I settled onto the narrow cot beside Rome’s bed, still holding his small hand in mine, as I felt myself drifting despite the uncomfortable bed and the steady beep of the monitors.
Through half-closed eyes, I watched Patrick pull out a notebook and begin writing—probably drafting contingency plans, analyzing options. Taking on my battle while I rested.
“Patrick,” I murmured.
He looked up. “Hm?”
“Thank you for being here.”
“Aye, lass. Always.”
Chapter
Twenty-Three
PATRICK
The whiskey burneda trail down my throat, doing little to quell the storm brewing in my chest. I’d chosen this dimly lit corner of Harrington’s, a wood-paneled bar tucked away in San Francisco’s financial district, precisely because it was the kind of place where men in expensive suits conducted business that wouldn’t bear scrutiny in the harsh light of day.
My mind was still back in San Jose, lingering in the sterile quiet of the hospital room I’d left only a few hours ago.
Rome was going to be fine. We’d gotten him home late this afternoon, sporting a bright neon-blue cast that he was already planning to use as a weapon against his siblings. “The doctor said it’s a clean break,” he’d told Austin proudly, brandishing the fiberglass like a trophy. “And I didn’t even cry when they set it. Well, maybe a little. But only because it smelled weird.”
Theresa had laughed—a sound of pure, exhausted relief—and seeing the tension finally leave her shoulders had solidified something dangerous in my chest. She was fighting wars onevery front: holding her family together, healing her son, battling for her company. She didn’t have the bandwidth to fight a man like Arthur Vance in the gutter.
But I did.
I took another sip of the Macallan, the peat settling heavy on my tongue. I had promised to protect them. If that meant sitting in a dark bar trading favors with the devil to save her husband’s legacy, then I’d pour the drinks myself.
I checked my watch again: 11:42 PM. Callum was late.
A waitress appeared at my elbow. “Another?”
I nodded, watching as she slid away through the thinning crowd.
The door swung open, letting in a gust of that peculiar San Francisco late summer cold, and there he was—my cousin Callum. He spotted me immediately, his eyes flickering over the remaining patrons before sliding into the booth across from me.
“Took you long enough,” I said.
Callum’s mouth quirked. “Had to make sure I wasn’t followed.”
I’d have laughed if I hadn’t known better. Callum MacKenzie didn’t make jokes about security. He could blend into any crowd while noting every exit and potential threat.
He placed a thick manila folder on the table between us, his hand remaining flat on top of it.
“It’s worse than you thought,” he said.
The waitress returned with a fresh whiskey for me, eyeing Callum with interest. “Something for you?”
“Water, please,” Callum said, not taking his eyes off me.
When she left, I reached for the folder, but Callum’s hand remained in place. “You won’t like what you find.”
“I didn’t expect to,” I replied.
Callum nodded once, then slid the folder across the table. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The first page was a corporate profile of Axiom Ventures. I’d heard the name before—one of those shadowy investment firms that specialized in hostile takeovers, stripping companies for parts and leave nothing but scorched earth behind.
