Chapter 10 Liam
LIAM
I can still feel her against me.
Too many hours have passed since that alley, since her body pressed to mine in that doorway, and my skin fucking burns with it. The curve of her hip against my thigh, the softness of her tits against my chest, the scent of her hair, and that perfume of hers I’d recognize blindfolded now.
My office at O’Neill headquarters is too small tonight, too confined. The same four walls I’ve occupied for years, is suddenly a prison cell keeping me from what I want. What I shouldn’t want.
I toss back another whisky, letting it burn a path down my throat.
Doesn’t help. Nothing’s going to wash away the memory of Siobhan Kelly looking up at me with those green eyes, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
Nothing’s going to erase the knowledge that she felt it too, that electric current running between us, that moment when business and territory and family names all disappeared, leaving only a man and a woman and something primal building between them.
Christ, I’m hard just thinking about it.
My phone buzzes against the desk. Connor. Again. Third time in an hour. I let it ring through to voicemail, a small rebellion against the authority I’ve never questioned before tonight.
The screens on my wall track our various operations across Dublin.
Shipping movements at the docks, security feeds from our legitimate businesses, data from the places we own but don’t officially control.
In one corner, rotating through our surveillance points, Kelly territory appears at regular intervals.
I find myself counting the seconds until the next appearance of the Kelly Gallery feed.
The restlessness under my skin won’t settle. I pour another drink. None of it touches the fire burning through me, the need to be moving, to be doing, to be somewhere else. To be with her.
This isn’t me. Women have never been distractions from what matters. Certainly never someone from a rival family, for fuck’s sake.
The phone buzzes again. Not Connor this time.
Sean.
I almost let it go to voicemail too, but something, instinct, experience, the sixth sense you develop growing up in our world, makes me answer.
“What?”
Music pulses in the background, voices raised in a drunken cheer. Sean’s words slur together, barely comprehensible. “Need you... The Harrington... Bit of a situation...”
Fuck’s sake. “What kind of situation?”
“The expensive kind.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Bring cash. Lots of it.”
The line goes dead.
I slam the phone down harder than necessary. “Fucking idiot!”
The Harrington is a private club in Ballsbridge.
It is exclusive, discreet, and known for high-stakes games that operate beyond the reach of regulatory oversight.
Sean’s been barred from most legitimate establishments for years, but places like The Harrington welcome anyone with money, regardless of reputation.
The timing couldn’t be worse. I should be focusing on Siobhan, on the information we acquired today, and on how to leverage our new connection to their gallery operation. Not on my brother’s inability to control his vices. Not on copper hair and green eyes and skin like porcelain.
I grab my jacket, checking the inside pocket where I keep emergency cash. Not enough for whatever hole Sean’s dug himself into. I’ll need to access our reserves. On my way out, I stop at the security office.
“Need access to the reserve funds,” I tell Clint, our night security chief. “Cash. Now.”
Clint’s been with us long enough not to ask questions. He disappears into the back room and returns with a duffel bag. “Twenty thousand,” he says. “Need more than that, you’ll have to call down to the docks.”
“This’ll do for now.” I take the bag, already calculating what Sean could have lost to need this kind of bailout. “If my father calls, I’m handling business for Sean. Nothing more specific.”
“Yes, sir.” Clint’s eyes betray nothing. He’s seen enough O’Neill family drama over the years to know when to shut the fuck up.
The drive to The Harrington takes fifteen minutes, every second an irritation.
Traffic at this hour shouldn’t exist, but a minor accident on Pembroke Road creates a bottleneck that has me gripping the steering wheel until my split knuckles ooze blood.
All I can think about is getting this sorted and getting back to.
.. what? To my office to stare at security feeds of Siobhan Kelly’s gallery?
To my empty penthouse apartment and the thoughts of her that will inevitably follow me there?
Pathetic.
The Harrington occupies a renovated Victorian mansion set back from the street, its exterior deliberately understated. There are no signs, no indication of the fortunes won and lost inside. Just a discreet valet service and a doorman who knows every face that belongs and those that don’t.
“Mr. O’Neill.” The doorman—ex-military by his bearing—nods respectfully as I approach. “Your brother is in the Kensington Room.”
