Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
RJ
I don't sleep.
Haven't properly in years, but last night was worse than usual.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.
Ash blonde hair catching the stable light.
Blue eyes that refused to look away.
That mouth curving like she knew exactly what she was doing when she turned her back on me and walked into the dark.
Enjoy your lurking.
Jaysus.
I drag myself out of bed before dawn, muscles tight from the few hours I managed.
The house is quiet—Da's still asleep down the hall, his snores rattling through the thin walls like they have since I was a boy.
Some things never change.
The new Brotherhood house sits at the eastern edge of the Mackenzie estate, close enough to respond to any threat within minutes, far enough to give the main house its privacy.
It's not fancy—a converted farmhouse with six bedrooms, a communal kitchen, and a sitting room nobody uses because we're never all here at the same time.
Home.
Such as it is.
I pull on joggers and a vest, lace up my trainers, and slip out the back door before anyone else stirs.
The morning air hits my lungs like ice water—clean and sharp, tasting of rain that hasn't fallen yet.
Ireland in spring.
Gray skies and green fields and that particular damp that seeps into your bones if you let it.
I don't let it.
I run the perimeter of the estate every morning.
Six kilometers of stone walls and rolling pastures, past the stables and the barns and the formal gardens that cost more to maintain than most people earn in a year.
It's not about fitness—though that's part of it.
It's about knowing the land.
Every gate, every blind spot, every shadow where a threat could hide.
The horses watch me as I pass their paddocks.
Mrs. Mackenzie's rescues—broken things she puts back together because she can.
There's a metaphor there, probably.
I don't want to think about it.
This morning, I push harder than usual. Trying to outrun the memory of blue eyes that saw too much.
My feet pound the wet grass. My lungs burn. My muscles scream.
It doesn't work.
She's still there. Behind my eyes. In my head. That fecking smile as she walked away from me like I was nothing. Like I wasn't dangerous. Like she'd looked into the dark and found it wanting.
No one looks at me like that.
No one should look at me like that.
I've killed men for less than the way she challenged me.
I've done things that would make her run screaming if she knew.
I'm not a man—I'm a weapon.
Forged by my father, sharpened by the Brotherhood, aimed wherever the Mackenzies point me.
And she looked at me like I was just a man.
Flesh and blood and something almost human.
I hate her for it.
I hate myself more for wanting her to do it again.
Da's in the kitchen when I get back, standing over the hob with a spatula in one hand and a cup of Barry's in the other.
The smell of rashers and black pudding fills the room, and my stomach growls despite itself.
"Thought I heard you leave." He doesn't turn around. "You're up early. Even for you."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Mm." He flips a rasher, the fat sizzling. "Sit down. I'll have this ready in a minute."
I sit.
Not because he told me to—I'm twenty-eight fecking years old—but because arguing with Rex Malone about breakfast is a battle no one's ever won.
The man's been feeding the Brotherhood soldiers since before I was born.
He takes it personally when people skip meals.
"How's the leg?" I ask.
"Grand."
It's not grand.
He took a bullet to the thigh six months ago, protecting Aleksandr during a business meeting that went sideways.
The doctors said he was lucky it missed the femoral artery.
Da said luck had nothing to do with it—he'd angled his body on purpose, knew exactly where the shot would land.
That's the thing about my father.
Fifty-one years old, thirty of them spent in service to the Mackenzie family, and he's still the most precise man I've ever known.
Every movement is calculated and every decision is deliberate.
He made me the same way.
I was eight when he first put a gun in my hands.
Ten when I learned to fight.
Twelve when I understood that the Brotherhood wasn't just a job—it was blood.
Legacy. The only thing that mattered.
My mother left when I was three.
Couldn't handle the life, Da said.
Couldn't handle being married to a man who belonged to someone else first.
I don't remember her face, don't want to.
Da raised me alone in this house, surrounded by men who lived and died by the same code.
Loyalty above all. Protect the family. Do what needs doing without hesitation or remorse.
I learned those lessons well.
Maybe too well.
Plate lands in front of me.
Full Irish—rashers, pudding, eggs, beans, toast, grilled tomato.
Enough food for two men.
Da's brown bread on the side, still warm from the oven.
He bakes it himself every morning, the same recipe his mother taught him before she died.
It's the only soft thing about him.
