Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Harper
T WO WEEKS LATER
“Drake!” I whoop, practically shouting from the den. “I got it ! Guest lists—July 26th and September 17th!”
I hear a thud and a string of muttered curses from the kitchen, followed by Drake’s heavy boots pounding down the hall.
He barrels into the room, eyebrows raised beneath his buzzed head. “You serious?”
I spin toward him, waving the printed files in my hand like a winning lottery ticket. “Dead serious. Two full guest lists for Eddie Mason’s private functions. Both hosted at the mansion. These are the dates that line up with Macie , Chantal , and Zhara . This is our window.”
His mouth stretches into a grin that borders on dangerous. “You are bloody brilliant, Harper.”
I laugh, wild and breathless, my heart pounding like I’ve just pulled off a heist. In a way, I have.
This information could blow the case wide open. Names. People who were there—some of whom paid to take ownership of women.
I can start tracking them.
I can find out who bought women.
I can find out where they took those women.
I hug the pages to my chest, vindication curling in my belly like fire. But as the heat spreads, it turns cold at the edges—because the first person I want to tell isn’t here.
I can’t help it. My mind goes straight to Bryan.
He would understand.
Not just the excitement, but the weight of this. He saw what I saw. He held me when I screamed from the nightmares. He knew how much this meant—still means—to me. I can practically hear his voice in my head: Good girl. That’s it. Make the bastards pay.
But it’s been weeks. I thought time away from him would be good for me—and in some ways it has—but in others… missing him has made me question everything.
Did I read too much into the way he looked at me?
There have been no calls, no texts, no surprise visits with bags of groceries or bruised knuckles and that crooked little smirk.
I told him to stay away… and he listened.
He did exactly what I asked for, what I told him I needed. Yet, somehow, it’s still a punch to the gut.
Drake is still talking, offering congratulations and ideas about where we go from here, but his voice fades as he realizes I’ve drifted into my own head. “Something wrong, lass?”
I look at him, the sting behind my eyes forcing me to blink fast. “No. I’m just happy.”
He snorts. “You know, I wouldn’t call myself a player, but I’ve been with enough women to know that this,” he circles his hand before me, “isn’t what happy looks like.”
I draw a deep breath and sigh. Is this what my life has come to? Baring my soul to the Devils MC biker who is equal parts research partner and lethal bodyguard?
“Is this about the boss? About maybe you missing him just a little?”
I do miss him. I miss him soul deep.
The silence his absence left behind is louder than anything I’ve known. Still…
“I made the right choice. Bryan is dangerous. He kills people without hesitation. He lives in a world of shadows and blood, and I can’t condone that.”
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Drake nods slowly, pursing his lips. “I’ve known the bloke for years. I can honestly say he’s never ended anyone where it didn’t make the world a better place.”
Of course he’d say that—he’s loyal to the Quinns.
“That’s what I thought at first too—that he only hurt bad people—but that was me glossing over a reality I didn’t want to look at too closely.”
His gaze narrows. “Excuse me for saying so, but I think you’re selling yourself short if you think you could be that wrong about someone. And selling him short, at the same time.”
I don’t think so, yet here I am, standing in the middle of a safehouse, holding the most important discovery of my investigation… wishing he was here to celebrate.
Am I wrong about him and morally skewed or am I right about him and not listening to my instincts?
If I’m wrong about Bryan… I need to know.
If I’m right about him… I need to accept it.
I just can’t get the sight of Siobhan lying dead on that bed out of my head. Maybe I need to stop focusing on the end result and learn more about what led up to him killing her, to take my emotions out of this and look at it objectively, as a journalist.
For that, I would need a source.
Turning to Drake, I set my research on the table. “I need you to do me a favor.”
* * *
Drake is standing by the front window, arms crossed, the tilt of his head sharp and alert. When the luxury SUV pulls into the driveway, he straightens. By the time the six-foot-six blond driver opens the door to the back seat and escort’s Bryan’s older brother to the house, Drake’s on the move.
The front door swings open as the first step of the porch creaks under an expensive, polished, Italian leather shoe.
“Hey, boss.” Drake dips his chin and steps back.
I rise to my feet a little too fast, my heart kicking up a notch. Be cool. No biggie. It’s just Bryan’s brother.
Yeah, the mafia Head of Family—Tag Quinn.
My one and only interaction with Tag was the five minutes of polite conversation on the docks. A handshake. A thank you. A nod of approval. I was exhausted in that moment, but he came off like the head of a tight-knit family—a bit intense, but still approachable.
Now?
