His Possession (Mafia Masters #2)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

RORY

T he first rays of dawn barely lit the horizon when Rory settled into his office, his mind already racing through the reports waiting for him. The room was still, the kind of silence that allowed focus but also left too much space for unwelcome thoughts. His panther stirred uneasily, a restless presence under his skin, and Rory exhaled slowly, bracing himself for the long day ahead.

The file Cormac had left the night before sat unopened on the desk, its edges crisp, the name Michael O’Connell stamped across the top in bold letters. Rory picked it up, his fingers brushing the coarse paper as he flipped it open. The photographs inside were grainy but clear enough to show Michael’s men moving through Galway, their presence calculated but unmistakable. It was a message as much as a search.

Michael O’Connell wanted his daughter back.

The thought made Rory’s jaw tighten, his panther rumbling low in his chest. Michael wouldn’t take Maeve for a father-daughter reunion. He’d use her. He considered Maeve a pawn, a piece on a board where loyalty and blood were meaningless unless leveraged. The idea of Maeve caught in Michael’s grasp was enough to make Rory’s hands clench around the edge of the desk.

“Keep it together,” he muttered, forcing himself to focus. Emotion couldn’t cloud his judgment now—not when the stakes were this high.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and Cormac stepped in, his posture as poised and deliberate as ever. He carried a slim laptop under his arm, his dark eyes sharp as they met Rory’s.

“I have something you’ll want to see,” he said without preamble.

Rory gestured for him to sit, leaning back as Cormac set the laptop on the desk and opened it. The screen came to life with a series of surveillance photos, timestamps ticking in the corner. The first few showed David Foster entering a quiet cafe, his polished appearance and affable demeanor belying the snake Rory now knew him to be.

“Someone took these two nights ago,” Cormac said, clicking through the images. “David met with Lorcan Kelleher’s men for nearly an hour. They left through separate exits, but it’s clear this wasn’t their first meeting.”

Rory’s eyes narrowed as he brought up another set of photos—this time of crates being unloaded at a warehouse near the docks. The containers bore no markings, but the men working them were unmistakably Kelleher muscle.

“We traced some shipments back to Foster’s connections in London,” Cormac continued. “Art dealers, auction houses—legitimate fronts for laundering. He’s been feeding the Kellehers everything they need to chip away at our operations.”

Rory exhaled slowly, his temper simmering just below the surface. Foster’s betrayal wasn’t just personal; it was strategic. Foster deliberately chose every piece of information he gave to exploit vulnerabilities, and Rory hated that he hadn’t foreseen it.

“There’s more,” Cormac said, his tone dipping slightly. He clicked one last photo, and Rory’s gut tightened as he saw it: a still frame of Foster shaking hands with a man Rory recognized instantly—Michael O’Connell.

“That bastard,” Rory growled, his voice low. “He’s working both sides.”

Cormac nodded. “And Maeve is at the center. Michael wants her back, and Foster’s connections are helping him stay one step ahead of us. If we don’t shut this down quickly, it’s only a matter of time before he makes his move.”

The tension in Rory’s chest coiled tighter, his panther snarling at the idea of anyone threatening Maeve. He didn’t just want to protect her—he needed to. But the possessiveness he felt went deeper than logic, deeper than strategy. It was primal.

Rory closed the laptop, his fingers resting on the smooth surface as he forced himself to speak. “What’s the best move?”

“Cut Foster loose,” Cormac said without hesitation. “Make it clear we know what he’s done and make an example of him. It’ll send a message to the Kellehers and to Michael.”

Rory nodded, though the decision felt hollow. Ending Foster’s game was necessary, but it didn’t solve the deeper problem. Michael O’Connell was still out there, still pulling strings, still coming for Maeve. And Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that he was running out of time.

“Set it up,” he said finally. “I want Foster dealt with by tomorrow.”

Cormac rose, giving a small nod before leaving the room. When the door clicked shut, Rory leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the city skyline outside the window.

His thoughts, as always, circled back to Maeve. She was the one constant, the one piece of his peace he couldn’t let go. But that connection—the fire between them—came with its own dangers. His panther’s possessiveness only grew stronger every time he saw her, every time he touched her. It wasn’t just a want; it was a need, fierce and unrelenting.

And that was the part that terrified him.

Rory had spent his entire life fighting to be better than his father. He’d clawed his way out of the shadows of violence and dominance, carving a path that was his own. But with Maeve, the line felt blurred. His instincts told him to protect her, to claim her as his, but he couldn’t ignore the echoes of his father’s voice in the back of his mind.

Control. Power. Possession.

Rory slammed his fist onto the desk, the sound sharp in the silence. He wasn’t his father. He wouldn’t let himself become that man, no matter how strong the pull of his instincts.

But when it came to Maeve, restraint felt like a losing battle.

He pushed back from the desk, pacing the room as his thoughts churned. Every instinct he had told him to go to her, to hold her, to make her see that he wasn’t the monster he feared he might become. But would that be enough? Or would his world drag her under, leaving her broken in the process?

Rory stopped, his hands braced on the windowsill as he stared out at the city. He couldn’t let that happen. Not to Maeve.

The door opened behind him, and Cormac’s voice cut through the silence. “Foster’s already running. We’ll catch him.”

Rory didn’t turn. “Good. Make sure he doesn’t get far.”

There was a pause, and then Cormac’s tone softened. “She’s safe, Rory. For now.”

“For now isn’t enough,” Rory said, his voice quiet but firm. “I need to end this. All of it.”

“And you will,” Cormac said. “But don’t lose yourself in the process.”

