The emphasis he places on little pet is not lost on me, but Eamon is best ignored when he’s trying to be meddlesome. Which is most of the time.
Is it late enough to warrant joining him for a drink? A Jameson and ginger is calling my name. After six long months of business, the Emerald Isle is finally running smoothly, even if I end most nights planted face down in my bed. The exhaustion has been worth it, according to our bottom line, but will it be enough? Is it ever? No matter how much money I earn or how many bodies I bury, it seems like I’m a hamster on a wheel, endlessly toiling, never able to reach my destination.
My bank account may be fat, but there’s an ache inside of me that gnaws a lot like starvation. Depravation. And no amount of money can satiate it. Whiskey and sleep are the only ways I’ve found to deaden the constant, clawing sense of lackingsomething as vital as oxygen. The only other remedy I’ve found is one I’ll never have again.
Rolling my bleary eyes at Eamon, I say, “Only in your fantasies, you sick fuck. Now tell me why you’re bringing me strays. Didn’t you know you’re supposed to dispose of your toys when you break them?”
Eamon’s lip curls, and he snorts. “He wishes he were mine. No, this is the mark you asked for, in the flesh. Found him in D.C. with his latest mistress. Finally got around all those bodyguards. Afraid of somethin’, you piece of shite?”
I’ll bet he is. Considering Cian’s rapidly dwindling patience, it’s better for all involved that Eamon tracked him down when he did.
The man turns up his face, and my ribs contract around my lungs as I put a name to it within one breath and the next.
Despite the fear firming his unsmiling mouth and the lines around his green eyes, he has the air of a man used to having control of a room. And the desperation of one who realizes he’s lost it.
But it’s the familiarities I note that leave me reeling like I’m the one who took a boot to the ribs. His blond hair is streaked with silver and closely cropped instead of so long I can wrap it around my head several times. The same underlying facial architecture, though he has a strong jaw with a cleft chin instead of one as sharp and delicate as a fairy’s, and thin lips where they should be lusciously full.
So this is Senator Rory Gallagher. A ghost of a smirk tugs at my lips, then immediately collapses into a frown as he spits blood at the rug. Doesn’t he know what a bitch stains can be to get out of wool? A bead of sweat glides down his temple, and he swallows hard when I pin him with a cold, blank stare.
“Do you have what you owe Cian Lynch for your significant debts?” I ask.
Gallagher doesn’t answer. Maybe he can’t, the way his jaw is locked so hard as his body fairly vibrates with nerves.
Eamon shoves him with a boot between the shoulder blades, and Gallagher yelps before pushing up again. “Answer him when he speaks to you,” Eamon suggests with deadly calm.
“Christ, no, okay? No, I don’t have it, but?—”
“Take him to the warehouse. We can deal with him later,” I say, cutting off his excuses.
Gallagher opens his mouth to protest. The words commit suicide on his tongue at my expression.
Instead of doing as I instruct, Eamon ambles over to the crystal decanters lining the wall that house some of my favorite vintages. I keep meaning to hide them better because he’s always finishing them off before I get a taste. The only reason I haven’t is because the bastard would probably tear apart my office to find them if I did, and I can’t be bothered.
“I would, lad,” he says, as he takes a bottle off the shelf, studies it, and exchanges it for another, “but Rory here said he could make you a deal you couldn’t refuse. I thought you might want to at least hear him out before we kill him.”
“Get up,” I order. Gallagher doesn’t move, frozen with fear. Stretching my tense neck from side to side, I give him one more chance to comply. “Get up, Gallagher, or Eamon will help you up, and I promise that’s something you don’t want.”
“It’s something I want,” Eamon says, turning from the bar with an old-fashioned in his hand, if I had to guess. I can scent the orange peel over the reek from here.
Gallagher struggles to his feet, shuffling to keep both me and Eamon in his view. Like prey cornered by two predators. I don’t know if he even realizes he’s doing it. He knuckles away the blood and sweat from his face and tries to muster up some of his famed self-assurance and charm.
“I only need five minutes, O’Connor,” Gallagher punches out between breaths as he tries—and fails—to affect an air of confidence. Bruises bracket the lines of his nose with faint shadows. “Just five. You won’t regret it, I promise.” He doesn’t say please, but I can hear the beseeching note in his voice, discordant and revolting.
I’ve learned a lot about Rory Gallagher in the months I’ve been hunting him like a fox after a rabbit. There’s nothing he can offer I’d be interested in, nothing I’d ever allow myself to have, but despite knowing it, I find the questioning words teasing my lips, threatening to spill out between us. Thankfully, Eamon speaks before they break free of their cage.
“Begging already?” Eamon frowns behind his drink. “And I didn’t even need to bring out my knives. How disappointing. Maybe I should bring him back to the warehouse and see if we can do something about his endurance. This must be how his mistress feels when he’s fucking her.”
“Five minutes,” Gallagher repeats, holding my gaze, despite Eamon circling ever closer to him. His handsome face is white beneath the bruises at the mention of Eamon and his legendary knives.
I run a tired hand over my face and through my hair. “And why should I listen to you, Gallagher? You knew what you were doing when you refused to see me, tried to hide from me. Do you think Cian Lynch is a man who gives third chances after he’s already shown more generosity than you deserve? Your time is up. Your debts are due. There are no further extensions. No interest. You pay in money, or you pay with your life. You knew the terms when you agreed to them.”
Gesturing with a nod, Eamon retrieves a ledger the size of a small child. I also keep electronic records, but I like the feel of pen and paper under my hands. The physical weight of a book. Inside is a meticulous record of the reports, notes, and names ofall the pertinent debts owed to Cian, the head of the Lynch Crime Family, and one of the most ruthless men in organized crime. And there is an exorbitant amount.
The only way you rise to power in this world is by being more ruthless than your opposition. And Cian is the most cunning of them all. The Emerald Isle hotel and casino I own is but one of the many businesses contributing to the wealth of our organization. But it may his as well, considering he owns me.
I place glasses on the bridge of my nose and run my finger down the rows of figures, dates, and names until I find the one I’m looking for. Whistling through my teeth, I say, “According to my records, we’ve been more than generous, Rory. You’ve had plenty of time, practically twice as long as we normally allow to settle your debts.”
Tipping my glasses down, I study his ashen face and bloodshot eyes, grateful I’m almost through with this task. The greedy ache in my gut is hungry for his death, craves it. If I can’t have what I really want, then I’ll settle for his blood on my hands. I’ve been looking forward to finishing my obligations to Cian regarding him for months. Despite how curious I am about what he wants, I almost hope it’s something I can turn down so I can draw out his punishment. Which is nothing like how I usually deal with men like him. Normally, it’s a bullet in the brain, job done.