Now he feels larger than life . Sharper. Like the silence around him stretches farther, pulls tighter.
Maybe having Drake arrange this meeting broke some unspoken mafia rule. Maybe Tag thinks I’m stepping out of line, calling him into my borrowed safehouse, asking for answers about things I don’t understand.
Or maybe… me asking him to discuss a murder his brother committed under his order puts him on edge.
Does he think I’ll talk about it? I won’t. Hell, I am complicit in the whole thing.
Tag steps inside, nodding to Drake. “Leave us.”
Drake nods again. He grabs his keys off the side table and turns to me, his frame more rigid than usual. “Congrats again on the guest lists. If you need me for anything on the research end, I’m only a text away.”
“Thank you.”
He disappears out the door, passing the Viking mountain standing sentinel on the porch, leaving me standing alone in the living room with Tag Quinn.
I force a breath into my lungs and motion toward the sitting area. “Please, would you like to sit?”
Tag arches a brow, his gaze unreadable. “Ye do recall this is my house, do ye not?”
Heat rushes to my face. I hate blushing. “Right. Sorry. I’m just a little nervous.”
He unbuttons the buttons of his suit jacket and takes a seat on the far end of the couch. He sits back, stretches an arm across the back of the couch and pegs me with an assessing gaze.
His posture screams predator in repose .
I swallow again. “I’m sorry for interrupting your evening by asking you to come see me. I know it’s late. It really could’ve waited until tomorrow.”
He flicks his hand to wave my concern away and shrugs. “No need to apologize. I meant to stop by before now. I’m glad ye reached out.”
He is? Why? I sit deeper in the armchair opposite him, my heart still thudding like a traitor in my chest.
“And ‘late’ is relative in my line of work. Thankfully, it’s quiet tonight. I had the time and the inclination, and here we are. Now, do ye want to tell me why?”
I hesitate, then push forward before I lose my nerve. “I wanted to ask you about Siobhan.”
His face doesn’t change. Not really. But I see the flicker—just behind his eyes.
“What about her?”
“I’m not sure if Bryan mentioned I’m a journalist?”
His gaze hardens. “And if I ask what being a journalist has to do with Siobhan Daley, her death, or my brother, the only acceptable answer ye could give me is ‘absolutely nothing, Mr. Quinn’ .”
The hostile energy he’s directing at me makes me a little slow to follow his meaning but I get there soon enough.
I raise my hands and shake my head. “Oh, no. I wasn’t suggesting I would write about what happened. I’m sorry. I was only explaining how my brain works.”
He lifts his chin. “Go on.”
I draw an unsteady breath. “I am normally objective and analytical and see things clearly. Today I realized I’ve made assumptions about Bryan based on what we did and what I saw, but that it’s only part of the story.”
My words ring in my head and I wince as I realize I used the word story . “Part of the pertinent details—not story. There is no story. I swear.”
Tag tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. “And ye want me to provide more of those pertinent details to help ye make a more informed impression?”
I nod. “Something like that.”
He watches me for a long moment, the air between us thick and humming with tension. “And why would I do that? Yer morbid curiosity means nothing to me and if yer looking for a way to put the screws to my brother, it won’t end well for ye.”
I swallow. I’m blowing this. I’m muddying the mirky waters here and am about to drown. Still, I’ve never been one to back down from the hard moments.
I run my palms over my thighs and draw a deep breath. “Bryan and I grew… close during his search for Siobhan. He told me she betrayed your family and received immunity for her testimony against you, but nothing else.”
He dips his chin but says nothing.
“I was there. I saw what he did. And honestly… I freaked out. I’d read so much about the Quinn Laws and how you all protect women, seeing her there with a broken neck threw me.”
I still have his attention, so I continue. “It’s not morbid curiosity, I swear. Bryan and I… well, we worked well together. We were friends, but more than that we clicked. If I torpedoed a good thing, I need to know, and for that, I need information.”
He seems to be following me, but wow, he’s a hard man to read. “Why not ask him?” he asks.
I let out a long breath. “From the subtext of our conversations, I’m assuming he didn’t feel it was his story to tell. I figured, since you are the head of family, maybe you’re the one I needed to ask.”
Tag Quinn is not only intimidating, he’s devastatingly handsome. He has the same dark hair and stunning green eyes as his brother, but an aura more stern than Bryan’s angry and broody.
After a long moment, I’m fairly certain he has no intention of telling me anything, but then he surprises me. “I will confide a few truths—off the record, of course.”
I hold up my palms. “Of course. I promise you, I’m asking for purely personal reasons.”
