24. Eamon
Eamon
Sitting on my sofa, swirling a glass of wine, completely unaware of how much her presence alone has turned my world upside down.
Aoife . Her name rolls through my head, unraveling months of frustration.
It makes sense now why I couldn’t find Eve.
It was nothing more than a nickname, a deliberate mask to keep her hidden.
And hidden she was. Patrick Quigley’s daughter. Ruairi Quigley’s twin.
The revelation hits harder than it should, considering the tension already thrumming through me.
Patrick Quigley was one of the most powerful men in Ireland—sharp, ruthless, and untouchable.
The stories about him are legendary, but the whispers about his daughter?
Those were rarer, quieter, and far more intriguing.
The daughter no one had ever seen. The one he kept out of sight, away from his world.
In today’s society, where privacy is a luxury even the rich and powerful can’t afford, the fact that Patrick managed to shield her identity entirely is staggering.
No photos. No accidental mentions. Nothing.
It’s a testament to the kind of power he wielded, the respect and fear he commanded.
Keeping Aoife Quigley hidden from the eyes of his enemies and his allies must have been his greatest act of protection.
And now, she’s here.
With her name finally revealed, her guarded exterior is showing the slightest cracks. It all makes sense—the secrecy, the carefully built walls around her. This is what it took to survive as Patrick Quigley’s daughter.
I glance at her again, watching as she traces the rim of her glass absently. She’s distracted, probably still trying to figure out how the hell we found one another again. But my thoughts drift elsewhere to her brother, Ruairi.
Ruairi Quigley hasn’t been in power long. His father’s death put him at the head of their Syndicate less than a year ago, but he’s wasted no time making moves.
The lines between our territories had been clear for years.
Dublin was mine. Belfast was theirs. But since Patrick’s death, Ruairi has been pushing south, testing boundaries, trying to claim more.
The Midlands, those critical trade routes connecting ports on both coasts, have become a battleground.
Whoever controls them doesn’t just control smuggling.
They control influence, wealth, and alliances.
It’s a bold play, especially for someone so new to power. And though we’ve exchanged more than one warning shot, I’ve kept my retaliation measured. For now.
But the fact that Ruairi’s sister is sitting in my penthouse? That’s a new kind of weapon. This changes everything.
The idea of Ruairi storming in here, realizing his precious, sheltered sister is with me—it’s not a fantasy. It’s a certainty. Her being here will escalate things between us and push a fragile balance closer to collapse. And I should care more than I do.
But I spent too long looking for her. Too long, wondering where she’d gone and if I’d ever see her again.
Every part of me knows she’s a complication I can’t afford, a line I shouldn’t have crossed.
She’s not just temptation—she’s the Quigley Syndicate’s untouchable daughter, the one girl who was never meant to be part of this world.
Now she’s here, flesh and fire and defiance, and I won’t let her go. Not when I’ve already tasted what it feels like to have her close.
I take another sip of my wine, leaning back in my chair as I fix my gaze on Aoife. “So,” I say, breaking the silence, “tell me about Ruairi.”
She frowns, her shoulders tensing slightly. “What about him?”
“Anything you haven’t already mentioned,” I reply smoothly. “You said he won’t let you work in your family’s Syndicate. Why?”
Her lips press together for a moment before she sighs. “I’m a girl,” she says bluntly. “In his eyes, that makes me a liability. He keeps saying I need to stay out of it, that it’s not my place.”
I scoff, setting my glass down on the table. “And what do you think?”
Her gaze snaps to mine, fire sparking in her eyes. “I think he’s wrong.”
“Good,” I say with a faint smirk. “Then we’re on the same page.”
She arches a brow, cautious. “What do you mean?”
Studying her, I let the silence stretch between us. When I finally speak, my voice is calm. Certain. “Us. This.” I motion between us. “That’s how I’ll get to him.”
Her expression shifts, guarded now. “So I’m bait?”
“You’re leverage,” I correct, tone even. “Your family kept you hidden your entire life. You watched from the shadows while you were whispered about behind closed doors. All the while, they told themselves it was to protect you.” I lean in, gaze locked on hers. “But we both know better.”
Her breath catches. She knows I’m right.
