His Possession (Mafia Masters #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

MAEVE

T he gallery buzzed with energy, the hum of voices bouncing off the stark white walls. Maeve O’Connell stood near the corner, feigning calm as she scanned the room. The fingers of her free hand itched to smooth the fabric of her dress, but she resisted the urge, keeping her posture composed. Tonight, she needed to project confidence. If the whispers were true, her audience wasn’t just art collectors and critics. The O’Neill Syndicate was here.

She caught fragments of murmured conversations as she moved through the room.

“... McMahon’s in the building.”

“... front man for the O’Neill empire...”

“... don’t cross him. You don’t recover.”

Maeve clenched the stem of her champagne flute a little tighter, the cool glass offering a tactile reminder that she needed to maintain her composure and to remain in the present. Flights of fancy were the last thing she needed tonight. The O’Neill Syndicate was the subject of whispers throughout Ireland. They were legends, their presence a subtle undercurrent that flowed through Galway’s veins. She’d spent three years keeping her past buried, avoiding the entanglements that came with powerful families. And yet, here she was, in the orbit of their most infamous emissary.

She stood, gazing at her centerpiece: a twisting sculpture of bound hands crafted from reclaimed metal. The piece had been controversial even before tonight, its raw depiction of captivity and resistance striking a nerve with every viewer. The symbolism wasn’t subtle, but then, Maeve didn’t do subtle. Art was her rebellion, her way of exorcising demons she rarely named aloud.

The air shifted before she saw him. A hush rippled through the crowd, conversations faltering mid-sentence. Maeve turned instinctively toward the entrance and felt her breath catch. Rory McMahon.

He didn’t walk into the room; he claimed it. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, the tailored lines of his suit making him look effortlessly powerful. Dark hair combed back to perfection framed sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw. His presence was magnetic, pulling every gaze in the room like gravity itself.

In that moment, she wanted to flee. She knew he was a panther-shifter, but his mere presence shouldn’t have made her feel like prey. Maeve was a cougar-shifter, arguably his equal, but she didn’t feel that way. Her cougar instincts flared to life, her heart rate spiking. She didn’t need anyone to whisper his name to know who he was. His dominance radiated off him, something raw and primal lurking beneath the polished surface. He wasn’t just powerful; he was dangerous.

As McMahon moved further into the gallery, the crowd parted for him, an unspoken acknowledgment of his authority. Maeve forced herself to stay rooted in place, ignoring the irrational urge to bolt. She wasn’t prey, no matter what her instincts screamed. But when his eyes found her, a jolt shot through her system. Deep-set and dark, his gaze locked onto her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.

He didn’t look at her like the others. Everyone else saw McMahon as composed, his demeanor a mask of cold efficiency. But when his eyes met Maeve’s, it was as if he’d stripped her bare. A spark of fire and challenge passed between them, alive with an intensity that was hard to ignore. For a moment, she almost forgot how to breathe.

McMahon didn’t look away. Instead, he crossed the room with deliberate strides, his path direct and unyielding. Maeve swallowed hard, willing herself to hold her ground. She was no stranger to power—her father had wielded it like a blade—but McMahon’s presence was different. He wasn’t trying to intimidate her; he simply was.

When he stopped in front of her sculpture, standing beside her, Maeve felt her pulse hammer in her ears. McMahon studied the piece in silence, his head tilting slightly as he took in every detail. She couldn’t read his expression, but there was something in the way he looked at it—at her—that made her catch her breath.

“Yours?” His voice was smooth, rich with an undertone of authority that sent a shiver down her spine.

She hesitated before answering, cursing herself for the tell. “Yes. It’s mine.”

He glanced at her then, and her gut twisted under the heat of his gaze. There was no small talk in those eyes, no meaningless pleasantries. He wasn’t here to flatter her. He wanted something, and he would take his time finding out if she was worth it.

“Powerful. Tell me about it,” McMahon said, nodding toward the sculpture.

Maeve’s throat went dry. She hadn’t expected him to care. Most people didn’t—they just admired the surface and moved on. But McMahon wasn’t most people. His focus was absolute, making her feel as if she were the only other person in the room.

