Chapter 21
Kellin
I knew she wouldn’t go to the authorities. In that regard, the Port Kings are no different than the Irish Kings. We keep our business in-house.
And even though Maeve wants nothing to do with her father, she still understands how the family works. Still, I’m surprised she refuses to tell Connor or Brody what that fucker did.
She said she and Brody used to be close. If so, I can almost guarantee he’d be interested in knowing. And I hate the idea of Maeve lacking any type of familial support system. I hate that she feels alone and unable to rely on her father or brothers. I don’t want that for her.
And while I appreciate the connection she shares with her assistant, Lenora, that’s not enough.
Maeve deserves more people in her corner. People who would take a bullet for her.
I dig my fingers in my hair. Listen to me. Who am I to judge Maeve’s company?
I’m no better than the men in her family. Worse, even.
At least they aren’t actively betraying her.
Whenever she talks about her family, she treads carefully. She seems to operate under the impression that if Kellin Jameson of Zenith Investment Group knew Declan Gallagher’s history and true nature, he’d walk out of the Cypress’s grand double doors and never look back.
I’m surprised she hasn’t considered the possibility that I’m already aware of her family’s criminal ties. Though, compared to the New York Gallaghers, Declan keeps his business on the quieter side.
Maeve must have vetted me. I’m on the ZIG website, and the CEO knows the drill if anyone calls to snoop around. But did she not consider that we’d do our own vetting?
Maybe she believes we wouldn’t dig too deeply into Declan’s activities. Or maybe she just wants to pretend her family isn’t that bad.
I can understand that desire.
Courtesy of the drug I slipped into her drink, Maeve sleeps soundly, with one hand tucked beneath her uninjured cheek. I spent the past hour watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, battling the knot in my gut and wishing I could stay.
I tug the covers up to her chin, tuck her in, and leave the bedroom.
In the living area, I throw on my clothes, then I slip Maeve’s key card into my pocket.
As I reach for the hallway door, I stop.
Turn.
Walk back into the bedroom and kneel beside the bed. Listen to her breaths. Study her peaceful face.
Why am I torturing myself like this?
The mission is what matters. Dive into Declan’s files. Find Doyle. Eliminate the problem before Finn’s forced to deal Declan into his business ventures or Declan spills all the dirty secrets hidden within Doyle’s records.
Clear my family name, once and for all, and earn my spot in Finn’s inner circle.
Maeve’s a stepping stone to her father. The key to information.
So why am I lingering and letting myself get tangled in this woman’s sweet web?
She’s a means to an end. That’s all she can be.
I rise, not even sure who I’m trying to convince anymore.
Ten minutes later, after a quick run to my own room to shower and change into a pair of dark jeans and a black jacket over my Henley, I’m in front of her door again, securing a bug to the light fixture in the hallway.
I shoot Rory a message to verify its capturing Maeve’s room and in full working order before I leave.
It’s a go, he texts back.
Make sure this one stays on. We want eyes on it 24-7.
Roger that.
Rory’s not my favorite King, if I’m being honest. We’ve never been overly friendly, and when we were kids, I thought he was a brownnosing brat.
But he treats my cousins well, and I owe him for giving me the heads-ups on Maeve earlier.
For that alone, I’m willing to try harder.
Maybe buy him a beer once I return home.
I trust that he and his tech guys will alert me to the slightest hint of danger.
I don’t know what that beast—Shout—thought he was doing, but that’s not how the Irish Kings roll. We’re classier on the East Coast.
Rory’s kept tabs on the Neanderthal since the incident.
And now that I’m sure Maeve plans on doing nothing, I can address this matter as I see fit.
I venture downstairs, loitering in the bar area, pretending to nurse a local craft beer. This central spot provides a good vantage point for viewing the thugs on shift tonight.
The young security guard from the restaurant hovers near the main entrance.
Three of Declan’s men skulk back and forth through the lobby. No Shout.
My phone pings with a text from Rory.
He just left the hotel.
A buzz begins in my ears, surging down through my blood to every limb.