Rory didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because as much as he wanted to believe he could keep Maeve safe, part of him feared the truth.

He was losing himself. And the question that haunted him most was simple: would Maeve save him from it, or would she be the reason he fell?

The moonlight spilled through the expansive windows of Rory’s penthouse, casting a soft silver glow over the room. Rory sat in the armchair by the bed, his gaze fixed on Maeve as she slept. Her dark curls fanned out across the pillow, her chest rising and falling with the deep, steady rhythm of rest. The tension that so often lined her face was absent now, leaving her peaceful and breathtakingly vulnerable.

He’d never been the type to watch someone sleep—wanted no one close enough to see him at his weakest. But with Maeve, it was different. The beast inside him, restless and dangerous, calmed in her presence. For the first time in years, he felt like there was something worth holding on to. Something worth protecting.

And yet, the darkness in him still loomed. His panther prowled beneath his skin, its instincts sharp and unrelenting. It wanted her—needed her. But the desire to claim her, to make her his in every way, warred with his fear of what that would mean. Would he keep her safe, or would he pull her deeper into the shadows of his world?

The buzz of his phone on the table beside him broke the silence. Rory reached for it, careful not to disturb Maeve. The name on the screen made his chest tighten.

Malachy.

He answered with a quiet, “What?”

“We’ve got a problem,” Malachy said, his voice low but urgent. “Tadhg Kelleher met with Alexander O’Connell tonight.”

Rory’s grip on the phone tightened. Alexander, Maeve’s brother, wasn’t supposed to be a player in this game. He’d stayed out of the syndicate’s business for years, keeping his distance from his father’s operations. If he was meeting with Tadhg, it could only mean one thing.

“They’re making a move,” Rory said, his tone cold.

“Looks that way,” Malachy confirmed. “Our guys tailed them to a warehouse near the docks. Couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying, but it wasn’t a casual chat.”

Rory leaned forward, his free hand running through his hair as he processed the news. Tadhg wasn’t just testing boundaries anymore; he was aligning himself with Michael O’Connell’s family. And Alexander, whether by choice or coercion, was part of it.

“I want eyes on both of them,” Rory said, his voice sharp with command. “Find out what they’re planning, and make sure they don’t get the chance to act.”

“You got it,” Malachy said. “Anything else?”

“Not yet,” Rory said, ending the call and tossing the phone onto the table.

He sat back, his gaze drifting back to Maeve. The thought of Alexander betraying her—of him aligning with the very people she’d fought so hard to escape—ignited a fire in Rory’s chest. He couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t.

Maeve stirred in her sleep, her brow furrowing slightly as if she sensed the turmoil in him even from the depths of her dreams. Rory’s chest tightened as he watched her, the ache of wanting her and the fear of losing her intertwining in a way that felt unbearable.

He couldn’t change what he was. Couldn’t promise her a life free of danger. But he could give her this moment, this piece of himself, before the storm broke.

Rory stood, his movements careful as he approached the bed. The sheets rustled softly as he sat on the edge, his hand brushing a stray curl from her face. Her skin was warm under his fingers, her breathing shifting slightly as she woke.

“Maeve,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Wake up.”

Her lashes fluttered, her blue eyes opening slowly to meet his. She blinked, the haze of sleep clearing as she focused on him. “Rory?” she said, her voice soft and unsure.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned down, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was slow and tender, a stark contrast to the tension that gripped him. Maeve responded instinctively, her hand coming up to rest on his chest as she deepened the kiss.

Rory slid into the bed beside her, his body pressing against hers as the kiss grew more insistent. He let himself savor the softness of her lips, the way she fit so perfectly against him. His hands traced the curve of her waist, his touch reverent as he mapped the lines of her body.

Maeve sighed into him, her fingers curling into his hair as she pulled him closer. There was no rush, no urgency. Just the two of them, lost in each other, the outside world fading into the background. Rory let himself drown in the moment, in the way her touch soothed the darkness inside him.

He shifted, his lips trailing down her neck, leaving a path of heat that made her shiver. Maeve’s breath hitched as his hands moved lower, his touch gentle but firm, his actions deliberate as he guided her closer to the edge of control.

“Rory,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of desire and emotion.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against her skin, his words a promise as much as a reassurance. “Always.”

Their lovemaking was unhurried, each movement deliberate and meaningful. Rory poured everything he couldn’t say into the way he touched her, kissed her, held her. He needed her to understand, to feel what words couldn’t convey.

When they finally lay tangled together, the room silent except for the sound of their breathing, Rory pressed a soft kiss to Maeve’s temple. She rested her head against his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin.

For a moment, the madness outside seemed far away, their world reduced to the quiet intimacy of the moment. But Rory knew it wouldn’t last. He had enemies circling, threats looming, and Maeve was at the center of it all.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered, breaking the silence.

“You won’t,” Rory said, his voice firm. “I won’t let that happen.”

Maeve lifted her head to meet his gaze, her blue eyes filled with both trust and fear. “You can’t promise that, Rory. Not in your world.”

His jaw tightened, the truth of her words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. But he refused to let doubt take hold. He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze locked on hers. “Then I’ll change the rules.”

Maeve stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. And then she nodded, the smallest gesture, but one that carried the weight of her trust.

As she settled back into his arms, Rory’s mind churned with the decisions he knew he had to make. The Kellehers, Michael O’Connell, Alexander—they were all threats he would eliminate, no matter the cost.

Maeve had become his obsession; he wasn’t a man who lost, especially not when it came to her.