2. Cillian
Chapter two
Cillian
“ O kay, keep me updated.”
I slip my phone back into my pocket as I look over the muddy waters of the Mississippi River. My work as Finn Monaghan’s lieutenant is never done. I decided to make some improvements to the security measures at the casino. Not that what we have isn’t top notch, but with the issues recently with the Russians from New York and the Italian families in Massachusetts, there were a few areas I could see that would benefit from small improvements. Especially because I’m not on-site as much as I’ve been in years past.
I went to Finn about a month ago and told him about the offer Liam Ashcroft made me. And that I’d accepted without consulting him first. The thought didn’t cross my mind that he may have a problem with it until after I’d agreed with Liam. But when I watched that house of horrors burn to the ground, I knew then and there that I was willing to do whatever I could to help Liam with his work, even without the backing of the Monaghan organization, which is a first. I’ve been loyal to the family since I met Cormac Monaghan years ago. Hell, they are my family, but there was no way I was going to pass up the opportunity for that rush I got taking out those assholes in New York. When I went to Finn with the agreement I’d made, he saw the fire in my eyes when I told him that I was almost certain Farina was dealing in humans, and he backed me on my decision immediately.
It was exhilarating to be part of Liam’s team, if only for that one operation, and incredibly satisfying when we put bullets in the men who came to that dingy little house to buy girls. There aren’t many lines I’m not willing to cross, but sex trafficking is a nasty business and Liam is making some headway against those who profit from it. And I wanted in. More than that, I needed in. Needed to do something that wasn’t centered around gaining more power but was instead focused on stripping power from those who used innocent women for their sick proclivities.
“Hey, Cillian.” I turn to see one of our contacts at Port NOLA make his way over to me.
The Monaghan organization used this port often before we had control over the Port of Boston, thanks to Finn’s marriage to Alessia Amatto, whose father is head of one of the Italian Mafia families in Massachusetts. Their marriage gave us the power we needed to squeeze out the Cataldis and take over illegal operations in and out of that port. We had a good little setup here in New Orleans, even though we rarely use it anymore. But it seems other people do for nefarious reasons, which is what brings me here.
“Sampson, good to see you,” I say, offering my hand to the port escort who we’ve had on our payroll for years. “How are the kids?”
His smile beams like it does any time I ask after his family. “Good, good. We have another one on the way. Due in about a month.”
“Wow, congratulations. I had no idea.”
“Yeah, I don’t see you much down here anymore. What brings you today?”
“Need some information and someone to keep an eye on a few things for me.”
“Well, I’ve got two of ’em that work pretty well. What am I looking for?”
“Italians. Specifically, anyone throwing around the name Massimo Farina.”
From the cautious digging Liam has done since the day at the Petrov property, it seems I was right—Massimo Farina has taken up where Carlo Cataldi left off. Though human trafficking isn’t his main source of income, it doesn’t mean he hasn’t started building a reputation, especially since Viktor Petrov was killed. It left a void on the East Coast, and Farina seems to be trying to fill it.
“Shouldn’t be too hard. You East Coast boys tend to wear suits like a second skin, even in the summer.”
A chuckle rumbles in my chest as he eyes the dark-gray suit I’m donning. He’s right. It’s rare I leave the house in anything but, and the Italians from Farina’s outfit are no different.
“Thanks, Sampson. If you see anyone or hear of anything, give me a call.” I pull a money clip from my pocket and peel off a few hundred-dollar bills, handing them to the man in front of me. “For the baby.”
Sampson smiles and slides the money into his pocket. “You in town for a couple days?”
“Nah, not this trip. I have to get back to Boston.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you work too hard? You need to enjoy life. You’re in the Big Easy. Laissez les bons temps rouler. ”
“I may have heard it a time or two.” I shrug and offer him my hand. Sampson grabs it and shakes his head, offering me a rueful grin.
“Why do I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall?”
“Because you’re a smart man,” I reply, returning his smile
Sampson clicks his tongue before waving his hand in my direction. “Don’t go blowing smoke up my ass now.”
