Page 119 of Ruthless Claim

“How did you figure out who he was?” I fight the urge to uncross my legs. I need this woman to think I’m the picture of cool. “You said you had his first name and a description. Cillian isn’t exactly an uncommon name in Ireland and there are probably a hundred Cillian Brennans in the United States.” I raise a brow. “That’s a long way from knowing which one he was and where to find him.”

Claire wasn’t expecting that question, or she was and she hoped I wouldn’t get there yet. “It took a while,” she says carefully. “Years, honestly. I kept looking, on and off. I tried tracing through people who knew him in Belfast—people who’d been around that summer, who’d maybe worked with him or known who he was.” She bites her lip. “Eventually someone told me enough to put the picture together.”

“What picture?”

She shifts on the sofa. Her eyes go to Finn for a second then back to me. “I found out what he does,” she breathes. “What his family does. The Brennan name.” She says the last three words in a whisper. “Once I knew that, finding him was—it was easier.”

That I don’t doubt.

“So,” I say pleasantly. “You found out that Cillian works for an organized crime family.” A small pause. “And your immediate thought was: perfect, that’s the man I want my eight-year-old son to meet?”

Claire doesn’t completely flush, but her cheeks are certainly redder. Her hands tighten on the mug. “It’s more complicated than that,” she insists.

“I’m sure it is,” I say, not exactly unkindly but there’s certainly judgment.

“Finn deserves to know his father,” she says, and there’s a slight edge under the careful voice now, the first crack in the composure. “Whatever Cillian’s—whatever his work is, that doesn’t change the fact that Finn has a right to be in his life.”

“Absolutely,” I say smoothly. “I completely agree.”

I smile at her and she stares at me in disbelief, clearly unable to follow where this is going. Poor thing. She’ll get eaten up in our world.

I look down at my fingers with studied indifference before I look back up at Claire with an expression of mild, genuine curiosity, like something has just occurred to me.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure,” Claire says warily, eyeing me like I’m a bomb about to go off.

“Have you thought about what happens if the paternity test comes back positive? I mean, there’s going to be a paternity test I assume, right?” There fucking better be a paternity test. If Cillian believes this woman without getting proof, I’m going to fucking divorce him and claim stupidity for the reason for divorce.

“That’s—that’s the whole point,” she says slowly, unsure of my thought process. “Finn gets to know his father. Cillian gets to be part of his life.”

“Right, right.” I nod slowly. “But have you thought about it from a legal standpoint? Because if Finn is truly Cillian’s son”—I inspect my nails—“what’s stopping Cillian from filing for full custody?”

The room suddenly goes very quiet. Claire stares at me in horror. “He would never,” she breathes.

“Would he?” I ask pleasantly, leaning forward and enjoying the game I’m playing. “And yet here we are.”

Her mouth opens then closes.

“You came to New York to introduce a child to a man you haven’t seen in nine years,” I continue, keeping my voice light, conversational, like we are discussing something mildly interesting at a dinner party. “A man whose last name, as you’ve acknowledged, you know the weight of. The Brennan family has a number of—let’s call them relationships—with certain family court judges in this city.” I give her a bright smile. “It really wouldn’t take much for a custody case to land in front of one of those particular judges. In that scenario, I have to be honest with you, I think you’d find the outcome would go in a very specific direction.”

Claire’s face has gone white, which is slightly impressive as I’ve never seen color drain out of it so quickly. Her hands shake as she sets her mug down. “Cillian wouldn’t do that,” she insists but there’s a tremor in her voice. “He’s not—” She cuts off, her chest heaving.

“He’s not what?” I ask.

She shakes her head, eyes bright with tears.

“And that’s the straightforward version of events,” I continue, still perfectly pleasant. “If things were to get really complicated—if someone were to make a situation very difficult for the Brennan family, for instance—well.” I shrug. “There are a lot of ways to deal with problems. You understand what I mean.”

Claire has gone the color of the wall behind her.

“Cillian would never hurt Finn,” she says firmly. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not Finn she needs to worry about. “He would never⁠—”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I say warmly. “I just think it’s worth understanding the full landscape of the situation you’ve walked into. That’s all.” I pick up my mug and take a sip. “You’re a smart woman. You should have the complete picture.”

She looks at me in horror and disbelief. I shrug again, enjoying myself. She is so naive it is almost painful to watch.

She tracked down a man connected to organized crime, brought her child to his home unannounced, and she thought the worst that could happen was an awkward conversation.