On the second floor, the elevator door slides open. The sounds of drilling and muffled music drift up from below, along with the chemical smell of fresh paint.
I make my way down the hallway to the end room. The door is open, so I step inside.
Feck. Sam’s here.
Ignoring her, I walk over to the other side of Da’s bed. My brow raises when I see three women in bikinis arguing with a flustered man on the TV. “How we getting’ on?”
Dad chuckles and motions to the scene playing out. “I’m better than that gobshite. He’s about to get his arse handed to him.”
I steal a glance at Sam. She’s dressed in pink running shorts and a white sleeveless T-shirt, showing off toned arms. Her body is relaxed, her muscular, tanned legs crossed, silky dark hair pulled up in a ponytail that makes my fingers twitch. One sandaled foot is bouncing though, giving away the turmoilbeneath that calm exterior. A thick, silvery scar on her ankle catches my eye. Then the blood red polish on her toes flashing a warning.
In nature it’s usually the males of the species sporting bright colors to attract attention, so I don’t take her choosing red as a sign she wants attention. More like a threat. She doesn’t want to be messed with. She’s hiding from something. Or from someone. I’ve known it since her panic attack at the hospital. The panic. The scar. The nervous energy. Intrigue is prickling my brain. What’s her story? Then I catch myself.
It’s none of my bleedin’ business.
I cross my arms and force my attention back on the show. “What are you two watchin’?”
“Love Island,” they say in unison.
My gaze snags on Sam’s smile as it lights up her whiskey eyes. “Apparently reality TV is your dad’s guilty pleasure.” Her attention moves from Da to me, and her smile falls away. She pauses the show. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and keep my gaze locked on Da as she leaves the room, forcing myself not to look at her plump, peach ass, not to watch that ponytail bounce as she leaves. I do catch a whiff of her sweet, feminine scent. Smells like I’m standing in Mam’s rose garden after a spring rain. I catch myself taking a deep, greedy breath through my nose.
Da raises an eyebrow at me as I walk around and plop into the leather chair Sam just vacated. The warmth from her body soaks through my shirt into my back. I can tell he wants to say something, but I’m not about to open that door.
“So, I’ve got the twelve soldiers we agreed on arrivin’ in the next few days to get settled in.” I pull up photos I’ve takenof the yacht on my phone and hand it over to Da. “The lighting, sound and security systems are going in now. The licenses are all done. This week I’ll be hirin’ staff and stocking the bar. Final inspection is next week.”
He scrolls through the photos, his grin widening. “She’s a beauty. Almost ready for a sea trial then.” His eyes glitter as he hands me back the phone. “Congratulations, Son. I have to admit, I didn’t see your strip club boat vision, but I get it now. An exclusive luxury club, standin’ out from the crowd. Memberships?”
“Aye.” I shoot him a cheeky grin as I click my tongue. “Not a boat, Da. A floatin’ wet dream.”
His chest shakes with a laugh. “Is that what you’re gonna name her then?”
My smile fades and it takes me a beat too long to answer. “I named her The Lucky Sinner.” It’s a private joke from a past life. My girlfriend Amber’s best friend used to call us the Sinner and the Saint. We were never sure which one of us was which.
Da must see the nostalgia mixed with pain gripping me because he doesn’t press for a reason behind the name. “And Sully’s venture? How’s that goin’? The lad hasn’t graced me with his presence for a bleedin’ minute this week.”
I’m thankful for the change of subject. My shoulders relax. “He’s been hustlin’. The gym’s open. I haven’t seen it yet, but the first underground fight is scheduled for two weeks out. He said memberships are rollin’ in.”
Da glances at my knuckles. They’re raw and swollen from pounding them against sandbags, and he gives me a knowing look. “Who are you fightin’ then?”
A ghost of a smile crosses my lips as I study my hands. He knows I won’t pass up a chance to get in the ring. Fighting’s in our blood. My granda Nyle O’Donnell was a world champion in two different weight divisions. “Some Italian gobshite called the Punisher.”
“Fixed?”
“Not this one,” I say. Da nods, but his eyelids are getting heavy. “I should let you get some rest.”
When I stand, Da holds up his hand. “Son, wait.” He hesitates, seemingly searching for the right words. Finally, he sighs. “Don’t let the ghosts of yesterday hold ya back from the gifts of tomorrow.”
Without him mentioning her name, I know he’s referring to Sam. Though I’m not sure why. Except he’s caught my glances at her. He doesn’t miss anything. The discomfort in my chest grows, so I do what I always do and cover it up with a joke. “Gettin’ sappy in your old age, Da?”
A sadness darkens the blue of his eyes when he cracks them open. “Just wiser, Son. The older ya get, what’s important in life becomes clearer. Sure, money’s grand. Power is heady. But havin’ the love of a good woman, a good partner, that’s priceless.”
My brows raise and my chest constricts.
What the feckin’ hell is he goin’ on about?
I’ve heard Da pressing Bran to get married. Bran will be taking over the Chicago business so that makes sense. He’ll need an heir. Da’s never spoken to me like this, though. He knows I don’t want a family. Not since…