One thing I appreciate about Sampson is the casual attitude he’s always had with me. Most men are on their toes in my presence, seeing as I’m the right hand of the head of the Irish mob, but not Sampson. He’s an old street kid like me, except he found himself a woman and went mostly straight before I met him. But like recognizes like. There’s respect among thieves, even if he makes his money with hard work now.
Well, most of the time.
“I gotta head in. You take care. Maybe have a night on the town, and see what New Orleans has to offer other than a smelly port on the Mississippi.” He runs his gaze over me once more. “Maybe even change out of that suit.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “I’ll talk to you soon, Sampson.”
When I get into my car and turn the air conditioner on full blast in an attempt to cool off from the sweltering Louisiana heat, the last inclination I have is to go back to my hotel room. My flight doesn’t leave until morning, and there isn’t anywhere else I need to be tonight. Usually I’d head to my hotel, order room service, and treat myself to a few whiskeys in the quiet of my room. It’s not often I have an evening free, and when I do, I tend to enjoy my own company rather than be out in the bustling city streets. But Sampson’s advice echoes in my ear as I hit Finn’s contact information and the ringing sounds through the speakers of my rental car.
“Cillian. What’s going on?” Finn answers.
“Just leaving my meeting with our guy at the dock. Says he’ll keep an eye out.”
“And the security upgrades?”
“Ronin is overseeing everything.”
I’ve spent the last few years with Ronin under my wing, teaching him the ins and outs of our security protocols. Some may say I’m a control freak, but there’s only one way to make sure a job gets done right, and that’s by doing it yourself. The fact that I’m willing to hand some of the tasks over to Ronin says a lot to Finn about how much I trust him to handle everything the way I would. It hasn’t been a particularly easy transition for me, but it's the only way I can keep all the plates spinning if I want to work with Liam.
“Are you breathing down his neck to make sure he does it exactly as you would?” Finn chuckles. “I can practically hear you rolling your eyes.”
He isn’t wrong. Finn has always appreciated my commitment and dedication to what I do for the Monaghan organization. It’s changed throughout the years since he took over for his father. He’s also told me, on more than one occasion, that I don’t need to actually do everything myself. He was more than happy to have Ronin take over some of my responsibilities, especially with things at the casino. It’s the one part of my business where I allow someone else to handle certain aspects—but I’ve never let anyone else take charge of it.
“Ronin’s a good kid. He knows what’s expected from him and doesn’t deviate from his instruction, so no, I don’t have to breathe down his neck.”
“That’s high praise coming from you.”
“Fuck off,” I say with no actual heat behind my words. Finn is the first to point out my workaholic tendencies—and the first to give me shit about them.
“Where are you off to now? Back to your hotel for another lonely night in?” There’s that damn laugh again.
“Nope. I ordered three hookers and a bunch of blow on your dime, so I’m going to be partying all night in the suite you're also paying for.”
Finn snorts out a laugh. “If it were anyone else, I might believe them. But all I hear is you're going to get room service, a glass of whiskey, and read some financial reports before going to sleep at ten p.m. on the dot.”
“Again, fuck off.”
“Why don’t you at least go have dinner somewhere other than your room? Maybe wander into a bar and have a nightcap there instead of holing up like you usually do. Even my eighty-seven-year-old grandfather had more of a life than you do; God rest his soul.”
Why is everyone so invested in what I do with my personal time today?
“Jesus, will it get you off my back?”
“I’d be even happier if you got some leggy brunette on hers. When was the last time you had an actual date, or even a casual fuck, for that matter?”
“When did me not spending the night alone in my room turn into a dissection of my sex life?”
“Or lack thereof.”
“Don’t act like you know what I do when you're not around.”
“I don’t have to. You’re either working or sleeping. How about you go out and act younger than the senior citizen you’re pretending to be half the time.”
