"Or someone very good at infiltration." I wanted to kick something. How could something like this happen? The expense had been considerable to make sure it wouldn't. "Have the team dismantle this section. Check for surveillance devices."
"This is our most secure facility. I've seen a couple of the others…"
"I don't know." I stood, my mind racing. "Why did they stop here and not simply go further? Maybe it's a message…"
"From whom?"
"That's what we need to find out." I checked my watch. "I have a call with Ronan tomorrow but I better speed things up a bit. Keep this between us for now."
Back in my study, I secured the line before dialling Ronan. Three rings, then his voice, rougher than usual.
"It's nearly midnight here, Alexander."
"Would I call if it wasn't important?"
Even with Ronan, I maintained boundaries. Our brotherhood wasn't by blood but by choice and circumstance. He'd never dismissed me as inferior, even when we were children.
I heard movement, sheets rustling, then a feminine moan. "Give me a minute," he muttered, followed by, "Just a few minutes, princess," then a door closing. "What happened?"
I laid out the situation—the distribution losses, the security breach. Ronan listened without interruption.
"Could be the O'Malleys regrouping," he finally said.
"Connor's sons are dead or not worth a single thought. There's only the daughter left, and she was kept away from the business."
"Don't knock that possibility. Word is Connor protected his girl, Aoife, but that doesn't mean he kept her in the dark."
I considered this. The intelligence we had on Aoife O'Malley was limited—Swiss boarding schools, advanced history of art and business degrees, charity functions. She definitely had brains and discipline but there was nothing to suggest she was involved in her family's operations—even though I couldn't guess who'd have replaced the late Connor.
Yet, I hesitated at dismissing her. Something about her dossier had always struck me as too perfect, too carefully curated. And come to think of it, there'd been an awful lot of quiet on the O'Malley front lately.
The possibility it could be her intrigued me.
Aoife O'Malley.
I salivated at the thought.
"You have authority to handle this however necessary," Ronan continued. "Just stay alert and vigilant. Cressida's finally settling into London life. I don't want complications pulling us back to Ashford or even Ireland right now."
"How is she?" I asked, surprising myself.
"She's..." Ronan paused. "She's playing a solo with the philharmonic next month. We're travelling to Paris after that for another engagement." Was that pride in his tone?
I had never understood what Ronan saw in Cressida Ashford. She had seemed so fragile, so unsuited to our world. Yet, she had survived the hunt, survived the MacGregor twins, survived her family's abuse. Undoubtedly there was steel beneath that delicate exterior. Unlike her sister Beatrice, whose darkness had been evident from the first moment I'd seen her, yet, she was more fragile than a sandcastle.
"I'll handle it," I promised. This was my chance to prove that Ronan's trust was well-placed—that leaving me in charge had been his wisest decision.
"I know you will." A pause. "And Alexander—watch your back. If this is the O'Malleys, it's personal for them. Then again I suppose it's always personal. Hire more men as needed."
Ronan ended the call, leaving me with the growing suspicion that we had missed something important after the O'Malley estate takedown, and Beatrice's marriage. And then a second, more unsettling thought: part of me hoped it was Aoife O'Malley behind this. Part of me wanted to meet the woman who could possibly have orchestrated such a subtle yet targeted attack on my domain.
The woman I'd been dreaming of for two long years…
Night had fallen by the time I finished reviewing the reports. I poured a double shot of whisky and stood by the window, watching shadows stretch across the lawn.
My reflection stared back at me, dark eyes and features that had earned me comparisons to men in Renaissance paintings—a twisted irony considering those same features had marked me as different. Too refined for a servant's son, too striking to blend into the background as I was meant to. I'd learnt to use myappearance as a tool, my controlled movements and expressions becoming a canvas that revealed only what I wanted others to see.
"Will that be all for tonight, sir?" asked the night attendant. Willis had been given some time off and Ronan had hired more adequate help around here.
