Chapter 11 Liam #2
A tense moment passes between us, a silent calculation of power and consequence. Whatever Harrington sees in my expression convinces him, because he nods once, conceding the point.
“As you wish. Sean O’Neill will find our doors closed should he attempt to return.” He releases my hand. “Though I suspect there are other establishments in Dublin willing to accommodate his recreational preferences.”
“Those establishments aren’t my concern. Your cooperation is appreciated.” I turn to leave, then pause. “One more thing. The footage from last night, both gaming floor and exterior security, I’d like it removed from your system.”
This request clearly surprises him. “That’s rather unusual, Mr. O’Neill.”
“I’m a rather unusual client.” I don’t elaborate further.
Harrington studies me for a long moment before inclining his head. “Consider it done. A professional courtesy.”
“Much appreciated.” I leave without further discussion, the weight in my chest lightening slightly with each step away from Harrington’s office.
Outside, Dublin’s perpetually temperamental weather has shifted from morning overcast to tentative sunshine.
I check my watch. It’s just past noon. With the Harrington situation resolved more efficiently than expected and Sean’s financial mess is in Fleming’s capable hands, for the first time in twenty-four hours, I have space to breathe. To think.
To respond to Siobhan Kelly.
I sit in my car for several minutes, phone in hand, considering my options.
Noted. But next time, open the door, Siobhan. I don’t knock.
Direct. Challenging. Ball in her court. I hit send before I can overthink it further, then immediately regret not waiting until later in the day. Too eager. Connor would be disappointed in my lack of strategic patience.
My phone buzzes less than thirty seconds later.
You know where it is.
A laugh escapes me.
Immediately, my phone rings—Connor, not Siobhan. Unexpected disappointment flares before I answer.
“Harrington’s handled,” I report before he can ask. “Debt paid, Sean banned from the premises, security footage erased.”
“Good.” Connor sounds distracted, which is unusual for him. “We have another situation developing. MacGuire’s shipment was intercepted at the docks last night. Three of our men were arrested, and the cargo was seized.”
Shit. MacGuire handles our cigarette and vape smuggling operation. It’s smaller than our other interests but steady, profitable and connected to several legitimate distribution channels.
“How much was lost?” I ask, already calculating the financial impact.
“Two million in product, plus the transport vehicles. The men aren’t talking yet, but it’s only a matter of time before someone makes a deal.”
“Do we know how they were tipped off?” I start the car, pulling away from the Harrington Club. “Customs doesn’t just randomly check our containers.”
Connor’s voice hardens. “Someone talked. Find out who and eliminate them.”
The rest of my day disappears into crisis management—visiting our warehouse near the docks, meeting with the remaining members of MacGuire’s crew, reviewing security footage, and making calls to our law enforcement contacts.
By evening, I’m fucked off but I’ve identified the weak link and set in motion the appropriate consequences.
Fleming delivers the preliminary financial report on the Kelly Gallery as promised. The document arrives via encrypted email just as I’m leaving the warehouse. I save it to read later, when I can give it proper attention. When dealing with Siobhan Kelly, details matter.
It’s after nine when I finally return to my apartment—a penthouse overlooking the Grand Canal, modern and minimalist in contrast to the Victorian opulence of my father’s estate.
I pour three fingers of Jameson, a necessity after the day I’ve had, and sink into the leather sofa that cost more than my first car.
The quiet feels almost aggressive after the constant movement of the day.
I strip off my jacket and unbutton my shirt, letting it hang open, and finally allow myself to breathe fully.
Sean’s mess is contained. Harrington is neutralized.
The smuggling operation has a compromise identified.
All the fires are at least temporarily dampened.
It leaves only Siobhan Kelly burning in my thoughts.
I open Fleming’s report on my tablet, scanning figures and analyses.
The gallery is doing better than I expected—healthy cash reserves, excellent credit rating, banking relationships with three of Dublin’s most prestigious financial institutions.
It has been profitable for the past three years, with growth that outpaces market averages for similar galleries.
Impressive tax efficiency without crossing into questionable territory.
Siobhan built something real. Something valuable beyond its usefulness as a laundering mechanism for her father’s less legitimate enterprises.
My phone lights up with an incoming call—Sean, finally emerging from whatever recovery hole he’s been in all day. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but family obligation wins out.
“What?” I answer, making no effort to hide my exhaustion.
“Liam.” Sean’s voice sounds rough, subdued. “I... Christ, I don’t even know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.” I take another sip of whisky, letting the burn center me. “It’s handled.”
“Harrington?”
“Paid in full. You’re permanently uninvited from his establishment, by the way.”
A hollow laugh. “Small favors. Look, I know I fucked up—”
“Monumentally.”
“—monumentally,” he concedes. “But I’m going to make it right. I swear, Liam. No more gambling, no more—“
“Save it.” I cut him off, too tired for promises I’ve heard before. “We both know that’s bullshit.”
Silence stretches between us, weighted with shared history and recurring disappointments.
“What happens now?” he finally asks, his voice small in a way that reminds me of when we were children and he always looked to his big brother to fix whatever he’d broken.
“Now you do exactly as you’re told,” I reply, with no room for negotiation in my tone.
A soft exhale. “Liam, I really am sorry. For all of it. The accounts, the gambling, putting you in that position with Harrington...”
Something in his tone—genuine remorse, perhaps, or simply the exhaustion of consequences finally catching up—softens my anger slightly.
“Just get your shit together, Sean,” I say, less harshly than before. “This is your last chance. We both know it.”
“I know.” Another pause. “Liam... thanks. For handling it. Again.”
I end the call without responding, with no energy left for reassurances or further conversation. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, too empty. I consider pouring another whisky but decide against it.
Connor wants me to acquire Siobhan’s gallery by any means necessary. Siobhan clearly has her own agenda. We’re both playing roles dictated by family obligation and business necessity.
Yet beneath those practical considerations runs something electric and unpredictable. Something that made her text me last night, that made me drive past her gallery.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m genuinely curious about what an association with her will bring. What surprises Siobhan Kelly might have in store, and what she’ll make of the ones I’m planning.
A message comes through, and I snatch up my phone.
Connor. Again.
Charity event tomorrow night. Not going. You’re in my place.
I groan. Fuck’s sake. I rub my hand over my face and pour that second whisky. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.