Is he wrong about my dating life? Well, no. I’ve always taken my role in the family seriously, and that has left little room for meeting a woman, let alone dating one. But it’s not like I’m a monk who took a vow of celibacy for Chrissake. There have been a few women in the last couple years who I’ve had arrangements with, but it’s never anything more than scratching the itch when it arises, and it certainly isn’t something I’ve felt the need to broadcast. They all knew what the score was and were perfectly happy keeping emotional entanglements out of the equation.
“How would your wife feel if you were trying to get your friend to go out and get laid?”
“Trust me,” Finn laughs out. “Alessia thinks you need to let loose as much as the rest of us.”
“Is marriage already so boring for you that you two discuss my sex life?”
“Don’t be an idiot. You’ve met my wife. You think she doesn’t keep me on my toes?”
“Then why are you two sitting around talking about me?”
“Fuck off.”
I let out a snickering chuckle as I pull up to the front of my hotel. “Not so fun when the shoe’s on the other foot, is it?”
“Jesus, you’re a twat.”
“I know you are, but what am I?”
“Oh, I see the conversation has reached its peak of maturity,” Finn gripes.
“Hey, you started it.” Egging him on is too much fun at this point to stop.
“Case in point. Speaking of boring wives,”—I hear Alessia shout something about his boring wife kicking his ass in the background—“I’m taking my beautiful, sexy and the epitome of not boring wife out for dinner.”
“Okay. The hookers are going to be here soon, so I should probably shower.”
“Yeah, you have fun with those financial reports.”
We hang up, and I hand the valet the keys to my luxury rental before walking from the car to the air-conditioned lobby of my hotel. When I get into my room, I look around the empty space, and suddenly the idea of staying in all night doesn’t seem as appealing as it did when I left Port NOLA. The heat and humidity of the city cling to me, making my suit feel less like the high-end bespoke fabric it is and more like one of those rubber getups people wear to work out in.
Cormac Monaghan always said the suit makes the man. He would tell us that when we walked into a meeting, we’d better be dressed to kill—and he wasn’t referring to the pieces we carried under our jackets. No one would respect some punk kid who walked into a meeting in jeans and any old T-shirt. The first thing I did when I started making some real money within the organization was schedule an appointment with his tailor and have a custom wardrobe made. No one blinked an eye at the tattoos that peeked out from the sleeves of my jacket or the scars that lined my knuckles when I became Finn’s lieutenant after Cormac retired as boss. When we walked into a room to do business, they knew I deserved the respect my position entitled me to.
After peeling the layers from my body and hanging the suit in the small wardrobe in my room, I step into a cool shower and start to relax. It feels good to wash the layer of sticky moisture from my body. Boston can be hot and humid in the summer, but it’s got nothing on New Orleans. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I step out of the cool shower and head into the bedroom, picking up a room service menu and immediately tossing it back on the desk.
Fucking Sampson and Finn are getting into my head.
Sitting on the edge of my bed in a towel, I take in the room before lying backward and letting out a long sigh. Over the last few years, I’ve been laser-focused on my job within the Monaghan organization. Don’t get me wrong…I’m as loyal to that family as the day I was when I met Cormac Monaghan—back when I was fourteen. But something is missing in my life. If I’m honest with myself, something has been missing for quite some time. I’m not naive enough to think it’s the love of a good woman—or a slightly homicidal one like Finn has found—that I’m missing. That’s never been a driving force for me, much to the dismay of Maeve Monaghan, Finn’s mother. But when I helped save those women from being sold and played a part in taking out their buyers, something inside of me was unlocked. A part of me wants to have more— make more—of an impact. Killing those responsible for the nightmares that too many women face filled that void. Despite knowing I want a change, I haven’t made one, and that feeling of being bored with the mundane is rearing its head again.
Fuck it. What can letting loose for one night hurt? Maybe a nice dinner and a bar with some music is what I need to stave off this growing feeling of discontent.
