Chapter 10 Liam #2
“Handling a situation with Sean.” I glance at my brother, slumped against the passenger window. “Everything’s under control.”
“What situation?” The sharp edge in Connor’s tone suggests he already knows the answer.
“Gambling debt. Harrington’s club. Two hundred and thirty-five thousand plus penalties.”
The silence that follows carries more weight than any shouting could. Sean shrinks further into his seat, his earlier bravado evaporated under the invisible pressure of our father’s disapproval.
“Bring him to the house,” Connor says finally. “Immediately.”
“I have business to—”
“Immediately, Liam.” The connection cuts.
Perfect. Exactly how I wanted to spend my night. Playing nursemaid to my brother, then enduring one of Connor’s extended lectures on family responsibility.
In other words… not pursuing the electric current that’s been humming under my skin since Siobhan Kelly’s body pressed against mine in that alleyway.
As we approach headquarters, I make a split-second decision, turning onto a different street than our usual approach. Sean, half-conscious, doesn’t notice, but I register every corner we take. My body seems to know exactly where we’re going before my brain acknowledges the destination.
Siobhan’s Gallery. Darkened at this hour, but a single light burns in an upstairs window. Working late, then. Interesting.
I slow the car, something primal and possessive stirring at the thought of her alone in the building. The security cameras outside will have already registered my car. Her father’s men, if they’re watching tonight, will report my presence. Lines being crossed. Boundaries being tested.
I don’t fucking give a shit.
For a suspended moment, I consider pulling over, walking to that door, finding out if she’d let me in, what would happen if we continued what started in that doorway earlier today, and whether she tastes as good as she smells.
“Why’ve we stopped?” Sean mumbles, briefly surfacing from his stupor.
Reality crashes back. My brother. My father is waiting. Two hundred and fifteen thousand euros to arrange by noon tomorrow. Family obligations won’t disappear because I’ve suddenly developed an inconvenient obsession with Michael Kelly’s daughter.
I press the accelerator, the gallery receding in my rearview mirror.
“No reason,” I say, as much to myself as to Sean.
By the time we reach Connor’s estate, Sean has progressed from semi-conscious to actively ill, requiring my assistance to exit the car and navigate the driveway to the front door. Luther, my father’s ever-present shadow, opens the door before we reach it.
“Mr. O’Neill is in his study,” he informs us, his expression carefully neutral despite the obvious state of the younger O’Neill son.
“Get him cleaned up first,” I reply, transferring Sean’s weight to Luther’s capable hands. “I’ll speak with my father.”
Connor’s study remains unchanging regardless of the hour.
Perfectly arranged papers, carefully placed pens, the lingering scent of expensive whisky and old books.
My father sits behind his desk, exactly as I left him hours ago.
Sometimes I wonder if he ever actually moves, or if he’s permanently fused to that leather chair, becoming some kind of crime lord gargoyle.
“Two hundred and thirty-five thousand,” he says without preamble. “At Harrington’s.”
“Yes. I’ve covered twenty thousand as a deposit. The rest is due by noon tomorrow.”
“This is the third time this year.” Connor’s fingers tap against his desk, a sound that tells of the contained fury I’ve known since childhood. “Each amount is larger than the last.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been covering for him.”
Not a question, but I answer anyway. “When necessary.”
“Why?” He fixes me with the stare that used to make grown men confess their sins without prompting.
“He’s blood,” I say simply. The only answer that matters in our world.
Connor studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “And your meeting with Siobhan Kelly this afternoon?”
Shit. I maintain a neutral expression despite the sudden increase in my heart rate. “A coincidence of timing. We both happened to be at the same artist’s studio.”
“Coincidence.” Connor tests the word like it’s foreign. “You disappeared into an alley with Michael Kelly’s daughter during a police raid, and you expect me to believe it was a coincidence?”
I should have known we’d been seen. Connor’s network misses nothing, especially not something involving a Kelly.
“The circumstances required cooperation to avoid complications,” I reply, selecting each word carefully. “Temporary alignment of interests, nothing more.”
“Nothing more.” Connor leans forward slightly.
“My son, who has never shown interest in art beyond its value as investment, suddenly appears at a glassblower’s studio at the exact moment Michael Kelly’s daughter is present.
Then drives past her gallery on his way here tonight, slowing down as if considering a visit. ”
Fuck.
“I was conducting reconnaissance,” I say, the lie sour on my tongue. “Assessing potential vulnerabilities in their operation at this hour. It’s tactical.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” For the first time, something like dark amusement crosses his features. “Your brother risks family money at card tables. You risk family standing by pursuing Michael Kelly’s daughter. Different vices, similar liabilities.”
“I’m not pursuing her.” The denial comes too quickly, too forcefully.
“No?” Connor’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Then you won’t mind if Sean takes over the gallery operation. Since it’s purely business.”