He nods. “I believe you.”
Thank goodness.
“The first thing you need to understand is Siobhan Daley doesn’t deserve your pity—her death was justified. The second is that if it hadn’t been for our oath to protect women, she wouldn’t have lived long enough to murder our father.”
What?
The words hang in the air between us, ugly and raw.
Bryan said nothing about her killing his father. Was that because he knew I would suspect he’d kill her or because it was private family business?
Tag grows quiet and I fight my instinct to break in and ask questions. Tempering my curiosity with patience has been the hardest lesson for me becoming a journalist.
But when he seems to be lost in thoughts, I speak to draw him out again. “I read that your father died of a heart attack.”
He blinks and meets my gaze, fury and guilt warring in his eyes. “We thought so, too. We buried him thinking nature took him to reunite with our mother. That was yet another of the bitch’s deceptions.”
He rakes a hand through his hair and leans forward. Resting his elbows on his knees, he laces his fingers and meets my gaze. “You were right when you mentioned Bryan seemed like it wasn’t his story to tell. It is mine. Siobhan was my first love—a teen flame back when I was young and trusting. She grew up in my neighborhood, my school, my circle of friends. I thought we were a lock—until I learned the truth.”
I shift my weight to the side and tuck my foot beneath me, leaning against the arm of the sofa.
“I dumped her when I saw through her lies, but like a damn parasite, she never left. Always hovering. Da didn’t trust her, but he left it up to me to decide if she was welcome in our business.”
I swallow. “Bryan mentioned she had a way of getting people to talk.”
Tag’s lip pulls up in a sneer. “She was a professional manipulator, and I made the mistake of thinking we could harness her skills to be useful. The sad truth was that she manipulated us, too. She was playing both sides, working for us and the McGuires.”
I press my lips together, my heart hurting for the part of this story I know tore Bryan’s heart out. “Did she kill your father for the McGuires?”
Tag nods. “She had access to our home and was on familiar terms with our house staff. She offered to deliver Da’s afternoon tea tray, and she poisoned it.”
Now the hatred and betrayal Bryan emitted every time Siobhan’s name came up makes sense. “From researching your family, I read it was your father who brokered the truce between families and divided the territories to be north and south of the river, right?”
“Aye, but not only our family and the McGuires. The truce included all the heads of families in Ireland. Ye see, our da loved Ireland with a pride that inspired, and he didn’t want blood in the streets.”
I roll my shoulders, my muscles aching to move. “And he was the one who drew up the Quinn Laws, right?”
“Aye, that’s right. Da believed our family could hold the line and set an example for the others. But after he died, well, Mad Mattie McGuire was free to do what he wanted and what he wanted was to eliminate us and take all of Dublin for himself.”
I let that information settle and sort through the dozens of follow-up questions bombarding my mind. “How did you find out your father didn’t have a heart attack?”
“Nora—Brendan’s girl—found Da’s autopsy in her father’s files. He was the head of the anti-crime task force.”
My eyes pop wide. “Awkward.”
Tag lets out a soft chuckle. “They didn’t realize who the other person was until they were both in too deep. When her father was killed—” he lifts a finger of warning, “he was saving his daughter from an ex-con seeking revenge, nothing to do with us—Nora gave us a copy of all the files.”
I sit back and let that wash over me. So, she lives and works as a Quinn informant, comes and goes from their home, poisons their father for the rival family, and then runs to the authorities and agrees to testify for immunity.
“Don’t get distracted by the fact that Siobhan was a woman, Harper. We killed her—I won’t deny it—but it was justice. For Da. For everything we lost. She got what she fucking earned. And honestly, having her neck snapped when she was half-drugged was too good for her. My brothers and I had a list of torture we wanted to put her through. Bryan gave her a quick, merciful death, which was more than she deserved.”
I close my eyes and let out a long breath. I hadn’t considered that. I’m not so na?ve to miss the fact that Bryan is a violent and angry man. Given Siobhan’s betrayals against his family, Bryan probably felt cheated simply ending her.
He considered it avenging his father’s death.
I see how they would make an exception about Siobhan being a woman for that. It was a special case.
Have there been other women killed?
“Harper, whether you believe me or not, what Bryan did was his way of honoring our father and ending a situation that had the potential to bring down everyone he loved. My unborn child wouldn’t have gotten to be raised by its father. My brothers would be torn from the women they love. The Quinns wouldn’t be there to stand against the violence of the McGuires. Do you know how many women and children would be killed if that happened?”
No, I don’t, but I see his point.
Kill one to save many.
The only question I have now is… can I live with that?