“It’s about... obligation,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the maelstrom raging inside her. “Family, expectations. The things that bind us even when we want to be free.”

His lips quirked, the hint of a smile more dangerous than comforting. “Obligation,” he repeated, testing the word. “And freedom.”

Maeve nodded, her fingers tightening on the glass in her hand. “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

McMahon’s gaze lingered on her, as if he were peeling back her words to see what lay beneath. He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—expensive, woodsy—wrapping around her. It was intoxicating, and she hated herself for how much she liked it.

“You know a lot about being bound, don’t you?” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Maeve’s breath hitched. She didn’t know if he was talking about the sculpture or her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. But something in his tone—dark, knowing—struck a chord deep inside her. Her cougar stirred, restless and alert, caught between wanting to flee and wanting to step closer to the predator in front of her.

“It’s just a sculpture,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “Nothing more.”

McMahon tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Nothing more—I doubt it. Nothing that powerful is simple,” he said, the words carrying an edge of disbelief. “I wonder, is that what you tell yourself?”

Maeve opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. There was no use lying to him; he saw through her too easily. But admitting the truth—admitting how deeply the piece was tied to her own pain and struggles—felt like giving him too much insight… too much power.

She took a step back, needing space to breathe. “I don’t know what you mean.”

McMahon’s smile was faint but cold. “Don’t you?”

Before she could answer, Sabella Dwyer appeared at her side, her expression tense. “Maeve,” she whispered, her hand brushing Maeve’s arm. “A word?”

Maeve seized the opportunity to escape, excusing herself without looking back at McMahon. But as she followed Sabella toward the bar, she couldn’t shake the memory of the intensity of his gaze. Even with her back turned, she felt it—a heat that burned through the crowd and settled in her chest.

The gallery was alive with motion and murmurs, the kind of energy that made Maeve’s skin prickle. She moved through the room, her fingers brushing the cool stem of her champagne flute like an anchor. Every piece of sculpture on display tonight represented a fragment of her soul, but the nervous energy racing through her veins had little to do with the art. There were whispers circulating, low and urgent, rippling through the crowd like a storm brewing just out of sight.

“Any idea what McMahon wants?” Sabella murmured. Her voice was soft but laced with meaning.

Maeve arched a brow, glancing at her friend. “None whatsoever. Why would I care?”

Sabella shot her a look, the kind she reserved for moments of utter disbelief. “Because Rory McMahon is practically royalty in Galway. They say he runs the city for the O’Neill family. And you know what kind of business the O’Neills are in.”

Maeve sighed, turning her attention back to the crowd. She did know who McMahon and the O’Neill Syndicate were. But wanting to stay off their radar was important to her. “Sabella, I don’t have the energy for rumors and tales of bogeymen tonight.”

“Bogeymen?” Sabella’s laugh was humorless. “They’re not some mythical bogeymen invented to scare children, Maeve. They’re gangsters. Predators. You think they invest in galleries out of the goodness of their hearts? The O’Neills are laundering money through art, using places like this to clean their dirty profits.”

Maeve’s grip tightened on her glass, but she didn’t respond. She wasn’t na?ve—she’d grown up surrounded by men like Rory McMahon. Wealthy. Dangerous. Untouchable. But she’d left that world behind when she’d left Boston. Or so she’d thought.

“Look at me,” Sabella insisted, tugging lightly at Maeve’s arm. “If he’s here for you—if he even looks at you the wrong way—you tell him no. Walk away.”

Maeve smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it. “And then what, Sabella? Men like that don’t take no for an answer. Not in the way you mean.”

Sabella hesitated, a flicker of worry crossing her face. “Then run. Far and fast.” With a final look at McMahon, Sabella went to mingle with her other guests.

Maeve didn’t answer. Her feet felt rooted to the floor, her instincts tightening like a spring coiling deep inside her chest. It was absurd—he had done nothing wrong, or even intimidating, but she could feel the tension in the air. From the moment he entered the building, there’d been a shift in her consciousness, as though something primal and predatory was pulling at the edges of her awareness.

