Chapter 7 Liam
LIAM
The O’Neill estate sits on five acres overlooking Dublin Bay, with manicured hedges and red-bricked drives that whisper old money to anyone passing by.
The house itself is Georgian symmetry and imposing limestone and has been in the family for three generations, though the money that bought it wasn’t earned in any way the history books would print.
I take the steps two at a time, adjusting my cuffs as I enter.
The auction’s tension still hums through my body, a restless energy that needs direction.
That paddle in my hand, the flicker of fear in Siobhan Kelly’s eyes when I placed that bid, satisfied something primal in me.
It was a power play, but also something more personal that I’m not ready to examine.
“You’re late.” My father’s voice carries from his study before I’ve even closed the front door. Connor O’Neill doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. Thirty years of ruling Dublin’s mid to west side teaches a man how to command with just the right pitch.
“Traffic,” I lie, taking my time crossing the marble foyer. Truth is, I drove around for forty minutes, trying to purge Siobhan Kelly from my thoughts before facing my father.
Unsuccessfully.
Connor sits behind his desk, a massive oak thing that survived the Easter Rising and looks like it could withstand another.
At sixty-five, he remains imposing with silver hair cropped military-short, shoulders still broad despite recent weight loss, hands steady as they arrange papers with methodical exactness.
“Your brother’s already given me his assessment of the Kelly situation,” he says, not looking up. “Sit.”
Not an invitation. Never that.
I take the chair opposite, noting Sean’s presence by the window, his reflection visible in the darkened glass. He doesn’t turn, but the set of his shoulders tells me enough. He’s already thrown me to the wolves.
“The Cross sold for three-point-one,” I say, focusing on business. “Ten percent secured, payable within twenty-four hours.”
My father’s pen pauses mid-signature. “Ten percent.” The words hang in the air, flat and dangerous. “Sean reported fifteen.”
I shoot my brother a look that promises future pain. He meets it with a shrug, unapologetic.
“Maintaining the appearance of compromise achieves better long-term compliance than maximum pressure.”
“Compromise.” Connor tests the word like it’s foreign. “With Michael Kelly’s daughter.”
“With a legitimate business owner operating in our territory,” I counter.
Connor sets his pen down with deliberate care. The calm before the storm, a warning signal I learned to recognize before I could ride a bike.
“The gallery is Kelly-owned, Kelly-operated, and moving Kelly merchandise,” he says. “The girl is an extension of Michael’s operation, nothing more.”
Something tightens in my chest at the dismissal. Girl. The word grates on me. She is all woman. “She’s built something substantial in three years. The gallery’s lawful side turns real profit.”
“Since when do we care about art sales?” Sean finally speaks, turning from the window. “The gallery’s a washing machine for Kelly money. That’s all it’s ever been.”
“It’s more complex than that,” I respond, annoyed at having to explain what should be obvious. “She’s established genuine connections in the art world. Created a reputable front with actual business value. That makes it more useful to us intact than squeezed dry.”
Connor studies me with narrowed eyes, seeing too much as he always has. “Your interest seems detailed.”
“I did my research,” I reply, holding his gaze.
“That’s beyond research.” Sean gives me a smirk that sets my blood on fire.
Betrayal burns hot, but I keep my expression neutral. “Establishing our position required careful handling.”
“Handling.” Connor leans forward. “Let’s discuss handling, then. Siobhan Kelly represents opportunity. Michael’s health is failing; too much booze and smokes. His operation grows vulnerable. The gallery provides perfect leverage.”
I know what’s coming. Have known since I was directed to approach Siobhan Kelly in the first place.
“I want everything,” Connor continues. “The docks. The southside distribution. The political connections. All of it transferred to O’Neill control before Michael’s body is cold.”
“And the gallery?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“The girl has two choices. Marry into protection or lose everything.” Connor’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s where Sean comes in.”
The directive hangs in the air between us.
Sean? My fucking arsehole younger brother?
The thought of his cock inside her ignites something more dangerous than rebellion in my blood.
It ignites a fucking promise that Sean will never have her.
