Chapter 11 Liam
LIAM
It’s nine in the fucking morning and I already need a drink.
Fleming’s office smells of leather and stale coffee. The accountant himself is hunched over spreadsheets like he’s been there all night. Maybe he has. That’s what happens when my idiot brother decides to play financial roulette with our legitimate business fronts.
“Tell me straight,” I say, ignoring the thud of the tension headache forming behind my eyes. “How bad?”
Fleming glances at the door I’ve just closed, his receding hairline damp with sweat despite the room’s aggressive air conditioning. For twenty years, he’s worked for my father, managing the clean side of our operations meticulously. Never once involved in anything that could land him in prison.
Until Sean.
“If we’d been audited yesterday?” Fleming removes his glasses and polishes them nervously on his tie. “Three to five years, minimum. For me, for Sean, potentially for the entire management structure.”
“Jesus Christ.” I drop into the chair opposite his desk. “And now?”
“I’ve been repositioning assets since your father called last night.” He slides a folder across the desk. “The Marshall Street discrepancy is resolved. Dockside will take another day, maybe two.”
I flip through the documents, scanning balance sheets and transfer records with the efficiency born from years of translating our family’s activities into legitimate business language.
Fleming’s good, the best, really. The creative accounting here would impress financial forensics experts.
Loans from shell companies, inventory adjustments, and accelerated depreciation schedules all work together to hide the holes Sean punched in our financial shield.
“What about you?” I ask. “Your involvement needs to disappear completely.”
The accountant’s thin face tightens. “Already handled. I’ve created documentation showing I was on approved leave during the periods in question. Sean used my credentials, but there will be no evidence I was aware or involved.”
Smart. Throwing my brother under the bus to save himself. I’d be angry if it wasn’t exactly what needs to happen.
“Good. Make it bulletproof.” I close the folder. “And when this is resolved, your bonus will reflect the extraordinary circumstances.”
Relief washes across Fleming’s features. “Thank you, Mr. O’Neill.”
There’s nothing like money to inspire loyalty, or at least convincing performances of it.
“One more thing.” I lean forward slightly. “I need a comprehensive report on the Kelly Gallery’s financial structure. Banking relationships, cash flow patterns, tax status, everything.”
Fleming’s eyebrows lift in surprise, but he knows better than to ask questions. “I can have preliminary information by this afternoon. Full analysis would take a day or two.”
“This afternoon is fine to start.” I stand, smoothing my suit jacket, a custom-tailored Tom Ford that costs more than Fleming makes in a month. “Send it directly to me, not to the family office. Understood?”
“Of course, Mr. O’Neill.”
I’ve known Fleming since I was a teenager, watched him age from nervous forty-something to anxiety-ridden sixty-something, and still, he can’t bring himself to use my first name. The formality creates useful distance, I suppose. Easier to cook books for a title than a person.
My phone buzzes as I exit the building. Connor. I answer while walking to my car, the morning bustle of Dublin’s financial district providing background noise to what I know will be an unpleasant conversation.
“It’s handled,” I say. “Fleming’s fixing the books. No trail back to him or us.”
“And Harrington?” My father’s voice carries the same controlled intensity it always does, regardless of circumstances. The man could be discussing nuclear launch codes or dinner reservations with identical inflection.
“Meeting him at eleven. The money’s secured.” I unlock the Aston Martin, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Where’s Sean this morning?”
“Recovering at home. Under supervision.”
Connor’s euphemism for having Cillian watch him, whose presence ensures Sean won’t be making any impulsive decisions for the immediate future.
“Good. Keep him there until this is completely resolved.” I start the engine, the familiar rumble settling something inside me. My car, at least, behaves exactly as expected. “I’ve also set Fleming to gathering intelligence on the Kelly Gallery finances.”
“Initiative,” Connor remarks, something like approval coloring the word. “Looking for leverage?”
I hesitate. The truth—that I’m seeking to understand Siobhan’s world better—isn’t something Connor needs to know. “Always useful to understand the target’s position fully.”
“Indeed.” A pause, filled with the rustle of papers. “Report back after Harrington.”
The call ends without further pleasantries. Connor has never been one for unnecessary words, a trait I’ve mostly inherited, though not quite to his extreme.