She scanned the room, her gaze moving over elegant suits and designer dresses until she found him again. His dark eyes fixed on her—a gaze that made her stomach clench. He didn’t look like a criminal; he looked like a king or a prince at least. His suit was immaculate, tailored to his powerful frame, and the faintest shadow of stubble traced his angular jaw. But it was the way he carried himself—controlled, deliberate, as though every move he made could shape the surrounding room.

Maeve could feel his pull, hot and undeniable. Her heartbeat quickened as his gaze locked with hers. There was no mistaking the challenge in his eyes, a spark of recognition that ignited something deep inside her. It wasn’t just attraction; it was a collision of forces, magnetic and dangerous.

Her skin flushed as he stepped forward, his movements unhurried, calculated. People shifted aside instinctively, as though they could sense the power emanating from him. Rory McMahon didn’t ask for attention—he commanded it. And he didn’t break eye contact with her, not for a second.

Maeve swallowed hard, willing herself to hold her ground. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she cursed the way her body betrayed her. Heat simmered low in her belly, spreading like wildfire under her skin. She wanted to look away, to sever whatever spell he was weaving over her. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

When he finally reached her, the space between them felt charged, as though the air itself had thickened. He said nothing at first, just studied her with those sharp, unreadable eyes. Up close, he’d was even more arresting—his presence almost overwhelming and yet elusive, like smoke on the water.

A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Your friend seems to have wanted you to know who I am.”

“I already knew,” Maeve said, tilting her head slightly. “It’s hard not to.”

His smile widened, just enough to reveal a hint of teeth. “Good. Then we can skip the meaningless small talk.”

There was something dangerous in his casual tone, like a blade hidden behind velvet. Maeve’s cougar instincts roared at her to move, to put distance between them, but she held her ground.

Rory’s gaze flicked over her shoulder to reexamine the sculpture behind her. He stepped closer to examine it, and Maeve’s breath hitched at the way his body moved—graceful, predatory.

“Interesting piece,” he murmured, tracing the air just above the sculpture’s jagged edges. “You said it represented obligation and freedom, which I found intriguing. What inspired it?”

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. “The chains we carry,” she said, her voice steady despite the heat coursing through her body.

“Ah.” He turned to face her, his dark eyes glittering. “Interesting.”

Something in the way he said it made her stomach flip. He wasn’t just talking about the sculpture—he was talking about her. He saw her too clearly, and she hated it. Or maybe she liked it too much.

“I suppose you’d know a lot about that,” she said, a hint of sharpness in her tone. It was a gamble, testing him, but Maeve had never been good at backing down.

Rory’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened, just enough to send a chill down her spine. “More than you can imagine.”

The impact and meaning of his words hung between them, and Maeve felt her pulse race. There was no mistaking the warning in his tone, but it wasn’t fear that gripped her—it was something far more dangerous. Excitement. Desire. A fire that burned too hot, threatening to consume her.

Maeve took a slow step back, breaking the tension before it snapped. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice cool as she turned away.

She could feel Rory’s eyes on her. Every nerve in her body was on edge, every instinct screaming at her to run—or to turn back. To face him head-on.

“Maeve.” Sabella’s voice cut through her thoughts as she approached the bar, her friend’s expression tight with worry. “What did I tell you?”

“I know,” Maeve said quietly, setting her glass down with a sharp clink. “Don’t engage.”

“And yet you did,” Sabella hissed, glancing over her shoulder toward Rory.

“And then I walked away.” She held up her hands. “And not a scorch mark to be had.”

“Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

“Probably better than you do,” Maeve muttered.

Sabella grabbed her arm, her grip firm. “Listen to me. Men like Rory McMahon don’t ask—they take. They devour. And they don’t stop until there’s nothing left.”

Maeve shrugged off Sabella’s hand, her jaw tightening. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be.”

Maeve didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Rory’s presence and voice still lingered on her skin and in her ears. She turned her head slightly, glancing back toward the sculpture.

He was gone.

But even without seeing him, she knew. Rory McMahon wasn’t done with her. Not by a long shot.

And somehow, the thought didn’t scare her. It thrilled her.