"Eat," he says, settling across from me with his own plate. "You'll need your strength today."
I look up. "Why? What's happening today?"
Da takes a long sip of his tea, watching me over the rim.
There's something in his eyes.
Something that makes my shoulders tense. "Mrs. Mackenzie is hosting a showing this afternoon. Private event. Buyers and press, maybe sixty people. She wants full coverage."
Normally, I’d ask which Mrs’, but I know he must be talking about Greer.
"Grand. I'll coordinate with Brennan and—"
"She wants you on close protection."
I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. "Close protection for who?"
"The sister."
The fork clatters against the plate.
The sister.
Da's expression doesn't change, but I know him well enough to see the curiosity lurking beneath the surface.
He heard something. Saw something. The man doesn't miss a fecking thing.
"She's family now," he continues, like he hasn't just dropped a bomb on my morning. "The wife's twin. Mrs. Mackenzie wants her covered whenever she's off the estate, and since Miss Dalla will be presenting some of her work at the showing—"
"Someone else can do it."
The words come out sharper than I intend.
Da's eyebrows rise. "Excuse me?"
"I said someone else can do it. Put Brennan on her. Or Cillian. I'll handle the perimeter."
"Cillian's in Belfast. Brennan's on Aleksandr." Da sets down his tea, and now I see it—the steel beneath the patience.
The commander beneath the father. "You're the best close protection we have, RJ.
You know it. I know it. And this woman is connected to people who have enemies on three continents. "
"So assign two men. Three. I don't need to be one of them."
"What's the problem?"
Blue eyes. Ash blonde hair. A mouth that curved when she told me to enjoy my lurking.
"There's no problem."
"Then why are you arguing with me?"
Because she saw me.
Because she didn't flinch.
Because when I told her to go inside where it was safe, she looked at me like I was the interesting danger, not whatever shadows I was warning her about.
Because I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since.
"There's no problem," I repeat, and shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth so I don't have to say anything else.
Da watches me for a long moment.
I can feel his assessment—cataloging my reactions, filing them away for later analysis.
He's been reading people for longer than I've been alive.
There's no hiding from him.
But he doesn't push. That's not his way.
"The showing starts at two," he says finally. "Mrs. Mackenzie wants you in position by noon. Full suit. Try not to look like you're about to murder someone."
"I always look like that."
"I know. That's the problem."
He goes back to his breakfast, and I go back to mine, and neither of us mentions the sister again.
But I feel it.
The shift.
Something's coming that I can't outrun.
The venue is a renovated Georgian townhouse in the heart of Dublin, all high ceilings and original moldings and windows that let in the watery afternoon light.
Greer Mackenzie has transformed it into a showcase space—racks of clothing draped in white fabric, a runway down the center of the main room, champagne stations positioned at strategic intervals.
Sixty-three guests on the list.
I've memorized every name, every face, every possible connection to anyone who might wish the Mackenzies harm.
The security team has been briefed.
Exits are covered.
Sight lines are clear.
Everything is under control.
Except my fecking heartbeat when she walks in.
Dalla.
She's wearing something soft—cream colored, flowing, the kind of dress that moves when she moves.
It should look innocent.
Bridal, almost.
Instead, it makes me think of bedsheets.
Of skin.
Of things I have no business thinking about a woman I've been assigned to protect.
Her hair is down today, those ash blonde waves catching the light, the darker strands threaded through like honey in milk.
She's laughing at something her sister said, head thrown back, completely unguarded.
She hasn't seen me yet.
Good.
I position myself near the back wall, where I can see the whole room without drawing attention.
That's the job—be everywhere, be invisible, be ready.
I've done it a thousand times.
I've never had to do it while fighting the urge to stare at my principal like a gobshite teenager with his first crush.
Focus.
I scan the room.
The guests are filtering in now, air-kissing and exclaiming over the space, the clothes, each other's outfits.
Fashion people.
I'll never understand them.
All that fuss over fabric and stitching and whatever the feck a "silhouette" is.
But Dalla...
I watch her move through the crowd, and I start to see it differently.
The way her eyes light up when she touches a garment.
How her hands trace the seams like she's reading a story written in thread.
She's not performing—she cares.
About the craft.
The creation.
She stops at one of the racks, pulling back the white draping to reveal something dark and structured underneath.
A jacket, maybe.