Traffic is lighter than expected heading toward Ballsbridge, giving me time to think.
Siobhan’s text message sits unanswered on my phone, a digital challenge I’ve yet to meet.
I’ve drafted and deleted a dozen responses since last night, none of them striking the right balance between interest and control.
Next time, don’t just drive by. The doorbell works perfectly fine.
Bold. Direct. Surprisingly playful for someone whose family has been at war with mine for generations. The contradiction of Siobhan Kelly continues to fascinate. The elegant gallery owner with steel in her spine, publicly respectable yet connected enough to access my private number.
Dangerous in all the best ways.
The Harrington Club looks different in daylight, its Victorian grandeur more apparent without the concealing shadows of night. The valet recognizes me immediately, taking my keys with a respectful nod that might have more to do with last night’s events than my usual status.
Inside, the club maintains its atmosphere of quiet money regardless of the hour.
A few members read newspapers in leather armchairs, others conduct hushed business conversations over early lunches.
No sign of the high-stakes games that cost my family nearly a quarter-million euros and potentially our legitimate business fronts.
Victor Harrington awaits in his private office, a space designed to intimidate through understated luxury—hand-painted silk wallpaper, furniture that predates Irish independence, artwork worth more than most people’s homes displayed without protective glass or obvious security.
The message is clear: I have enough power that I don’t need to protect what’s valuable.
“Mr. O’Neill.” Harrington rises from behind his antique desk, extending a hand. His grip is firm, dry, confident. “Precisely on time.”
“Mr. Harrington.” I match his formality, though the urge to drive my fist into his smug face simmers just below the surface. This man took advantage of my brother’s weakness, regardless of Sean’s culpability in creating the situation. “I believe we have business to conclude.”
He gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “Please.”
I remain standing, placing the leather briefcase I’ve brought on his desk instead. “Two hundred and fifteen thousand euros, completing the obligation from last night.”
Harrington raises an eyebrow at my refusal to sit but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he opens the briefcase, eyes scanning the neatly stacked bills inside. “You’ll understand if I have my associate verify the amount.”
I incline my head slightly. “Of course.”
He presses a button on his desk, summoning a gray-haired man who could be either an accountant or an enforcer—in Harrington’s world, possibly both. The man takes the briefcase to a side table and begins the process of counting, the soft whir of an electronic bill counter the only sound in the room.
“Your brother has quite an appetite for risk,” Harrington observes, breaking the silence. “Not unusual in your family’s line of work, I suppose.”
The implied insult doesn’t escape me. “We all have our vices,” I reply evenly. “Some more expensive than others.”
Harrington’s thin lips curve into what passes for a smile on his austere face. “I find most vices eventually exact their full price, regardless of initial expense.”
“Philosophical this morning, aren’t we?” I maintain the casual tone while mentally cataloging the subtle security measures I’ve noticed since entering—the camera disguised as a decorative molding piece, the panic button beneath the desk edge, the weight of the man counting our money suggesting he’s carrying beneath his tailored jacket.
“One develops a certain perspective in my position.” Harrington leans back slightly. “Watching people at their most vulnerable—when greed, desire, and desperation override judgment.”
“Is that what you were doing last night? Watching vulnerability?”
His expression doesn’t change, but something cold flickers in his eyes. “I was conducting business, Mr. O’Neill. As I always do.”
His man finishes the count, giving Harrington a small nod of confirmation before retreating from the room, taking the emptied briefcase with him.
“Well, our business appears to have concluded satisfactorily.” Harrington stands, extending his hand again. “Your brother’s debt is settled in full.”
I take his hand, applying just enough additional pressure to make my point without being overtly aggressive. “Completely settled. With the understanding that future invitations to my brother will not be extended.”
“Are you asking me to ban Sean O’Neill from my establishment?” Harrington’s tone suggests mild amusement. “That seems rather paternal of you.”
“I’m not asking.” I hold his gaze, letting the mask slip just enough to remind him who he’s dealing with. Not the businessman in the bespoke suit, but the O’Neill heir who’s broken men for lesser offenses than exploiting my brother’s weaknesses.