The rage from the stairwell resurfaces tenfold.
Time for a little walk.
Outside, I weave my way to the pier, a baseball cap tugged low over my eyes. Head down, collar popped up against the evening’s chill, hands stuffed in my pockets.
Just another average Joe going home after a late night with the boys. No one spares me a second glance.
I veer off the main road and settle in to wait under the pier.
I keep tabs on every one of Declan’s guys at the Cypress. Shout lives in the same rundown studio he’s rented for two decades, since before this hotel was even a thought in Maeve’s beautiful head. He walks the beach to get home, like clockwork, every single night.
I see his big, dumb, bulky form up ahead, his feet plowing their way through the sand.
Though his shoulder appears to be back in the socket, he’s favoring his left side.
Good.
After he passes the dock I’m hiding under, I fall in line with his shadow.
His head swivels, and his hand reaches behind his back for his gun.
Too late.
I jump him, prying the gun from his hand and tossing it into the sand.
Roaring, he swings wildly with his right fist.
I duck, and he loses his balance. When his right hand finds purchase in the dense wet earth, he rises, kicking.
I bat his foot away, causing him to stumble again.
It’s like fighting a drunken toddler.
“Need a little help?” I catch him on his way down and wrap my arm around his thick neck, squeezing the air from his throat.
If he had a knife on him, he would have brandished it by now.
I could slit his throat, but knives are messy. And I want to feel his life drain beneath my hands.
He gasps. “What…” He struggles to inhale enough air to speak in a full sentence. “Who the…fuck…are you?”
The stench of defeat is unmistakable.
I tighten my grip around his neck and whisper in his ear. “I’m the last person you’ll see before you die.”
He claws at my arms with renewed vigor in a last ditch effort to escape but only manages a wheeze and a few scratch marks.
Above us, on the pier, tourists and locals wander home, stumbling out of bars, squealing in delight at the theme park.
No one hears his silent pleas.
When I remember Maeve pleading in the stairwell, fury builds in my blood. I don’t bother whispering my next words. “You should’ve never touched what’s mine.”
He twitches, a sound groaning out from deep in his gut.
Satisfied, I tauten my arm and twist.
He slumps and drops to the sand.
Dead.
Staring down at the lifeless lump of flesh, I feel more at peace than I have all day.
I adjust the hat on my head.
This fucker won’t bother Maeve or any other woman ever again.
The damp, briny breeze soothes me as I search for the best spot to bury this waste of space.
I drag him farther under the pier and snatch his wallet to stage the attack as a robbery. Then I kick some dirt around to create a lazy, shallow grave, roll him inside, and cover him with the remnants of a million seashells.
I don’t need him to disappear. I’m not worried about getting caught. Still, relieving him of his wallet will slow the identification process.
With Shout six inches under, I return to the site of the scuffle and grab his discarded gun.
Next, I stroll a mile or so up the beach in the opposite direction and toss the weapon into the water. I venture a little farther and discard the wallet in a dumpster behind a restaurant.
Circling back through the city, I walk a few extra blocks and take a couple of odd turns before approaching the hotel from the northeast.
This isn’t protocol. Probably the sloppiest and most impulsive job I’ve ever completed.
But who’s going to miss a career criminal with no family ties?
No one, I bet. Probably not even Declan, apart from wondering where the man ran off to.
Once inside the Cypress, I text Rory to confirm that he can stop interfering with the CCTV near the pier. I head to my room for a quick shower, wash off the sand, then change back into my suit from earlier.
I return to Maeve’s suite. As expected, she’s still out cold.
Ignoring the pang beneath my ribs, I locate the filing cabinet containing her home files.
I find a healthy stash on her father—contacts, addresses, former associates and their associates—but not the information I’m searching for.
Nothing on Nolan Doyle.
I retrieve her phone from the bedroom.
She shifts on the mattress, exhaling a soft little sigh. I pause to brush a lock of dark hair off her cheek.
Fuck. I need to stop.
We swiped her passcode while spying on the cameras in the lobby. Peeked right over her shoulder.
