“I’m not giving up on you,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, but the words felt like a vow. “I’m not going anywhere. Andwhether you like it or not, whether you want me to or not, I am going to find a way to reach you.”
A door opened behind me, and I turned away from the window, my jaw set, my resolve hardening into something unbreakable. My reflection caught in the glass for just a moment, revealing a woman I barely recognized, with eyes that held both fear and fierce determination. She looked tired. She looked scared. But she didn’t look like someone who was going to back down.
“Dr. Jefferson, I heard you wanted to speak with me.”
I turned fully, my heart hammering against my ribs as I faced the man who’d spoken. Braesal O’Malley stood in the doorway of what could only be described as a study. Though calling it that felt like calling a cathedral a church. The room behind him was all dark wood paneling and leather-bound books, the kind of space that whispered of old money and older power. A massive desk dominated the center, its surface pristine except for a single crystal tumbler half-filled with amber liquid.
He was not what I expected.
I’d imagined someone like Sinclair, someone polished, urbane, dangerous in a tailored suit. Or perhaps someone like the men I’d seen at the cage fights, brutal, scarred, violence written into every line of their bodies.
Braesal O’Malley was neither.
He was tall, perhaps in his early to mid-fifties, with silver threading through dark hair that was swept back from a face that might have been handsome if not for the hardness in his eyes. Those eyes—pale green, almost colorless—studied me with an intensity that made me feel simultaneously seen and dissected. He wore a simple black button-up shirt and dark slacks, no jewelry except for a watch that probably cost more than my car. There was something almost professorial about him, which made the danger radiating from him all the more unsettling.
“Mr. O’Malley,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“I didn’t agree to anything.” His accent was strong, a lifetime of living in Boston. “You showed up at my door, Dr. Jefferson. There’s a difference between agreeing and being presented with a fait accompli.”
He stepped into the room, and I noticed the way he moved, economical, precise, like a man who’d learned long ago not to waste energy on unnecessary gestures. Behind him, two men flanked the doorway. They didn’t enter, but their presence was a reminder that I was very much not in control here.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “But I didn’t know how else to reach you.”
“Most people don’t try.” He moved to the desk, picking up the tumbler and taking a slow sip. “Most people have better sense than to walk into a stranger’s home and ask for an audience with the head of the Irish Mob in Boston.”
The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, so devoid of pretense, sent a chill down my spine. This wasn’t a man who played games or hid behind euphemisms. He was exactly what he appeared to be, and he expected you to deal with that reality or leave.
“I’m not most people,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them.
His eyebrows rose slightly, the first hint of expression I’d seen. “No,” he agreed, setting the glass down with a soft click. “I don’t think you are. Though most people value their lives more than whatever brought you here.”
“I value my life just fine, Mr. O’Malley. But there are things I value more.”
“Such as?”
“The man I love.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the men in the doorway seemed to still, as if the entire house was holding its breath.
Braesal O’Malley studied me for a long moment, his pale eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, he gestured to one of the leather chairs positioned in front of his desk.
“Sit.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command. But I’d take it.
I crossed the room on legs that felt steadier than they had any right to be, before lowering myself into the chair. The leather was butter-soft, worn in a way that spoke of decades of use. How many people had sat in this chair? How many had walked out again?
O’Malley settled into his own chair behind the desk, leaning back with the ease of a man completely comfortable in his domain. He didn’t speak, just watched me with those unsettling eyes, waiting.
The power play was obvious. He wanted to see if I’d break the silence, if I’d rush to fill the void with nervous chatter. It was a test, and I’d already failed enough tests in my life.
So I waited.
The clock on the wall ticked. Somewhere in the house, a door closed. Outside, traffic hummed—a distant, muted soundtrack to this strange standoff.
Finally, O’Malley’s lips curved into something that might have been a smile if it had reached his eyes.
“You have spine,” he said. “I’ll give you that. Most people start babbling within thirty seconds.”
