Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Bryan
T he need to find answers is the only thing keeping me from throwing my laptop across the room. How does Finn do it? The kid taps a few keys and computers barf out information for him. When I try…
Dead ends. Everywhere.
I lean back in the leather office chair, rubbing the heel of my hand over my stubbled jaw. Despite my hope that the gods would spare me another day of bashing my head against the wall, day three of the search for Siobhan has been just more of the same—frustration piling on frustration.
I understand that she’s in protective custody, but I’ve tracked down dozens of asshole runners hiding in every shit-hole from Dublin to Donegal, and figured it couldn’t be that different just because the authorities were behind her disappearing act.
Wrong.
I can count the number of leads we’ve dug up on one hand, and that’s being generous. Kieran is upstairs working his contacts, Logan’s outside making calls, and me? I’m stuck in the shitty little business center of this hotel, staring at a screen full of nothing but digital tumbleweed.
This isn’t my strength. Never has been.
I’m the closer, the muscle, the enforcer of justice.
Put me in a room with someone who needs convincing, and I’ll get results. Put me in front of a computer, and I’m as useful as tits on a bull.
I glance at my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. Still no call from Tag. He was supposed to talk to Drake and ask if he could shake anything loose about where the task force might be keeping Siobhan.
I’m not the most patient man on the best of days. Since Jasmine was taken from me, rage simmers just beneath my skin, ready to boil over at a moment’s notice.
As the silence stretches, I get more restless. My leg bounces under the table like I’ve had ten espressos.
The door creaks open, and I look up, more out of habit than curiosity.
The pink-haired firecracker with the right hook steps inside, laptop tucked under one arm, her sharp hazel gaze scanning the space—until it lands on me. She stops mid-step. Her mouth presses into a thin line, and I see the debate flicker across her face.
Stay or go?
She turns slightly, like she’s about to pivot and walk right back out, but I stop her from needing to tuck tail. No point in making this awkward.
“No need to run off.” I push my chair back, the castors silent on the vinyl flooring. “I’ll go. I’m spinning my wheels here, anyway.”
Something shifts in her expression, and she shrugs. “That’s up to you. I’m sure we can both use the hotel office facilities without coming to blows.”
I smirk, rolling my jaw at the memory of the actual blow she landed. It’s still tender, though I’d never admit it.
I settle back into my chair as she walks to the far end of the long table and takes a seat across from me. When she sets her laptop down, she plugs in and pulls her mouse from the kangaroo pocket at the front of her hoodie.
Silence stretches between us for a beat before my curiosity takes hold. “Where’d you learn to throw a punch like that?”
A flicker of something crosses her face—amusement, maybe, or possibly pride. “I grew up with a single father and three brothers. My father didn’t have much of an instinct about raising a girl, so I was treated just like one of the boys. I learned to give as good as I got.”
I arch a brow. That explains a lot.
She leans back slightly, arms crossing. “My dad figured if he was paying for martial arts, kickboxing, and hockey for my brothers, I might as well do it, too. I learned to hold my own at a young age.”
“Hence the right hook.”
She smirks. “Hence the right hook.”
I glance at the screen in front of me, but my focus is still half on her. “I never caught your name.”
There’s a pause, just long enough to tell me she debated giving it to me.
“Harper,” she finally says.
I nod. “Bryan.”
Her lips twitch slightly. “So not ‘ fucknut ’ then?”
I huff a quiet laugh and shake my head. “I’ve been called worse by better people than him.”
She looks at me like she wants to ask me something, but presses her lips shut and drops her attention back to her screen.
With the introductions out of the way, and her settling in to work, the charged energy between us dims to become oddly comfortable.
For a while, the only sounds are the occasional click of a keyboard, the low hum of the air conditioning, and the muted voices of people passing in the hallway.
Then my phone buzzes.
I glance at the screen. Tag.
Fuck. Finally. I push back from the table and stand, moving toward the door. “Excuse me a moment.”
Harper barely looks up, absorbed in whatever she’s doing. I step into the hallway, pressing the phone to my ear. “Tell me you’ve got something. What did Drake say?”
Tag exhales sharply. “I only just talked to the man. Drake says he’ll drop everything and work on it.”
My jaw tightens. Another delay.
“Tell him to work fast,” I mutter, pacing the short length of the hall. “I’m sick of this shit. I hate feeling like I’m wasting my time.”
Tag’s voice is grim. “If it makes you feel any better, Piper says the McGuires are frustrated with searching for Siobhan, too. They haven’t had any better luck.”
“That does not make me feel better. Fucking hell.” A low grumble rumbles in my chest, and I rake a hand through my hair.
This just got even more complicated. Knowing how heavy-handed and indiscreet the McGuire boys are, they’re more likely to spook Siobhan’s security detail and send them deeper into hiding.
“Keep me posted,” Tag says before hanging up.
I stand there for a moment, jaw clenched, staring at the wall. To keep him posted, there will need to be news. I shove my phone into my pocket and head back inside.
Hopefully it’s good news.
* * *
Harper
The moment Bryan leaves to take his call, I crack my knuckles and stare at the mess of tabs open on my screen trying to focus. The Irishman’s voice is deep enough that I hear the rumble of his words through the door, but I get the sense he wouldn’t take kindly to me eavesdropping.
So, I focus on my own problems. I’ve certainly got enough to choose from. Names, addresses, financial transactions—none of them connecting in the way I need them to.
Eddie Mason has a system—he must .
If he’s behind Macie and Chantal’s disappearance, there must be a pattern, a pipeline, or a way to track what he does and where. I just need to find it.
What do I know for sure?
