She tipped her head to the side. "You seem to misunderstand my intent here, Aidan."
"What intent is that?"
"I have no desire for anyone in the Irish Mob to go to jail."
My brow puckered at that. "Why? It’s not like we’re the good guys."
"Maybe not." She smiled. "But the Five Points handled Isardo’s killer for me. It was only when he died that I finally got any sleep at night." She blinked. "I suffered with night terrors for years after the incident."
I stared at her. "Are you being serious?"
"About the night terrors? Or the fact that I’m not against the Irish Mob?" She shrugged when I struggled to answer her. "There’s no need for me to lie."
Well, that could be a half-truth, but she appeared earnest. The best lies were founded in the truth though. I actually knew who’d taken out Isardo’s murderer—Eoghan. It had been one of his first kills. Even before he’d served in the Army, he’d been good with a rifle.
I could easily imagine how learning of the death of the guy wielding the knife that day would bring her peace. It was whether or not she wished to cause us shit that I doubted.
"Do you know who took him out?" she asked, her eagerness unfeigned.
I pursed my lips. "I do."
Her mouth parted and she betrayed her excitement with a slight shift in her position—she sat upright, jerking forward as if she needed to hear more. "He tried to kill my driver, do you know that? He started for the driver door when the cops arrived."
"Jesus," I rasped.
She didn’t bow her head, but I could see how those memories still took their toll on her. "I was pretty sure I was going to die. Then, he got away, and the cops hunted him down, my dad even got our private security firm involved but they never found him." Her smile made another appearance. "The Five Points, however, did."
"How do you know that?"
"I made it my business to find out."
My mouth firmed. "It wasn’t because of Isardo," I replied, needing to make sure she knew that.
"Why would I care? He was dead. He couldn’t come after me."
Her nostrils flared a second, and I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me about that day, but rather than prod an old wound, one that wasn’t healed no matter how she might think it was, in a stern voice, I asked, "You’re certain there’s no recording equipment in the apartment, Savannah?"
She blinked, then shook her head quickly. Responding like a dream to that faintest hint of authority in my voice.
Fuck, it was hard not to start panting.
Would she bend over the sofa just as politely if I asked her to?
Maybe over my knee?
Clearing my throat to dislodge those unhelpful imaginings, I asked, "If you switch them off now, I won’t be angry."
She swallowed. "I have voice recorders, but they’re not on," she whispered. "I need them for work, but I’m not recording our conversations."
That, I believed.
I’d scared her again.
Because I went out of my way to scare people every day of the fucking week, both men and women alike, I shouldn’t be as irritated with myself as I was.
How had Finn phrased it this afternoon?
That Ma would be proud of me?