Chapter 5 Liam
LIAM
Ten minutes later, after remaining exactly where I was, I fall into step behind her.
Siobhan walks ahead of me, spine straight as a blade. Her copper hair catches the gallery lights, making it look like she’s crowned in fire. Fitting, that. The Kellys always did have a knack for burning things to the ground.
I keep pace exactly two steps behind—close enough to make her feel my presence, far enough that she doesn’t feel crowded. It’s a calculated distance. Everything about tonight is intentional.
“The office is just through here,” she says, voice steady despite what I know must be churning beneath that composed exterior.
Siobhan Kelly. Twenty-eight years old. Boston-raised but Dublin blood.
A contradiction wrapped in emerald silk that’s worth more than what most of the art dealers she works with make in a month.
I know everything about her that matters.
Three years back in Dublin. Gallery funded by daddy’s money but run with surprising legitimacy.
A careful balance of clean and dirty that’s impressed even my more cynical associates.
She’s managed what few in our world can.
A foot in both legitimate business and family operations without being consumed by either.
My father’s voice echoes in my head as we walk. A simple, brutal instruction. The kind I’ve followed without question for two decades. The kind that’s made the O’Neill name feared across Dublin and beyond.
She is mine whether she agrees to it or not.
Her assistant hovers near the office door, eyes darting between us with poorly concealed concern. “Should I stay, Siobhan? The Hendersons were asking about the Byrne collection and—”
“I’ve got this, Fiona,” Siobhan cuts her off smoothly. Professional, controlled, but I catch the slight edge to her voice. She doesn’t want witnesses. Interesting.
The girl hesitates, loyalty warring with instruction. I fix her with a look that sends her scurrying away without another word. Some skills transcend context. The ability to clear a room with nothing but a glance works in boardrooms and back alleys alike.
The office is exactly what I expected. It’s elegant but functional. Art books stacked with deliberate casualness. Desk positioned to see both door and window. The computer screen angled away from visitor chairs. It’s the space of someone who understands that appearances and security can coexist.
I wait for her to enter first, watching how she moves. The careful grace of someone who’s learned to navigate dangerous situations without showing fear. There’s more of Michael Kelly in her than she’d likely care to admit.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” she says, gesturing to a chair as she rounds her desk.
I remain standing, hands in the pockets of my tailored suit. “I prefer to stand.”
Small power plays. We both know the game.
“As you wish.” She sits, crossing one leg over the other, making it clear this is her territory. “You wanted to discuss the Celtic Cross?”
Direct. No pretense of small talk. I can respect that.
“Among other things.” I move across to examine a painting on her wall.
It’s a modern piece, all harsh lines and blood-red slashes against black.
Not the safe, decorative choice I’d have expected from a gallery front.
It speaks to something darker in her taste.
“The cross is ninth century. Ulster origin. Taken from a private collection in Belfast three months ago. Now it’s here with paperwork that would impress even the most rigorous museums.”
Her face gives nothing away, but a slight tensing of her shoulders tells me I’ve hit the mark.
“Our auction items undergo thorough authentication,” she replies, the lie smooth as glass.
“I’m sure they do.” I turn fully toward her now. “Just as I’m sure the three million euros it’ll bring tonight will move through channels that benefit your father’s organization while maintaining your gallery’s pristine reputation.”
That gets a reaction.
There’s a tightening around those remarkable green eyes. Kelly eyes, though more shrewd than her father’s ever were.
“If you have concerns about authenticity, Mr. O’Neill, perhaps you should speak with the authentication service.
” Her voice remains steady, but her fingers press slightly harder against the desk’s surface.
“Though I wonder why the O’Neills would suddenly care about the provenance of art pieces outside their traditional interests. ”
Smart. Redirecting while probing my motives.
“The O’Neills care about shifts in territory and operation.” I move closer to her desk, watching how she straightens almost imperceptibly. Not backing down. “Your father’s organization moving high-value artifacts through your gallery represents exactly such a shift.”
“My gallery operates independently of my father’s business interests.” Another line, one that might even be partially true.
“Does it now?” I lean forward slightly, palms flat on her desk. “Then you won’t mind if I attend tonight’s auction and bid on the cross myself.”
The flash of alarm is there and gone so quickly most would miss it. But I’ve spent my life reading people who’d sooner put a bullet in me than show their hand.
“All qualified buyers are welcome,” she says after the briefest hesitation. “Though I believe several serious collectors have already expressed interest.”
Translation: The buyer’s already arranged, the money already moved, the deal already set.
I straighten, adjusting my cuffs. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Siobhan.
” Her name feels strange on my tongue, too intimate for this conversation.
“I won’t disrupt your auction. The cross will sell to whomever your father has arranged.
But in exchange, I want twenty percent of the gallery’s take delivered to an account of my choosing. ”
“Extortion?” A single eyebrow arches upward. “How disappointingly predictable.”
I almost smile. Almost. “Consider it a territory tax. Your father’s operation moving this kind of merchandise through the city center—O’Neill territory—without prior arrangement requires compensation.”
