Chapter Fifty-Four
Melissa
Days later, I stood at the window. My reflection stared back at me, ghostly and transparent against the backdrop of the city beyond.
The city stretched out before me: millions of lights, millions of lives, millions of stories playing out in the darkness.
Each light represented someone’s home, someone’s heart, someone’s hope or heartbreak.
Somewhere out there, Rowen was beginning his new life. Taking on the mantle of leadership he’d never wanted. Becoming the monster he thought he needed to be to keep me safe. Making decisions that would haunt him, doing things that would change him in ways he might not be able to come back from.
But he was wrong about one thing.
He wasn’t alone in the darkness.
Not anymore.
Not while I still had breath in my body and fight in my heart.
I pressed my palm against the glass, the cold seeping into my skin like tiny needles of ice.
The window was fogged around the edges; my breath creating small clouds that dissipated almost as quickly as they formed.
Below me, the city sprawled out in a tapestry of light and shadow, millions of lives unfolding in apartments and offices and darkened alleyways.
Somewhere out there was the man I’d move heaven and earth to find.
“I’m not giving up on you,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, but the words felt like a vow. “I’m not going anywhere. And whether you like it or not, whether you want me to or not, I am going to find a way to reach you.”
A door opened behind me, and I turned away from the window, my jaw set, my resolve hardening into something unbreakable.
My reflection caught in the glass for just a moment, revealing a woman I barely recognized, with eyes that held both fear and fierce determination.
She looked tired. She looked scared. But she didn’t look like someone who was going to back down.
“Dr. Jefferson, I heard you wanted to speak with me.”
I turned fully, my heart hammering against my ribs as I faced the man who’d spoken.
Braesal O’Malley stood in the doorway of what could only be described as a study.
Though calling it that felt like calling a cathedral a church.
The room behind him was all dark wood paneling and leather-bound books, the kind of space that whispered of old money and older power.
A massive desk dominated the center, its surface pristine except for a single crystal tumbler half-filled with amber liquid.
He was not what I expected.
I’d imagined someone like Sinclair, someone polished, urbane, dangerous in a tailored suit. Or perhaps someone like the men I’d seen at the cage fights, brutal, scarred, violence written into every line of their bodies.
Braesal O’Malley was neither.
He was tall, perhaps in his early to mid-fifties, with silver threading through dark hair that was swept back from a face that might have been handsome if not for the hardness in his eyes.
Those eyes—pale green, almost colorless—studied me with an intensity that made me feel simultaneously seen and dissected.
He wore a simple black button-up shirt and dark slacks, no jewelry except for a watch that probably cost more than my car.
There was something almost professorial about him, which made the danger radiating from him all the more unsettling.
“Mr. O’Malley,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“I didn’t agree to anything.” His accent was strong, a lifetime of living in Boston. “You showed up at my door, Dr. Jefferson. There’s a difference between agreeing and being presented with a fait accompli.”
He stepped into the room, and I noticed the way he moved, economical, precise, like a man who’d learned long ago not to waste energy on unnecessary gestures. Behind him, two men flanked the doorway. They didn’t enter, but their presence was a reminder that I was very much not in control here.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “But I didn’t know how else to reach you.”
“Most people don’t try.” He moved to the desk, picking up the tumbler and taking a slow sip. “Most people have better sense than to walk into a stranger’s home and ask for an audience with the head of the Irish Mob in Boston.”
The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, so devoid of pretense, sent a chill down my spine. This wasn’t a man who played games or hid behind euphemisms. He was exactly what he appeared to be, and he expected you to deal with that reality or leave.
“I’m not most people,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them.
His eyebrows rose slightly, the first hint of expression I’d seen. “No,” he agreed, setting the glass down with a soft click. “I don’t think you are. Though most people value their lives more than whatever brought you here.”
“I value my life just fine, Mr. O’Malley. But there are things I value more.”
“Such as?”
“The man I love.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the men in the doorway seemed to still, as if the entire house was holding its breath.