If he even looks at her, I will gouge his eyes out with my bare fingers.
If she shows even so much as an interest in him, I will punish her in ways where I will be the sole focus of her entire existence.
“An arranged marriage to Sean,” I spit out.
Connor’s eyebrows rise fractionally. It’s the most surprise he ever shows. “She’s a Kelly. The only question is whether she’s an asset or an obstacle.”
He ignores my tone. He always does.
Asset or obstacle. The O’Neill family motto. Although it’s never appeared on any crest, it fucking well should. “I was sixteen when you first said those words to me,” I say, the memory rising. “The Brian situation.”
Connor nods, pleased I’ve made the connection. “And you handled it perfectly.”
The memory unfolds like dark water: Patrick Brian’s father, once our most trusted lieutenant, skimming profits and selling information to the Kellys.
It seems to be a running theme. Although I’m sure the same could be said in reverse.
Connor discovered the betrayal and told me to handle it, my first real assignment.
I’d done exactly as instructed. Followed Thomas Brian for three days, learning his routines, his weaknesses.
Found him in the back room of his favorite pub, drunk and vulnerable.
Took him outside to the back alley. Put a bullet in his chest while looking him in the eye, exactly as Connor had taught me.
“Everyone is either an asset to this family or an obstacle to be removed,” Connor had said afterward, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “Never allow sentiment to confuse the distinction.”
I’ve lived by those words for nearly two decades. Built the O’Neill empire into something larger, more sophisticated than the brutal operation my father inherited from the old days. I’ve eliminated obstacles, cultivated assets, and maintained family dominance through premeditated ruthlessness.
Until now.
Until copper hair and green eyes and a rack I want to shove my cock in between, all wrapped up in emerald silk, disrupted the clarity Connor instilled.
“She is clever,” I say, pulling myself back to the present. “Forcing her hand would be counterproductive. Better to cultivate her trust, demonstrate the advantages of alignment with our interests.”
“You mean seduce her into wanting it,” Sean says bluntly, his eyes boring into mine. He knows his involvement in this shitshow is burning a hole in my composure. He knows it will make me reckless.
But the word ignites images I’ve been fighting since leaving the gallery. Siobhan Kelly’s composure stripped away. That rigid self-control shattered beneath my hands. Her hair spread across my sheets, her mind focused solely on sensation.
“I mean build influence,” I reply roughly. “Marriage isn’t necessary for control.”
“It provides legitimacy,” Connor counters. “It gives us an in.”
I rise, needing to move. “Times have changed. Control comes through financial leverage, not arranged marriages.”
“Your brother seems strangely resistant,” Connor remarks to Sean, as if I’m not present. “Perhaps he finds Siobhan more to his taste than yours?”
Sean’s laugh holds no humor. “He couldn’t take his eyes off her all evening.”
“Is that so?” Connor’s interest sharpens, more dangerous than his anger. “Personal interest compromises judgment, Liam. You taught Sean that lesson yourself.”
The irony doesn’t escape me. My own words used against me, lessons I’ve enforced now turned to highlight my inconsistency.
“My judgment is clear,” I say, moving to the liquor cabinet and pouring three fingers of whisky. “The Kelly operation is vulnerable. The gallery provides access. I’ve established contact and set terms. The next phase requires patience, not brute force.”
I don’t offer drinks to either of them, swallowing mine in one burn that does nothing to douse the images still playing behind my eyes.
Siobhan Kelly. The slight tremble in her hand when our fingers brushed.
The flash of fear when I raised that paddle.
The perfect posture that makes me want to discover exactly what it would take to break it.
Christ. This isn’t like me. Women have always been straightforward, pleasant distractions, or occasional strategic alliances, but never complications. Never distractions from objectives.
“Three weeks,” Connor says finally. “You have three weeks to demonstrate progress with her. Tangible progress toward securing her cooperation in our acquisition of her father’s interests.”
“And if I can’t?” The question emerges before I can consider its implications.
Connor’s smile is a cold thing. “Then Sean gets himself a new bride.”
The thought of them consummating that marriage creates a visceral rejection I struggle to disguise.