“I wasn’t aware art was now subject to territorial disputes.” She rises now, refusing to remain seated while I stand. She’s several inches shorter than me, but height doesn’t diminish her presence. “My gallery is a legitimate business.”
“With illegitimate connections,” I counter. “Just like every other enterprise in this city worth having.”
We’re standing close now, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something subtle and complex that’s likely cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
Close enough to notice the faint freckles across her nose that her makeup doesn’t quite hide.
Close enough to feel that same electric current that sparked when our fingers touched earlier.
It’s distracting. Unwelcome. A vulnerability I can’t afford.
Sean warned me about her. “Siobhan Kelly isn’t some trophy wife or scared accountant, Liam. She’s got more of the old man in her than anyone gives her credit for. Underestimate her and you’ll regret it.”
My younger brother, for all his recklessness, has good instincts about her.
“Twenty percent is steep for protecting something that doesn’t need protection,” she says, voice lower now. “Five might be reasonable, if I were inclined to negotiate, which I’m not.”
“Fifteen,” I counter, “and I ensure that certain interested parties in the Garda remain uninterested in your paperwork.”
Her eyes narrow fractionally. “Ten, and no higher. That’s assuming I acknowledge your claim, which I don’t.”
I hold her gaze, searching for weakness and finding none. My cock is raging and I want nothing more than to bend her over this desk and rail her so hard, she will scream my name for the entire gallery to hear.
“Ten,” I agree, surprising myself. I’d come prepared to accept eight. “Payable within twenty-four hours of the auction’s close.”
She nods once, a crisp acknowledgment rather than submission. “Now, if that concludes our business, I have an auction to oversee.”
I should leave. The negotiation is complete. The primary objective—establishing O’Neill authority over Kelly operations in our territory—is achieved. Nothing in my father’s instructions requires further interaction with Siobhan Kelly.
Yet I find myself reluctant to end this encounter.
“Your gallery,” I say, glancing around the office, “it’s more successful than expected. Three years and already handling pieces of this caliber. Impressive.”
It’s not flattery. I don’t do flattery. It’s an assessment, and one she’s earned.
Something shifts in her expression. Wariness gives way to momentary surprise before the mask returns. “Thank you. Though I suspect the O’Neill organization has detailed reports on exactly how successful we are.”
Perceptive. We do in fact have such reports, compiled weekly by an accountant on our payroll at the firm that handles her books.
“Success attracts attention,” I respond. “Not all of it welcome.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. O’Neill?”
“Liam,” I correct, the informality slipping out before I can catch it. “And no. More of an observation.”
The phone on her desk buzzes, breaking whatever was building between us. She glances down, then back at me with renewed professional distance. “My assistant needs me. The auction will be starting soon.”
I nod, stepping back to restore the space between us. “Ten percent. Twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll have my accountant contact yours with the details.” She moves toward the door, clearly ending our meeting.
I follow, acutely aware of her presence in a way that goes beyond strategic assessment.
Something about Siobhan Kelly demands attention, but not in the flashy way of the society women who circulate through Dublin’s elite circles.
It’s in the focused manner of someone who commands respect through competence rather than display.
As we exit her office, I notice Sean has arrived inside, positioned near the main auction area with a clear view of her office door.
His expression darkens when he sees us emerge together, suspicion evident in the set of his jaw.
At thirty, my brother retains the volatile temperament of a sixteen-year-old despite my efforts to temper it with responsibility.
His eyes meet mine across the room, a silent question that I answer with the briefest shake of my head. Later.
“He doesn’t look pleased,” Siobhan observes quietly.
“He rarely does. It’s part of his charm.”
That earns a small, genuine smile that transforms her face from merely attractive to something that catches in my chest. “Brother? Cousin?”
I find myself almost returning the smile, catching it just in time. “Brother.”
She turns to face me fully as we reach the main gallery space, the professional gallery owner sliding back into place. “I should rejoin my guests.”
I nod, watching as she moves away, her hair gleaming under the gallery lights. The calculated distance between us returns. No longer physical but something more meaningful.
Sean approaches, tension evident in his shoulders. “What was that about?”
“Business,” I reply, eyes still following Siobhan as she greets an elderly couple with grace and charm.
“Looked cozy for business.” His tone carries a warning. “Connor was clear about engaging with her, not getting entangled.”
I turn to face my brother, my expression enough to make him take a half-step back. “I know what I’m doing.”
But as Siobhan Kelly glances back at me from across the room, our eyes meeting briefly before she turns away, I know that’s not true. I have wanted her in my bed for a long time, and I will get her there, family rivalry be damned.
The auction will proceed. The Celtic Cross will sell. The money will flow as arranged, with ten percent now diverted to O’Neill accounts. Business concluded exactly as intended, with one critical difference.
I want to unwrap those curves like a fucking kid at Christmas before I devour her cunt in a feat worthy of a king before slamming home in a fuck that will leave its marks on her.
That makes her dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with family names or territorial disputes.
But I’ve never been one to back down from danger.