DOMINIC
Every day I check in with Ciaran. Every day he gives me the same answer.
No sign of Kavanagh.
It’s as if the bastard evaporated.
We’ve torn through his nightclub, his house, his brother’s places. Pulled up floorboards. Emptied safes. Leaned on anyone stupid enough to pretend they don’t know where he is.
Nothing.
We fly home tomorrow. And while I trust myself to keep Aoife safe, I’d be a hell of a lot more comfortable stepping back into Dublin if I knew exactly where Rory Kavanagh was.
On the plus side, Ciaran and our men located Rory’s new stock—and by stock I mean eight terrified women, bound in gags along with ten-million-euro worth of heroin. It can only be from the Colombians. He must have bought it to push it in his clubs. He really does have a death wish.
The women are staying in The Syndicate’s safe houses while Owen arranges the paperwork for them to returnhome, and Cathal is burning the heroin in the incinerator at my place right now.
Frankie is refusing to take my calls, as is my brother Kai. They were due back to the States from Mexico yesterday, yet both of them are still out of reach.
These two weeks with Aoife have been the best of my life, but the control freak in me is clawing to get back to Dublin to do what I do best—hunt—before we become the prey.
My eyes drift back to my wife. I booked a local Italian restaurant overlooking the lake for our last night. Aoife is laughing at something the waiter just said. She’s wearing that white sundress again. Her flawless skin is tanned against the cotton. Her golden hair is falling in loose, bouncing waves over her shoulders. She looks lighter here. Less guarded. Like the world hasn’t been trying to take from her for as long as she can remember.
I told her this honeymoon was about putting distance between her and danger.
It wasn’t.
It was about time. Time for us to forge the solid foundations of our future, because I’ve always known we had one.
My phone vibrates against the table.
I don’t need to look to know it’s Ciaran.
Aoife stares at it, her body physically stiffens. I reach for her hand across the table, then pick my phone up with the other, answering without breaking eye contact with her.
‘Yeah.’
‘Got the package,’ Ciaran sing-songs. No greeting. No filler.
My jaw tightens. ‘Please tell me it’s still in one piece.’
‘For now,’ Ciaran says. ‘But that’s about to change.’
‘Wait for me,’ I command. ‘I’ll be home tomorrow.’
He pauses for a long beat. This is unheard of. In the past, we’ve struck fast and hard. ‘I assumed you’d fly straight back.’
‘I have one more night left of my honeymoon with my stunning wife, and I refuse to cut it short to kill that cunt.’ I squeeze Aoife’s hand, watching as the colour drains from her cheeks. ‘Feel free to pass that message on to our friend. Tell him I’m looking forward to our reunion tomorrow.’
Ciaran’s slow chuckle echoes into my ear. ‘You dirty fucking dog. You fucked those tits, didn’t you? What was it like? Fuck, man.’
‘Ciaran,’ I growl. ‘For the hundredth fucking time, that’s my wife, have some respect.’
Silence stretches for a long beat. ‘Fuck, you fell for her, didn’t you?’ There’s no mistaking his shock. ‘You romantic fucking psycho.’
A vein throbs in my temple. ‘Where’s the package?’
‘The warehouse in Wicklow.’