“They kept you out of something you were born to be part of. Shut you out of the world they built while expecting you to stay silent, stay small.” I let the next words fall like a quiet verdict. “And now you’re with me.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. But I feel the storm building behind her eyes.
“He won’t take that well.” Her mouth opens like she wants to argue, but she quickly corrects herself. “Ruairi thinks he owns your loyalty,” I continue. “And when he finds out you’ve given it to me, it’ll gut him.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But I can feel the energy shift between us.
Because it’s not just that she’s with me. It’s that she chose to be. Her family kept her locked outside the game her whole life. But now? She’s inside. And she’s sitting across from the enemy.
Aoife doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. The moment stretches between us, taut and heavy, like a breath held too long.
She’s no prisoner. There are no chains. Just a quiet, beautiful stillness—like a woman standing beneath the slow descent of the blade, daring it to fall. And maybe, just maybe, hoping it will.
That tells me everything I need to know. Aoife’s hesitation is palpable, but I see the intrigue in her eyes.
She’s already in it.
“How?” she asks, her voice low and cautious.
“We dismantle him,” I say, my voice quieter now. “From the inside out. Not with bullets or bloodshed. With doubt. With fear.”
I pause, letting the words hang. Letting her breathe them in.
“We’ll make him question everything he thinks he knows about you, about himself, about the grip he believes he still has. Every truth he’s ever relied on? We’ll twist it until it cuts.”
She stares at me, breath catching just slightly. “And if it doesn’t work?”
I lean closer, slow and deliberate, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“It will,” I whisper. “Because we won’t give him a choice.”
The silence stretches between us, charged and electric. Her lips part slightly, her breathing uneven. I know I’m pushing her boundaries, testing the line between her defiance and her trust.
“You’re insane,” she murmurs, but there’s no conviction behind her words.
“You already knew that,” I reply, my voice low and deliberate.
And then I kiss her.
It’s not soft or tentative. It’s raw, consuming, a clash of anger, desire, and unspoken promises. Aoife’s hands tangle in my shirt as she pulls me closer, meeting my intensity with her own.
The wineglass in her hand slips to the floor, shattering as it hits the polished wood, but neither of us acknowledges it.
Her gasps melt into a moan as I lift her off the sofa, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist. I carry her toward the bedroom, the heat between us drowning out everything else.
There’s nothing gentle about this—no slow burn or hesitation. Its passion and fury and the weight of months of longing snapping all at once. She clings to me like gravity itself is failing, tugging me closer like she can’t stand the thought of even an inch between us.
I push the bedroom door open with my shoulder. The soft light from the city spills through the windows, casting shadows across the dark wood floors and the king-sized bed that dominates the space. I don’t hesitate, lowering her onto the mattress.
Our lips never part, the kiss frantic and raw, all-consuming. My hands slide down her back, fingers finding the zipper of her dress. There’s an urgency I can’t control. I need her bare, her body beneath mine.
The zipper gives way under my touch, the fabric loosening and slipping from her shoulders as I push it down to her waist. My eyes drop to her breasts, full and perfect, barely contained by the delicate black lace of her bra.
The sight alone sends a surge of heat through me, tightening every muscle in my body.
I dip my head, pressing my lips to the curve of her collarbone, trailing lower as my hands slide up her sides. My thumbs glide over the lace, teasing her hardened nipples through the delicate fabric. She gasps, her body arching into me.
“Missed this,” I say as my tongue traces the edge of the lace.
I’ve craved this, craved her , every inch of her bare skin, the way her body moves beneath mine. Her dress slips lower as I shift, pulling it the rest of the way off, leaving her in nothing but black lace.
I pause for a moment, drinking her in, the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts framed by the delicate fabric, her flushed skin begging for my touch.
“You’re fucking perfect,” I murmur, my voice rough and thick with need.
Her eyes meet mine, dark with desire, and she pulls me closer, her voice low and breathless. “Then stop looking and touch me.”
Her words snap the last thread of my restraint. My hands are on her instantly, sliding over her hips, tracing the curve of her waist as I press my body against hers. My lips find hers again, the kiss fierce and consuming, a collision of hunger and desperation.