Chapter 4
OCTAVIAN
As the SUV cuts through the night, I finish up my texts with my cousins.
They've given me some things to work with. The Ionescu’s want a piece of the United States. Let's see if I can help deliver it.
Standard for the mafia world, I suppose. Always one family more ambitious. The only danger is that it's not purely ambition, but what they're willing to do to get to the top is what you have to worry about.
The SUV slows to a stop. Two large gates and a guardhouse. A man comes out and nods to my driver.
I watch as the gates swing open, and in the foreground, an estate materializes.
As we pass, I notice the intricate ironwork curling up toward two gargoyles that stare down with mouths open, frozen mid-roar.
My driver hasn't said a word since he confirmed my name at the airport. I haven't tried speaking to him either. What's the point?
As we move closer to the house, my training mode slips into play.
I scan the perimeter through the windows. Four visible cameras on the main gate alone. Two armed guards sheltered in a booth, another patrolling the inner fence line. Motion sensors disguised as landscape lighting. Three-layer security system, enough tech to monitor a small city.
As we pull up to the house, I see more cameras mounted at every angle, motion-activated, probably thermal. The kind that see heat signatures, not just movement.
This isn't a home.
It's a fortress.
But fortresses don't stop death. They just delay the mess.
We come to a stop, and two guards are outside the main entrance.
Suddenly my window rolls down. One of the guards approaches holding a tablet while the other watches from a distance, hand resting on his holster.
I assume if I've gotten this far inside, they already know who I am, but protocol is protocol.
"Name?" the guard asks, rain dripping from his hat.
"Octavian Voinea."
He checks his list, nods to his partner, then looks at my driver.
"He's clear," he says and walks away.
My driver kills the car and my door unlocks. I step out, grab my duffel bag, and sling it across my shoulder.
Boston is colder than I expected.
I glance around and count six windows with direct views of the driveway. Three potential ambush points between the gate and front door. The garage sits offset from the main house, vulnerable. The garden wall provides minimal cover for a sniper position.
I file it all away.
The other guard who stayed back walks over and looks up at me.
"This way," he says and starts walking toward the house.
I follow.
The entrance hall is cathedral-like. Marble floors that stretch out beneath vaulted ceilings, and paintings of stern-faced people in gold frames. Above us, a massive chandelier hangs, illuminating everything.
I follow my escort through the house, mapping it mentally.
We pass two men standing near a side corridor, bulges on their hips beneath their jackets. Armed.
The main hallway splits left and right. Security cameras tucked into crown molding. A pressure plate near a bookcase; subtle, but I see it. I would assume it triggers a silent alarm if someone steps on it.
I notice panic buttons disguised as light switches under a frame of what I assume is the father of the men I'm here to see.
Paranoia wrapped in luxury.
We turn down a corridor and pass an empty sitting room, then a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves and leather chairs scattered throughout the room.
We continue walking, turn another corner, and come to a stop in front of a set of double doors, dark wood carved with Celtic crosses as handles. The guard knocks twice, doesn't wait for an answer, and pushes them open.
"He's here," he announces to the room.
I step inside and find both Killaney brothers.
Callum sits behind a massive desk, hands folded in front of him. His posture reserved. Broad-shouldered, dark hair swept back, eyes that give nothing away. He doesn't stand. Doesn't offer his hand.
He just watches.
He looks a bit older than the file photo I was sent, but that's what running a family does.
The second leans against the wall to my left. Declan Killaney. Younger, built like a boxer, green eyes sharp as glass. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. He tracks me with a fighter's instinct, which I read is his favorite pastime.
I fully assess them both in the time it takes for the door to close behind me. I've seen their type before.
I step forward, stopping three feet from the desk, and look down at Callum.
His gaze drags over me, like he's deciding whether I'm worth the air I'm breathing.
Finally, he speaks.
"You're the one Enzo vouches for, huh?"
"I suppose that's why I'm here," I say, looking down at him.
"You're a big motherfucker, aren't you?" Declan asks, cutting through the silence. "What, six-four?"
"Six-six," I say, looking over my shoulder at him.
"Shit," he says, pushing off the wall and walking toward me. "And special forces, too? You ever thought about boxing? We can make some serious cash."
Callum shakes his head.
"Have a seat." Callum gestures to one of the leather chairs in front of the desk.
I sit and Declan takes the other.
Callum leans back.
"So, I finally get to see the man I'm trusting with my sister's life," he says.
"You do."
Declan snorts. "You, uh, always this quiet?"
"No. Sometimes I'm asleep."
Callum doesn't smile. Neither do I.
"Let's get this clear," Callum says, voice firm. "You understand what you're walking into?"
"High-profile protection detail. Your sister. Escalating threat levels. All I need to know for now."
Callum's jaw tightens, and he pulls a file from a drawer, sliding it across the wood toward me.
I don't pick it up. Not yet.
"Itinerary of Keira's routines," Callum says, nodding to the folder.
"Charity galas, city appearances, fundraisers, foundation board meetings, high-profile speeches in rooms full of people who'd sell her out for pocket change more than likely.
" He leans forward. "You'll become her driver.
Take her where she needs to go, always at her side at these things, always keeping her in view. "
I nod. "Of course."
"And she's not just any asset," Declan adds. "She's family. My twin. Which means you don't get to break her to make your job easier, and safety is non-negotiable."
"She'll stay alive," I say, turning to look at him.
"Good," Declan nods. "Because she sure as hell doesn't take threats seriously, so I'm hoping having you around changes that."
I place my hand on the folder and slide it in front of me. "I'll know her routine better than she does in 48 hours."
Callum stands now and rounds the desk, stopping just close enough to make most men uncomfortable, and sits on it.
"She's going to push every boundary. She'll test your patience, look for a way around you, manipulate every inch of the job. Don't mistake her for soft."
"I don't make mistakes."
He nods.
"All her events, are any on secure ground?"
Callum sighs. "Some, but not all."
I shake my head and sit back in the chair.
"You brought me in to keep her alive. That's what I'll do. I don't need her to like me."
Declan laughs. "That's good. Because she won't."
"I've had worse."
Callum smiles. "We'll see."
They think she's going to chew me up.
They think she's unpredictable.
They have no idea how boring most jobs are. How many times I've babysat sons of oil kings, drunk off their trust funds, or daughters of politicians who think they're invincible. They scream. They spit. They threaten.
But they all come to understand my presence.
"If she gets killed, it's because she outplayed you," Declan says. "If you want to continue living, don't let that happen."
I turn and meet his gaze. "It won't."
A knock at the door interrupts us, cutting the tension.
A guard leans in, his voice low.
"Sir, Miss Killaney just pulled through the gates."
Callum's expression remains unchanged, but something passes between the brothers.
"This is going to be a disaster," Declan mutters under his breath.
I don't acknowledge it.
Callum stands, as does Declan.
I do as well, rising between both of them.
I hear footsteps approach, quick and purposeful.
I'm not worried. I've faced worse than an angry woman.
Some people, when they walk into a room, just enter; others demand the air shift around them. Let's see which she is.
The doors open and the hallway light spills in.
Then she steps through.
Keira Killaney.
Red hair spilling over her shoulders, green eyes that cut right to mine.
It's no surprise her gaze is on me.
She takes two steps in, and the room folds around her like it can't decide if it should worship or fear.
So she's the demanding type.
She sizes me up just as fast as I do her.
She's not what I expected.
She's worse.
Too much fire in the eyes. Too many questions already forming behind them.
Something tells me she's going to make this harder than it has to be.
Either way, she may be beautiful, but that won't save this little princess from following my rules.