Something violent and possessive lances through me at the thought of Sean near Siobhan, even more so with the threat of their arranged marriage hanging over it. “Sean can barely manage himself,” I snap, “let alone a delicate negotiation with the enemy.”
“So it is delicate, then.” Connor sits back, satisfied at having proven his point. “Personal interest compromises judgment, Liam. Your judgment, until now, has been your most valuable asset to this family.”
The rebuke stings precisely because it’s accurate.
My judgment is compromised. It has been for three years, since she returned to Dublin, all grown up and all fucking woman.
Before I can respond, the door opens to admit Sean, somewhat cleaned up but still visibly unsteady.
He takes the chair beside me without meeting either of our gazes.
“Explain,” Connor says simply.
Sean’s explanation tumbles out in a mess of excuses and justifications. Bad luck. Misleading tells from the other players. The house edge being higher than advertised. The same bullshit he’s offered after every other gambling disaster, just with larger numbers attached to it.
I tune him out, my mind returning to the single light burning in Siobhan’s gallery.
To her working late, alone in that beautiful space she’s built.
To the way her body felt against mine, the subtle catch in her breath when I moved closer, the electricity that had nothing to do with business or territory or family names.
“—using O’Neill accounts to cover previous losses,” Sean’s voice breaks through my thoughts, the words registering with alarm.
“What accounts?” I interrupt, suddenly alert.
Sean doesn’t meet my eyes. “The Marshall Street holdings. And the Dockside Fund.”
Fucking hell. “Those are legitimate business fronts,” I say, my voice deadly quiet. “Audited quarterly by the financial authorities.”
“I replaced what I took,” Sean protests weakly. “Most of it, anyway.”
Connor’s expression could freeze hell itself. “How much?”
“Hundred and twenty from Marshall Street. Eighty from Dockside.” Sean stares at his hands. “I was going to win it back tonight.”
The room goes very still. Those accounts represent years of careful work building our legitimate business front. The protection that keeps half our operation from government scrutiny, and Sean’s treated them like his personal fucking piggy bank.
“You’ve compromised our primary financial shields,” I say, each word precise and cold. “If those discrepancies are flagged during a review—”
“They won’t be,” Sean interrupts. “I had Fleming adjust the books temporarily.”
Even worse. Fleming is our accountant, trusted with the legitimate side of our finances specifically because he’s never been connected to anything illegal. Now Sean’s dragged him into active fraud.
Connor stands abruptly, a movement so unexpected it silences both of us. “Sean, wait outside.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Sean leaves, shoulders hunched like a scolded child. The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds final.
“Fix this,” Connor clips out, his tone deadly. “All of it. The Harrington debt. The account discrepancies. Fleming’s involvement. Clean it completely.”
“I will.” No other answer is possible.
“And the Kelly situation...” He pauses, studying me with the penetrating gaze that’s broken stronger men than me.
“You have three weeks, as agreed. But your brother’s actions have accelerated our timeline.
We need the gallery’s legitimate front more than ever now.
Their banking connections, their clean business profile. ”
Understanding dawns cold and clear. “You want full acquisition, not just a percentage.”
“I want everything Michael Kelly has built, starting with his most valuable legitimate asset.” Connor’s voice hardens. “If personal interest in the girl helps achieve that goal, I won’t object. But if it interferes...”
The threat hangs unspoken. In our world, obstacles are removed, regardless of what—or who—they might be.
“Understood,” I grit out.
“Good.” Connor sits back down, returning to the papers on his desk. Dismissal clear. “The money for Harrington will be ready by nine tomorrow. You’ll deliver it personally.”
I leave without further comment, passing Sean in the hallway without acknowledging his presence.
My mind works furiously, calculating moves and countermoves, resources needed, connections to tap.
The familiar pattern of crisis management should be comforting, but tonight it feels like a cage closing around me.
Outside, the night air carries the scent of the sea, the distant hum of the city a counterpoint to the quieter rhythm of the wealthy suburb. I get into my car, sit for a moment with my hands on the wheel, eyes closed, trying to center myself against the storm of competing priorities.
My phone chimes with a text. Unknown number.
Next time, don’t just drive by. The doorbell works perfectly fine.
Siobhan.
She was watching from that upstairs window as I’d slowed outside her gallery. Somehow knowing it was me. Getting my number from God knows where, making this deliberate point of contact.
This changes everything. And nothing.
I start the engine, the Aston Martin’s growl matching the predatory satisfaction spreading through my veins. The night stretches before me with Sean’s mess to clean, Connor’s expectations to meet, family obligations that can’t be ignored.
But beneath it all, like a current of electricity running just under my skin, is the certainty that I will see Siobhan Kelly again. Soon. On my terms this time.
I pull away from my father’s estate, the text message still glowing on my phone screen. A challenge and an invitation wrapped into one. A line being deliberately crossed between families who shouldn’t be anywhere near each other unless it’s to take the other out.
For the first time in years, I feel fully alive. Fully present in my own body. And fucking terrified of what that might mean.