Getting up from the bed, I pull another suit from my garment bag and dress in gray slacks and a button-down, dark-blue shirt. I strap a small revolver to my ankle, having learned long ago that it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’m about to throw a jacket over my shoulders but think twice about the stifling humidity of the city and decide to go without.
Tonight, I’m not on business. I’m simply Cillian Doyle, a man with a night to kill in New Orleans.
When the valet brought my car around, I asked him for recommendations for a good restaurant with authentic New Orleans cuisine and a bar that was off Bourbon Street with some live music. I know the street is a staple in the city, but I’d rather not be running into drunk tourists while I’m out. He put the locations in the car's navigation system and sent me on my way.
As I finish the last of my crawfish étouffée on the patio dining area of the restaurant the valet recommended, the waiter comes over, and I decide…fuck it and order a banana Foster and a glass of whiskey. When in Rome, and all that. He clears my plate, and I lean back in my chair, enjoying the brass band playing on the corner across the street. Sampson was right. There's much more to New Orleans than a port and my hotel room. Enjoying a night out is rarely a luxury I indulge in, but so far, I’m glad I allowed myself to be goaded into it.
The bar that the valet suggested is within walking distance of the restaurant, so after I finish the decadent dessert and my whiskey, I decide to take a stroll along the street. Though we’re close to Bourbon Street, there is definitely a different feel here. The citrusy scent of sweet olive bushes surrounds me instead of the cloying stench of piss and vomit that many people associate with the famous street only a block or two away.
I easily find the bar and dip inside into the open space. Instruments are arranged near the small stage set up on the patio, but no one is playing, so the band must be on a break. The bar has a darker, more sophisticated feel with its brick walls and low ambient lighting, but splashes of colorful paintings in bright reds, greens, blues, and yellows hang throughout the space. As I slide onto a stool, an older man walks over with a friendly smile on his face. Maybe there’s something to this whole Southern hospitality thing. It’s much different than the gruff attitude of the bartenders in Boston, that’s for sure.
I order a whiskey and hand the man a couple bills before settling into my seat. Then, just because I feel like being a dick, I turn around so my back is facing the bar and take a selfie with a one-finger salute and send it to Finn.
Me: See, asshole. I left my hotel room.
He replies a few seconds later.
Finn: So the hookers were a no-show, or you just couldn’t keep up?
Me: Fuck off.
When I lay my phone on the bar, a blonde sits one seat down from me and lets out an irritated sigh before the bartender takes her order.
“I’ll have a daiquiri, please—strawberry, if you don’t mind,” she says in a breathy Southern accent. She glances at me and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I hate seeing a woman in a bar look upset, and there’s something about her green eyes that say she’s had a shit night and could use someone doing something nice for her.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say as the girl reaches for her purse.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m quite capable of paying for my own drinks.”
“Please, allow me.” I pull my wallet from my pocket and hand the bartender a few more bills when he returns with her fruity concoction.
“Thank you…”
“Cillian.”
“Thank you, Cillian. It’s been an absolute hellish night, and it’s nice to meet a gentleman. Lord knows they’re in short supply.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there.” I’m not one to talk to random women in a bar. That was for a younger and less jaded version of myself that I grew out of years ago. But I figure, fuck it, why not? Again, I’m running with the whole when in Rome philosophy.
“Just your typical ‘come to New Orleans on a girls' trip, meet a guy who wants to take you to dinner, go to dinner, guy thinks him paying for said dinner means he can grope you under the table, you storm off, then none of your friends answer their damn phones so you can meet up and salvage the rest of your evening.’” She pauses for a moment before finishing with, “Or, you know, at least tell them you aren’t dead in a ditch somewhere.”
My eyes widen as she inhales a much-needed breath after that tirade before she blows it out and swipes her blonde bangs from her mossy-green eyes.
“Well, the drink comes without any expectations, and I'll keep my hands to myself.”
“See,” she says, pointing at me. “Gentleman.”
“If something as simple as not pawing you after paying for your drink makes me a gentleman, I hate to think about the guys you usually meet. That’s bare minimum in my book.”