Braesal O’Malley studied me for a long moment, his pale eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, he gestured to one of the leather chairs positioned in front of his desk.
“Sit.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command. But I’d take it.
I crossed the room on legs that felt steadier than they had any right to be, before lowering myself into the chair. The leather was butter-soft, worn in a way that spoke of decades of use. How many people had sat in this chair? How many had walked out again?
O’Malley settled into his own chair behind the desk, leaning back with the ease of a man completely comfortable in his domain. He didn’t speak, just watched me with those unsettling eyes, waiting.
The power play was obvious. He wanted to see if I’d break the silence, if I’d rush to fill the void with nervous chatter. It was a test, and I’d already failed enough tests in my life.
So I waited.
The clock on the wall ticked. Somewhere in the house, a door closed. Outside, traffic hummed—a distant, muted soundtrack to this strange standoff.
Finally, O’Malley’s lips curved into something that might have been a smile if it had reached his eyes.
“You have spine,” he said. “I’ll give you that. Most people start babbling within thirty seconds.”
“I’m a therapist, Mr. O’Malley. I’m used to uncomfortable silences.”
“Are you?” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “And what is your preferred practice, Dr. Jefferson?”
I smirked and simply said, “I counsel children, Mr. O’Malley.”
“Touché.” He grinned. “Then you know what I’m talking about. How children bear the weight of their parents’ sins. How tragedy finds the innocent first.”
My throat tightened. “Yes.”
“Then you understand why you shouldn’t be here.”
“I understand why you think I shouldn’t be here,” I corrected. “But understanding something and accepting it are two different things.”
His expression shifted, not quite approval, but something close to interest. “Tell me, Dr. Jefferson, what do you know about Rowen Shay?”
The question caught me off guard. I expected to have to explain, to plead my case, to convince him to listen. I hadn’t expected him to already know why I was here.
“I know he’s a good man,” I said carefully. “I know he never wanted the life he’s been forced into. I know he’s sacrificing everything he is to protect the people he loves.”
“And you’re one of those people.”
“Yes.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“No.”
O’Malley’s smile widened, and this time it did reach his eyes, but it wasn’t warmth I saw there. It was amusement, dark and knowing. “Of course he doesn’t. Because if he did, he’d have locked you in a room somewhere to keep you from doing exactly this.”
“Probably,” I admitted.
“So you came to Boston, to my home, to speak with me about a man who’s just taken over the IRA, a man who, by all accounts, is now my boss, and you did this without his knowledge or permission.
” He tilted his head. “Either you’re incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, Dr. Jefferson. I haven’t decided which.”
“Can’t I be both?”
The laugh that escaped him was genuine, sharp, and surprised. “Christ, you’ve got balls. I’ll give you that.” He stood, moving to a sideboard where several decanters sat. “Drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He poured himself another measure of whiskey—Irish, I assumed—and returned to his chair. “So. You’re here about Rowen Shay. What exactly do you want from me?”
This was it. The moment I’d been rehearsing in my head for the entire train ride from New York to Boston. The moment where I either convinced this man to help me or signed my own death warrant.
“I want to understand,” I said. “I want to know what he’s walked into. What he’s facing. What it means that he’s taken over the IRA.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t help him if I don’t understand.”
“Who says he needs your help?” O’Malley’s tone was mild, but there was steel underneath. “Who says he wants it?”
“He doesn’t want it,” I said, my voice breaking slightly. “He wants me safe. He wants me far away from all of this. But I can’t do that. I can’t just walk away and pretend he doesn’t exist. I can’t live with the knowledge that he’s destroying himself to protect me.”
“So you’d rather destroy yourself trying to save him?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
O’Malley took a long drink, his eyes never leaving mine. When he set the glass down, his expression had shifted into something harder, more calculating.
“Do you know what the IRA is, Dr. Jefferson? Really know, I mean. Not the romanticized version from movies or books. The reality of it.”
“I know it’s violent. I know it’s dangerous. I know people die.”