Page 71
By the time the river wind hits the docks, the city already knows the Messina flag is flying.
TWENTY-SEVEN
IRIS
Istand by the marble bar wearing the outfit Romeo picked for me: a bespoke emerald green silk pantsuit tailored sharply across the shoulders and tapered at the waist, with a silk camisole underneath that leaves my collarbones and the hollow of my throat bare. Around my neck hangs the black diamond collar, cold and reassuring against my pulse. My wild red curls are pinned back in a loose, elegant chignon, and my scars are bare to the room, unhidden by ribbon or dark sunglasses.
Sofia sits at my right heel, her ears perked toward the private elevator.
A muffled chime echoes through the foyer as the bronze doors slide open.
The heavy, rhythmic tread of combat boots on hardwood follows, accompanied by the lighter, sharper click of leather heels.
"Iris!" Jamie's booming voice cuts through the spacious room, rough with the familiar tone that makes tears prickle at the corner of my eyes.
I’ve missed him.
Before I can take two paces forward, my brother's massive arms are around my ribs, lifting my feet completely off the floor. He smells intensely of clove cigarettes, clean wool, cold river air, and that familiar musk of an O'Connor man who has spent forty-eight hours breathing gunpowder.
"Put me down, Jamie!" I laugh, clutching his broad shoulders as he spins me around once before setting my heels gently back onto the Persian rug.
"Look at you, lass," Jamie murmurs, his hands resting heavily on my upper arms, his voice thick with raw, emotional pride. "Standing tall in silk like a true queen. Da would have choked on his whiskey if he saw you right now."
"Da knew what he was doing when he gave me to Romeo, Jamie," I reply softly, reaching up with my hands to trace his rough face, feeling the thick red beard, the sharp bridge of his nose, and the small scar above his left eyebrow. "He told me in the hospital before he passed. He wanted me protected by a monster who wouldn't flinch."
"Well, he got his wish," Jamie snorts with a wry grin, glancing across the room toward where Romeo stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching our reunion with quiet, possessive vigilance. "Messina is the most stubborn, territorial son of a bitch on the eastern seaboard."
"Watch your mouth in my house, O'Connor," Romeo rumbles lazily from the window, lifting a crystal tumbler of scotch in mock salute. "Or I will raise the port tax on your Boston lobster crates."
"You couldn't afford my lobster, Italian," Jamie shoots back with an easy chuckle, stepping aside to reveal the woman standing quietly by the foyer threshold.
Sofia's ears twitch, but she does not growl.
"Iris," Elizabeth Byrne's smoky, melodic Dublin voice breaks the silence.
She steps forward with quiet, unhurried grace. She’s wearing black slacks, a fitted leather jacket zipped up to her throat, and ankle boots, her thick black curls cascading over her shoulders. The faint shadow of the bruise on her cheekbone is almost invisible now under the warm chandelier light.
"Elizabeth," I say, extending both of my hands into the space between us.
Elizabeth doesn't hesitate. She takes my hands in hers, her skin warm and surprisingly soft despite the callouses on her knuckles.
"I brought the ledgers from Inverness, Donna Messina," Elizabeth says softly, her voice steady with respect. "The offshore accounts in Geneva, the bank routing numbers for the diocese shell companies, and sixty million in negotiable bearer bonds. Every penny the church stole from the northern ports is inside that briefcase on the table."
"Keep the ledgers on the table, Elizabeth," I reply gently, sliding my thumbs over the backs of her hands. "And stop calling me Donna Messina. Jamie trusts you so much; call me Iris."
A soft, genuine exhale of relief escapes Elizabeth's lips.
"You have a beautiful home, Iris," she whispers, looking around the expansive, sunlit living room. "It is a long way from the stone cellars of Queens."
"We built it out of the ashes of our enemies, Elizabeth," I tell her, squeezing her fingers. "Jamie told me what you did to Father Alistair with that iron poker. He said you stood between the bishop's shooters and that altar three years ago."
Elizabeth lowers her gaze for a split second, her throat bobbing as she swallows the memory.
I tried to set you free, Iris. I had the blade ready in my sleeve. But the bishop struck me down before I could reach the ropes. I watched the glass fall into your face. I have had nightmares about your screams every single night for three years."
I reach up with my right hand, my fingertips finding the curve of her cheek, brushing gently over the cheekbone that was once broken by the same monsters who blinded me.
"You were a prisoner just like me, Elizabeth," I say, my voice carrying the quiet authority of a woman who has walked through the fire and survived. "You survived their collar. You took your revenge in Scotland. The blood between us is settled, and from this day forward, you have a home in this city. If anyone questions your presence on the docks, they answer to my brother's shotgun and my husband's guns."