“You'd be surprised,” she says, nearly under her breath. “I’m Charity.” She holds out a dainty hand, and I take it in my much larger one.
Charity looks down at our clasped hands and notices the ink on my wrist peeking out of the long-sleeved shirt I’m wearing. “Tattoos? Why, Cillian, maybe I was wrong about the gentleman thing. Unless you really are one with a bad-boy streak.”
She’s obviously flirting with me but the little giggle is endearing, and what can I say? It’s been a while since I’ve been in a town where no one knows who I am, sitting in a bar with a sweet Southern blonde. Well, the last part has never happened.
“I’m just a businessman here until tomorrow who didn’t want to sit in my room. The tattoos are from a life lived that’s long since passed.” If three hours is long.
“What do you do?” she asks before slipping the black straw in her mouth and taking a healthy sip of her drink.
“Vacuum salesman.”
Charity nearly chokes on her drink when she laughs and playfully swats my arm. “Liar.”
My smile widens and I raise my glass to my lips before taking a swig of the Irish whiskey. “I’m in textiles. Was here for a meeting, but I head back tomorrow. You're on a girls’ trip?”
“Yup. I start graduate school in January and decided to have some fun before it’s all work and no play.”
I can understand that.
“Where are you going to school?” I ask.
Just then, the band gets on the stage and begins their set. They aren’t overwhelmingly loud, but Charity leans over the seat separating us so we’re not having to yell over the jazz playing in the background.
“I’ll be moving to California to attend Stanford.” When she says the name of the school, her face lights up with pride—and she damn well should be proud of herself.
I let out a low whistle. “Impressive.”
She smiles in that bashful way I imagine has been ingrained in her as a Southern woman.
“What about you?” she asks.
Though the music isn’t deafening, it’s still a challenge to have a conversation over the brass instruments.
“May I?” I ask, pointing at the empty seat between us.
Charity nods and I slide over. “I live in Michigan. Work for my father’s company. We’re securing a new contract in New Orleans, so I’m down here to dot all the i ’s.”
“Cold winters up there,” she replies. “I don’t think I could ever live in snow like that.”
“I don’t know. I’d take winters over this humidity any day.”
Just then, her phone lights up with a text message notification. She grabs it from the bar top and lets out another little huff before looking at me. “That’s one of the girls I’m on the trip with. I should go meet up with them.” A sweet smile crosses her pink lips before she waves at the bartender.
“Yes, ma’am?” he asks and she beams.
“Would you happen to have a pen back there I could borrow for a quick minute?”
I don’t know if it’s the whiskey or the slow jazz, but I wish she weren’t leaving so soon so I could hear that sweet Southern lilt just a little longer.
When the bartender hands her the pen, she grabs a napkin and writes down a phone number before handing it to me. “If you ever find yourself in California, give me a call.”
I smile and take it as she stands. She turns to leave and steps wrong, causing her ankle to buckle. My hand reaches out to grab hold of her before she falls, but her purse drops from her shoulder, causing the contents to spill on the floor. We bend down at the same time to pick up the items and end up knocking our heads together.
“Ouch,” she says, rubbing her forehead with an embarrassed giggle before I take one of her hands and she anchors her other on my hip for balance. “I’m so damn clumsy.”
I hand over her purse with a grin. “Happens to the best of us.”
Charity leans in and gives me a hug. “Thank you for being so sweet, Cillian. I wish we had more time to get to know each other.”
When she releases me, I smile at her. “Take care, Charity.”
With that, she walks to the front of the bar where the door is and turns, giving me a little wave. I’m not going to lie and say my mood hasn’t turned a little melancholy with her departure as I signal to the bartender for another drink. When I reach into my pocket to pull out my wallet, I’m hit with the sudden realization that it isn’t there. I look at the ground to see if it fell out of my pocket, but all I see is the checkered linoleum of the worn floor. I know I had it here. I paid for my drink, then Charity’s dacq—
Son of a bitch.
She just fucking stole my wallet.