First, he finds the girls.
Then, he verifies their value.
But then what ?
The gentleman’s club angle is still stumping me. I expected something more…industrial. A trafficking operation that moves women in bulk, funnels them into brothels, or ships them out of the country like cargo.
Mason’s operation seems selective . Targeted.
Why involve rich men ?
I bite my thumbnail, scanning the notes I’ve compiled so far. Maybe he holds private parties . Is this set up like an elite Epstein thing?
If so, maybe these women aren’t just disappearing into the void—maybe they’re being sold off .
The thought makes my stomach twist. But then, a tiny flicker of something— hope? —flares to life within.
If Macie and Chantal were funneled into a private sale , that could mean someone owns them. It’s a disgusting thought, but it might be better than the alternative.
And if that’s the case, could they still be alive? They were both fit, beautiful women. If they were chosen and purchased because they stood out, maybe they were being taken care off. Maybe…
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, groaning.
God, Harper, listen to yourself.
There’s no better in this situation. Either way, they were taken. They’re gone. And every day and week I wasted crying at home, waiting to hear from the authorities took them closer to being lost for good.
I exhale hard and push my laptop aside, standing to stretch. My neck aches from the tension and I shake out my arms, needing to move.
I need a break. I need a drink.
Padding over to the high counter, I pour a cup of cucumber water from the pitcher the hotel set out. The condensation drips onto my fingers, a brief, welcome shock against my heated skin.
It doesn’t have the punch that a bar drink would, but it’ll have to do. I lift the cup to my mouth and turn back.
My hip bumps the desk chair Bryan was sitting in earlier and the small jolt shakes the table enough that his laptop fires to life.
The screen captures my attention, and I freeze.
The screensaver isn’t some default corporate wallpaper or a meaningless landscape photo.
It’s a picture—a picture of him.
He looks younger in it, maybe five years, with a wide, open grin and a lightness I haven’t seen any sign of since I met him yesterday. His arms are wrapped around a beautiful Indian woman with long chestnut curls and pale green eyes. He’s pulling her close like she’s his whole world. And she’s looking at him the same way.
They’re in love.
Man, it’s a rare thing to have a man look at you like that. Like you’re the breath in his lungs, the beat of his heart. Lucky girl.
I take a slow sip of water, staring at the image a second longer than I should. He looks so happy . Nothing like the man I met in that alley, all fire and fury, fists flying.
The deep rumble of his voice filters in from the hall, his conversation ending. I jolt back to my seat, set my cup down and pretend I wasn’t just prying into a moment I had no business witnessing.
The door swings open, and he steps inside, his gaze immediately narrowing on his lit screen.
His whole body goes rigid.
His fingers twitch.
Then, in one sharp motion, he reaches over and slams the laptop shut.
“Did you try to fucking spy on me?”
I roll my eyes, leaning back in my chair. “Relax. I got a glass of water and bumped your chair. The image came up on its own.”
His jaw flexes.
I shrug. “Your girlfriend is very beautiful.”
He stares at me for a beat, then slowly unplugs his laptop, sliding it under his arm like he can shield it from my view.
“Aye.” His voice is rough, clipped. “She was .”
Was.
I hesitate, something about the way he says it making my stomach sink. “Was? As in you’re not together anymore?”
His emerald gaze pegs me with so much raw hostility that I feel it, sharp as a blade pressed against my skin.
“No. As in she’s dead .”
The words hang between us, heavy and final.
Before I process what that means or can say anything, he storms out of the room.
I drop my head back. “Well done, Harper.”
* * *
Bryan
She’s dead.
Saying the words aloud ignites a familiar storm of anger and fury within me. Adrenaline rushes to my muscles, my fingers curling into tight fists. Rage simmers out of my empty soul, urging me to hurt someone the way I hurt, to beat someone bloody, to make someone pay.
I used to give in to those violent urges.
But it never changed the reality.
She’s dead.
I keep my feet moving, my pulse thundering in my ears, drowning out the cruelty of being the one left behind. People talk about the grief and the loss, but it’s the helplessness and guilt that hold me in its grip.
She’s dead.
Even four years later, I still can’t wrap my head around how I let that happen. I’m a fucking Quinn. My family has power and money and decides who dies in our city—so how could she die?
How could I not save her?
A cold gust of wind slaps me in the face and I realize I’m outside. Rain beats down on me and icy drops tunnel down the collar of my jacket to chill my skin.
I tilt my head back and scowl at the gray sky above. “Fuck you, too.”
Still, the cold shower is a good thing. It snaps me out of the fiery fury that ignited a moment ago and I rein my emotions back.
Yasmine is dead. Harper saw her picture and asked about her. There was nothing malicious about it and nothing has changed.
My love is gone.
The priest who spoke at her funeral said those who love her should rejoice that she is at peace and in a better place. Bullshit.
I’ve never been a spiritual man, but Yasmine belonged with us. There was no ‘better place’ for her. She would’ve given anything to stay here with her parents and me even if life had given her the choice.
I pull a deep breath through lead lungs and let the ever-present guilt wash over me. Yasmine’s parents—Ashwin and Riya—were so good to me.
They loved me as their own and I’ve been such a selfish bastard since Yasmine’s death, I haven’t honored that love. Yas wanted me to lean on them and heal.
Instead, I begged Da to involve me more in the family business and focused on MMA training, learning better ways to beat men bloody.
The shame I feel about that overwhelms me at times.
Yasmine wouldn’t recognize me as the boy who loved her. Which, I suppose is fair…because I’m not that man anymore.
That Bryan Quinn died the night her heart stopped beating.