I should tell her to be more careful.
Some monumental creep might be hacking your cameras. Like me.
I’m such an ass.
I flick open her phone and navigate straight to her calendar, where I discover what I need almost immediately.
A personal note on the day I arrived.
Get Dad et al out of the penthouse!
The hairs on my neck prickle to life.
How delightfully suspicious.
I haven’t seen Declan Gallagher in the hotel at all since I’ve been here. Just Brody, coming and going like a bellhop at peak tourist season.
Funny that I can’t get near the penthouse. But while we sat in the Arden, enjoying the sunset, Maeve’s eyes traveled to the balcony above us at least twice.
The balcony off that luxury suite.
The eyes don’t lie, and hers skittered there when she talked about her dad and brothers.
Admittedly, focusing proved a little difficult while simultaneously working to keep my libido in check.
Maintaining control over my body got harder—literally—the longer we sat on that rooftop and the more she opened up.
With the fading sun dipping her skin in a golden glow.
With the breeze tickling the wispy hairs along her temples.
With those string lights glittering in her eyes and bouncing over her freckles. That about put my dick over the edge.
I shake the memory off and concentrate on the note in her phone.
She specifically told me a VIP client had the penthouse.
She averted her eyes when she informed me, now that I think back. An obvious fib.
Lenora piled on after that, the lie growing legs when I encountered her later while searching for Maeve. “You know how needy world-famous authors can be. She’s up there putting out little fires, I’m sure.”
According to the cams Rory’s monitoring, Maeve used the private elevator three times over the last few days. A straight shot from the lobby to the penthouse.
Maeve’s harboring secrets, and I’m almost positive my gut instincts are correct.
Declan Gallagher is up there with Nolan Doyle.
It makes sense.
Declan wouldn’t stash the man at his own house or with his sons.
And Doyle may be an idiot, but he’s not stupid. He wouldn’t risk staying somewhere private. Somewhere Finn could send an army, guns blazing, to tear the place down.
The Cypress offers the perfect cover, allowing him to hide in plain sight.
Even if the Irish Kings found out Doyle’s location, Declan knows we’d never risk attacking in the open.
And this way, he gets to conceal his little rat and cause Maeve misery by running his business from her hotel. Win-win for him.
I finally found the fucker.
Satisfied, I toss my clothes back onto the floor, then replace the phone at Maeve’s bedside and crawl beneath her luxurious sheets.
When I rest my hand on the soft skin of her thigh, she stirs and rolls onto her back.
I know I won’t wake her.
She’s out until dawn, at least.
The moonlight cuts a sliver through a gap in her curtains, shining on her face and highlighting those freckles. I nearly reach out and trace my finger across her cheek until guilt squeezes my chest.
I wonder what she’d say if I came clean. If I told her I know all about her family. If I confessed I’m only here for Nolan Doyle.
She’s not naive. She doesn’t see the world through rose-colored glasses. I hear the edge in her voice and see her lips pinch whenever she talks about her father.
She holds no respect for the man.
She knows he’s dirty and wants nothing to do with him.
If she believes as I do—that right and wrong is a spectrum—maybe she’d understand my side and even help me complete this mission.
Or maybe she’d shoot me straight in the dick and send me back to New York bleeding.
I groan and shove my face into her silky pillow.
Why would she ever trust me again if she knew the truth?
I reach out, because I am just that much of a selfish prick, and caress her hair to soothe my jaded heart.
This mission is too important to risk telling her. After what my uncle did to the Kings, I can’t fail. I owe Finn this much.
I owe myself this much.
With my honor at stake, failure is not an option.
My focus has to remain on Doyle.
On using Maeve to get what I need.
And not on the slippery slide of hair between my fingers. Not on the way her sweet scent invades my nose and sits on my tongue.
Not on the way I just killed to protect her.
Not on how I’d do so again.
I’ll keep her safe at any cost. From dangers who aren’t me anyway.
That’s got to count for something.
I let that thought blanket my guilty conscience as I lay my head on the pillow beside hers and slowly drift to sleep.