Of course he is. The Kensington Room hosts the highest-stakes games in the building. The fact that the doorman immediately directs me there tells me everything about how the night has gone for Sean.
Inside, the club maintains the atmosphere of old money with dark wood paneling, leather chairs, the hushed conversations of people who discuss millions as casually as others discuss the weather.
I navigate the main floor, nodding to familiar faces, ignoring the speculative glances that follow my path.
News travels fast in these circles. If Sean’s in trouble, everyone already knows.
The Kensington Room operates behind a heavy oak door with a small viewing window. The guard posted outside straightens as I approach, but doesn’t immediately grant access.
“Mr. O’Neill is engaged in a private game,” he says carefully.
“I’m sure he is.” I maintain eye contact, letting silence do the work. Ten seconds pass before the guard looks away.
“Of course, sir. Please understand, there have been... tensions this evening.”
Wonderful. “Open the door.”
The room beyond contains a single poker table, five players, and enough tension to stop a heartbeat.
Sean sits with his back to the wall, face flushed, hair tousled, eyes glassy from whatever alcohol he’s used to fuel his night.
Across from him, Victor Harrington himself, the owner of the establishment and notoriously ruthless when it comes to collecting debts, observes my entrance with cold calculation.
The stacks of chips before each player tell the story clearly. Sean’s pile wouldn’t cover a decent meal at the pub down the street. Harrington’s could choke a horse.
“Liam!” Sean’s attempt at casual bonhomie falls catastrophically flat. “Just in time to see me turn this around.”
“Game’s over, Sean.” I don’t look at my brother, keeping my focus on Harrington. “What’s the damage?”
Harrington’s thin lips curve into something approximating a smile. “Two hundred and thirty-five thousand. Plus, the usual house considerations.”
Jesus fucking Christ. I manage not to react visibly, though something in Harrington’s expression tells me he sees the fury behind my blank mask.
“That seems excessive for a friendly game.” My tone remains conversational, but everyone in the room recognizes the edge beneath.
“Your brother insisted on raising the stakes,” Harrington replies smoothly. “Something about making the night more interesting.”
Sean attempts to stand, wobbles, and sinks back into his chair. “It’s fine, Liam. One more hand and—”
“Shut up.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. Sean closes his mouth immediately, the training of a lifetime responding to the command in my tone.
I set the duffel on the table. “Twenty thousand as good faith. The rest will be transferred by noon tomorrow.”
Harrington raises an eyebrow. “We typically settle accounts before leaving the premises.”
“Typically,” I agree. “But I don’t typically have to interrupt my evening to bail out family members, so we’re all experiencing new circumstances tonight.”
The room goes very quiet. The other players—two I recognize as regular high-rollers, one as Harrington’s personal security—watch the exchange with the careful attention of prey animals observing predators.
Harrington considers me for a long moment before nodding once. “Given the O’Neill reputation, I’ll accept these terms. Noon tomorrow. Not a minute later.”
“Agreed.” I turn to Sean. “We’re leaving.”
My brother attempts a protest that dies under my stare.
He pushes himself up from the table, weaving slightly as he moves toward the door.
I follow, making sure to maintain eye contact with Harrington until the last possible moment.
Never show weakness. Never turn your back first. Lessons from Connor that serve me well in moments like this.
Outside, the night air hits Sean hard. He stumbles, catches himself against the building, and promptly vomits into a carefully manicured hedge.
Classy.
“Get in the car, you fucking idiot.” I grab his arm, steering him toward the valet stand where my Aston Martin awaits.
“My car—” he starts.
“Will still be here tomorrow.” I shove him into the passenger seat, perhaps harder than necessary. “When you come back to apologize personally to Harrington for tonight’s display.”
The drive back to headquarters passes in silence, Sean alternating between attempting to explain and fighting to stay conscious.
I don’t encourage either effort. What’s to explain?
He’s a fucking liability, has been for years, but Connor refuses to acknowledge it because Sean, for all his faults, follows orders without the occasional inconvenient questions I sometimes raise.
My phone rings through the car speakers. Connor. Finally unavoidable.
“Yes?” I answer, keeping my eyes on the road.
“Where the hell have you been?” My father’s voice fills the car, making Sean flinch. “I’ve been calling for hours.”