Flynn’s voice slices in.
I laugh. The look on his face is priceless: tight jaw, flared nostrils, barely contained rage.
Perfect.
“Fine, fine.” I lift my hands in surrender and keep eating, eyes on my plate, but when I glance up, Kaden’s still smirking. Watching Flynn.
He knows I just pissed Brady off, and honestly? That makes my night.
“So, now seriously,” I say, twisting a potato on my fork, “you live here, right?”
“To keep an eye on Flynn, yeah,” Kaden replies. “When he’s at the penthouse, I’ve got my own place.”
I turn to Flynn.
“Do you like living here?”
He meets my eyes.
“Not really,” he says, voice quieter. “But it’s safer.”
His green eyes flicker like emeralds under firelight. My gaze drifts to the tattoos on his forearms.
I wonder if he has more. On his chest… his back…
No. Stop.
I can’t be thinking this.
Hekidnappedme.
I keep reminding myself, but Flynn has never looked dangerous to me; then again, neither did Declan, and he’s theheadof the Irish Mafia.
“Irish Mafia.” I say it aloud, testing the weight of the words.
Both men stop eating.
“The docks. The offices. The clubs,” I go on, voice softer. “Is it all fake? Are the businesses in Declan’s name?”
Flynn watches me a moment before resting his forearms on the table.
“The clubs are real businesses. The docks, half of its legal imports and exports. The rest… let’s say isn’t.”
He pauses, eyes steady on mine.
“All the businesses, besides the clubs, are under the Irish Consortium. Four families. Declan’s the majority shareholder. That makes him the legal owner and the leader.”
I blink.
This is real, organised and structured, just like the movies.
“So… do you cut off horse heads and leave them in beds?”
Kaden chokes on his wine.
Flynn actually laughs, and it’s deep and real. His shoulders tighten with it, muscles flexing under the sleeves of his shirt. He drops his head, rubs a hand down his face.
“No, trouble,” he says, voice darker now, lower.