“Three weeks is reasonable,” I concede, setting down my glass with control that is spinning out inside.
“Good.” Connor returns to his papers, a clear dismissal. “Sean, stay. We need to discuss the shipment coming through Wicklow.”
I exit without another word, irritation burning beneath my skin. In the hallway, family portraits track my passage. Three generations of O’Neill men, all with the same cold eyes and uncompromising expressions. My place among them is secured through blood and proven loyalty.
Until now, that legacy has been straightforward. Family above all. Power maintained through whatever means necessary. Assets cultivated, obstacles eliminated.
Siobhan Kelly should be merely a pawn in our expansion. A means to accelerate the O’Neill takeover of Kelly territory. At most, a temporary diversion while achieving strategic objectives.
Instead, she’s become something unprecedented. A complication I neither expected nor welcome.
Outside, the night air carries the scent of the sea. I unlock my car but don’t immediately start the engine. Instead, I pull out my phone and access the gallery’s website. Her professional photograph stares back at me—polished and controlled, it reveals nothing of the steel I witnessed tonight.
Three weeks to bring Siobhan Kelly under O’Neill influence. Three weeks to demonstrate progress sufficient to satisfy my father and keep Sean’s dick at bay.
The rational approach would be straightforward. Use the attraction between us as leverage. Seduce her, gain her trust, exploit her position.
Yet something rebels at the clinical calculation. Something adjacent to respect. She’s built something genuine within a world of counterfeits. Navigated criminal politics while maintaining independence. Qualities rare enough to deserve consideration rather than exploitation.
The competing impulses war within me: duty to family legacy versus unwelcome admiration; strategic calculation versus raw desire.
I want her. That much I can admit in the privacy of my own thoughts.
I want her with an intensity that transcends strategic advantage.
I want to discover if that composure extends to every aspect of her life or if there’s fire beneath the disciplined exterior.
I need to hear my name on her lips, not as a business adversary but in surrender.
The phone buzzes in my hand.
Sean.
“Connor wants daily reports,” he says without preamble when I answer. “Complete details on your interactions with her.”
“Her name is Siobhan,” I respond, irritation flaring. “And I’ll handle the reporting myself.”
“He doesn’t trust your objectivity on this,” Sean continues, undeterred. “Says I’m to shadow the operation.”
“Of course he does.” I start the engine, the Aston Martin’s growl matching my mood. “Stay out of my way, Sean. I mean it.”
“Just don’t forget what she is,” my brother replies. “A Kelly. Her father put two bullets in Uncle Ciarán. Her cousin Brendan firebombed our warehouse in Ringsend.”
“I know the history.” Better than most, having orchestrated the retaliations for both incidents.
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, you look at her like she’s something more than Michael Kelly’s front with nice tits and an art degree.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “We’re done with this conversation.”
“Three weeks, Liam,” he reminds me before disconnecting. “Then it’s my show.”
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and pull away from the estate, driving too fast down the winding coastal road.
The auction plays on a loop in my mind. Her poise as she introduced the Celtic Cross, the momentary flicker of alarm when I placed that bid, the silent communication across a crowded room.
Most women I’ve encountered in this world fit predictable patterns.
They’re decorative accessories or willing accomplices, sometimes both.
They accept protection in exchange for compliance.
They don’t build independent operations or negotiate territorial percentages with the confidence of someone who belongs at the table.
Siobhan Kelly defies categorization, and that makes her dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with her family name.
Three weeks to bring her under control. Three weeks to determine whether she’s an asset or obstacle in the O’Neill expansion.
Three weeks to master this unwelcome attraction before it compromises everything I’ve built.
My darkening mood makes me recklessly accelerate around the curves in the road. The coast road stretches before me, but I find myself turning toward the city center instead, toward the quiet Georgian square where her gallery stands.
Just surveillance, I tell myself. Routine assessment of a new business interest.
But the hunger that drives me forward has nothing to do with family duty and everything to do with the woman who’s taken up residence in my thoughts with concerning permanence.
Asset or obstacle. The distinction has never seemed less clear.