I take a shaky step forward toward the stairs, smoothing down my sweater with trembling hands. Whatever this is, I can't hide from it. I can't cower in my room like a child. I'm the only one left in this family, the heiress, the last Connelly in Boston. I have to face whatever's coming.
Even if I'm terrified.
Even if I have no idea what I'm doing.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and walk down the stairs. At the bottom of the landing, I pause, looking out into the foyer. Mrs. Brady is standing by the open door, looking uncertain and worried. Beyond her, I can see four men standing on the doorstep.
Three men in dark suits, rain dripping from their coats—and one more, who I can’t really make out—he’s standing so far back in the darkness. But he looks huge, taller than the rest, and broader. My pulse spikes, fear pounding through my veins.
The one in front is older, perhaps in his sixties, with silver hair and a weathered face. He's looking up at me now, his expression unreadable.
"Miss Connelly," he says, his thick Irish accent confirming my guess. "My name is Connor McBride. I'm here from Dublin, on behalf of the Irish Council. We need to speak with you about your family's estate and your future."
My future.
The words hang in the air like a threat.
I grip the banister, my knuckles white, and force myself to nod, trying to keep my expression calm. I don’t want to let them see how afraid I am. I don’t want to give them that.
“Can we come in, Miss Connelly?” Connor says, his voice polite, but with a firmness that tells me thatnoisn’t an acceptable answer. He’s trying to remain decorous, but if I didwhat I want to do and told them to leave, I can only imagine the consequences.
Not least of which, I’d certainly be left without any protection at all. Even if they would leave, rejecting the Council would mean that Ronan could no longer offer me any assistance if he were inclined to do so. I would be completely and utterly on my own.
I think of everything I don’t know, everything I have no idea how to access. I think of how impossible it is to begin alone from where I am. I think of the former Italian don who killed my sister, Rocco, and how he was trafficking women—of how many other men like him there must be out there.
Men who would prey on me, steal from me, force me, sell me.
I have no choice.
“Yes,” I manage, my voice cracking. “Come in.”
Connor steps in, followed by the two other older men, both of whom look near his age but perhaps not quite as elderly. And then the fourth man steps in, standing slightly behind the others. When I see him step into the light of the entryway, my breath catches in my throat.
He must be well over six feet tall—six and a half, maybe. The others aren’t particularly short, but he towers over them. Just looking at him makes me feel frail. His presence seems to fill the space he’s in, overwhelming everything else, and when he takes off his hat—a newsboy-style cap—I see that he has short dark hair that’s slightly damp at the edges from the rain, and a face that's all hard angles and sharp edges, stubble on his jaw. I see a scar through one eyebrow and another along the lower part of his cheek and chin on one side, and when his eyes briefly meet mine, I see that they’re a cold, piercing green. Just meeting his gaze makes my skin feel chilled.
He looks dangerous. He looks like violence personified, like death in black jeans and a leather jacket.
And he’s looking at me as if he can’t stand the sight of me.
A smirk curves one corner of his mouth as he sees me staring, but it’s not an amused smirk. There’s not an ounce of humor in him that I can see.
“Miss Connelly,” Connor begins, drawing my attention back to him, “perhaps we can have this discussion somewhere private?”
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "Of course," I hear myself say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Mrs. Brady, would you show them to the sitting room? And get drinks for our guests, perhaps? Tea for me, please, and whatever they would like to have."
Mrs. Brady nods, relief crossing her face at having something to do. She ushers the men forward, and I follow, acutely aware of the tall man's gaze on me as he passes, burning into my skin like a brand.
Whatever's about to happen, I know with absolute certainty that my life is about to change.
2
SEAN
TWO DAYS EARLIER—DUBLIN
The Council's headquarters sits in a historic old house in an older part of Dublin. It’s well-kept and maintained, with a cobblestone courtyard outside, polished wooden shutters on the windows, the brick exterior a rich red in the late afternoon sunlight. A garden space out front on either side of the front door, where there would be flowers, were it not the wet cold of February. Nothing about the outside of it suggests that inside, men decide who lives and who dies.
I’ve walked into this house a thousand times, probably, since I was a kid. I was intimidated by it, once upon a time. Now, I feel nothing when I come to see the five old men who hold absolute power over Dublin, and me. At least, not usually.
