“Do you understand?” Da demands.
I glare.
“Do ya understand me, Kaitlín Minola Lynch?” He doesn’t raise his voice. He lowers it. And that’s how I know he’s truly serious, that I’m one minute of backtalk away from being stranded in Ireland.
“Yeah,” I say, shelving any complaint I might make about his using my full name. “Five minutes.”
I close my splintered door and turn back to my computer. My challenges to the Raiders have gone unanswered. Disgusted with the lot of them, disgusted with myself, I log out of the chat and turn to my closet.
I’m tempted to show up at the wedding of Boston’s Irish mob queen in yoga pants and a Cheetos-stained hoodie, but the lingering threat of Athgarven changes my mind. Instead, I opt for a black shirt with long sleeves, cut like a man’s. I tuck it into an emerald-green pencil skirt and tug on a pair of unlaced Chuck Taylor’s.
I take my last thirty seconds for makeup. Da asked for it. Da will get it.
I slather on cosmetics like I bought them at a fire sale — eyeliner, shadow, lipstick. All of it dark. All of it smudged. All ofit daring anyone in the world to complain. What I lack in skill, I make up for with a very heavy hand.
Tucking my phone into one of my skirt’s slash pockets, I take the stairs two at a time. My father’s driver is holding the door to the limousine. I hate driving through Baltimore in this thing—nothing shoutswannabelike a stretch limo on the waterfront. But Da insists symbols like this make people respect the Canton Crew—even when he’s in debt up to his bollocks.
Whatever.
My father glares at me as his driver closes the door, but I’ve followed his orders to the letter, so he doesn’t get to complain. Predictably, Mam reaches for the vodka before the car clears the gates of the family compound.
My sister shakes her head at my outfit, but she’s always on my side. Clearly doing her best to distract our parents, she asks, “Da? Tell us again who will be there?”
What she means is:Which eligible bachelors are attending?
At twenty-three—three years younger than I am—Breagha is the Canton Crew’s most valuable asset. She’s beautiful. Polite. Smart. Everything a mobster could ever want in a wife. Everything I’m not.
If my parents marry off Breagha first, they’ll be stuck with me forever. No yoke in his right mind would ever claim the Lynch girl with a vicious tongue she’s not afraid to use, the one with claws that never get sheathed.
So Breagha’s not going anywhere until I’m safely out the door. My parents might as well hang a sign around my neck:Broodmare For Sale. Cheap.
As the limo winds through the city, my mother produces a deck of playing cards from her tiny clutch purse. She shuffles like a Vegas shark and deals full hands to Breagha and to me. It takes me a moment to realize each one presents the dossier of an eligible mob bachelor.
“Jesus Christ!” I shout, tossing my cards onto the floor.
“Language,” Mam warns, tapping one of her talons againstthe closest card. “Come on, girls. Names, facts, and figures. You can never be too prepared.”
The drill continues across town, out to the airport, and onto the jet Da chartered for our trip north. Breagha, of course, has her cards memorized before we fly over Philadelphia. I just study the clouds below us, wondering what the Red Cap Raiders are saying, if they’re still slagging me in the chat, if I’ll even have a team to return to. Mam shoots me filthy looks, but she decides not to start another fight.
The plane touches down, and we’re met by a driver standing beside a limousine even longer than the one in Baltimore. I get in first, so I can slouch in the backward-facing seat, my eyes barely clearing the bottom of the window.
There’s more traffic than there should be for the last Saturday in March. It takes us over an hour to get to the church. Breagha’s eyes go wide as we slip into a pew just as the ceremony begins. I can practically hear her reciting all of Mam’s facts and figures on the men around us.
The wedding goes exactly as expected. Everyone stands and everyone sits and most of us kneel at the appropriate times. The bride, Fiona, doesn’t look like the fierce queen I thought I’d see. She’s wearing a white dress with lace over her shoulders and a bow across her arse. I expected a warrior princess, but she looks like a little girl. Her groom, though, seems to like what he sees. He almost forgets to recite his vows, despite the priest’s prompting.
Breagha sighs at that proof of true love. Mam dabs her desert-dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. Da studies the pews around us like he’s sizing up an enemy army.
It seems like hours later before we Lynches are back in the limo and heading to the reception. Mam takes advantage of the traffic to deal out her bachelor flashcards again. Breagha recites the statistics for each target perfectly, then passes her cards to me.
I rip each one in half.
The reception is held at a huge clapboard house that fills a city block. Men in tuxes guard the door, and both sides of the street are filled with luxury cars. Our limo lets us off directly in front.
Inside, efficient waiters hand each of us a glass of champagne as we step over the threshold. I down mine in three quick gulps.
“Katie!” Mam hisses, which is a feat, because that hated nickname doesn’t have an S. Ignoring her, I collect another glass and make my way to a far corner before she can sink her nails into my arm.
This time, I sip my champagne as I study the crowd. I hate that I can recognize some of Mam’s eligible bachelors—there’s the Clan Chief from New Orleans and the Quartermaster from Chicago. I watch Breagha make the rounds, allowing Da to introduce her. My sister’s smile is perfect. She has a way of looking up through her eyelashes that invites men to step closer. She even blushes on cue.
