “Honey. You’re home.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes. He looks at each man in the room, one by one, his expression stony. Everyone shrinks.
“It’s not their fault. I invited them in.”
Ignoring me, he says something to the men in Gaelic, his voice steady and low.
Several of the men swallow. One or two fidget nervously. A few go white.
I stand and fold my arms to mimic Declan’s posture. “I said, it’s not their fault.”
“I heard what you said. Spider, you go first.”
Without a second’s hesitation, Spider steps up to the table. He removes a huge knife from a sheath he’s wearing under his coat. He leans over the table, flattens his left hand on the surface, and presses the knife to his pinky.
I jump up, screaming. “No! Stop! Spider, stop!”
By the time I crash into him, blood is already welling from his skin.
I knock him off balance just enough to get his grip on the knife to slip. It clatters to the floor. On my hands and knees, I scramble for it. When I get it, I jump up and whirl around, livid.
At the top of my lungs, I shout at Declan, “What the actual fuck, gangster?”
He remains as calm and cold as an iceberg. “Give him back the knife.”
“The hell I will.”
His voice hardens. “Sloane. Do it.”
“You want this knife? Come and get it. I’ll bury it in your fucking skull, you savage. That man is your friend.”
Breathing hard, I stare at him. No one else in the room moves a muscle or makes a sound.
He says, “You misunderstand. I don’t have friends. Spider works for me. He disobeyed my orders. And in our world, disobedience comes with consequences.”
From the corner of my eye, I see one of the men curl his hand into a fist.
Two of the fingers on that fist are missing.
A blinding flash of fury engulfs me. I’m sick, too, and horrified, but mostly furious. My voice shaking, I say, “Then let me pay the consequences for them. This was my idea. Punish me instead.”
The silence is profound. It’s like the vast, echoing silence of a cathedral, one that’s been abandoned to ghosts for a hundred years.
“Please, Declan. Please.”
His eyes burn. His nostrils flare. When he draws a slow breath, I think he’s considering it.
So I do the only thing I can think of that will tip him over the edge.
I sink to my knees on the floor.
In front of everyone.
I feel their shock. Feel it expand when I lean over and flatten my shaking hand against the lovely limestone tile. Feel it explode into panic when I grip the knife in my other hand and grit my teeth in determination.
I never realized how small a pinky finger is. Maybe I won’t even miss it.
Wondering if Declan keeps all his severed trophy fingers in a jar in a drawer in his desk, I take a breath and press down.
32
Sloane
There’s a flash of black in my peripheral vision, then Declan kicks the knife away.
He grabs me and drags me to my feet. He throws his arms around me and crushes me against his chest, cursing.
“Bloody stubborn woman,” he rasps, giving me a hard shake. “Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph, you’re bloody mad!”
He takes my face in his hands and kisses me ravenously. I let him, curling my shaking hands into his jacket and trying to remain standing, though my legs are shaking, too.
When we come up for air, the kitchen is empty except for the two of us.
“Goddammit, Sloane. Goddammit.”
He slides his hands into my hair and grips my skull. He gives me another shake, his chest heaving. Then he presses his forehead to mine and closes his eyes, exhaling hard.
“Don’t you ever fucking scare me like that again.”
I can’t help it. I start to weakly laugh.
“I’m bloody serious!”
“You’re bloody nuts.”
“I’m nuts? You were about to cut off your finger for a man you barely know!”
“It’s the principle.”
He’s outraged. “The principle?”
“Yes. The principle. I only have a few of them, but they’re airtight. One is that I don’t cause other people’s suffering if I can help it. Another is that I own my shit. I don’t blame anyone else but me for what goes wrong in my life. Put those two together, and you’ve got me kneeling on the kitchen floor threatening my pinkie finger with a knife.”