34. Deargán
DEARGáN
My gaze remained fixed on the door long after it closed behind her. Some stubborn, pathetic part of me expected it to open again. Expected her to come back.
I hadn’t moved. I’d waited for her. Watching the doorway after she left. Just in case.
There was no just in case.
She had not looked back.
And she had not come back.
Hours later, the cognac remained untouched in my hand. Amber liquid caught the glow from the monitors lining the far wall. Mikhailov’s documents and everything we had on the Sons and Magdalene on the screen.
I finished outlining my next steps.
Bas lounged in the chair opposite my desk, his boots propped up on the desk. A small knife spun lazily between his fingers as he studied me. “You’re not serious. You can’t do this alone.”
A growl threatened to work its way up my throat, my words coming out sharper than intended. “I can and I will.”
He raised an eyebrow.
The infuriating bastard knew he was right.
Unfortunately, so did I.
That changed nothing.
He clicked his tongue as he pointed the tip of the knife to his chest. “Even I wouldn’t do this alone.”
I slammed the glass onto the desk. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
Not until I prove to her that I can give her what she wants.
He leaned farther back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. “Lorcan managed to fool Alistair. To infiltrate the Sons. Whatever else he is, he’s a useful set of hands.”
“He is a liability.”
Bas snorted. “He is a Lasair who hates the Lasairs. That’s not a liability. That’s a weapon.”
I said nothing.
He let the silence run for a moment. “You’re not worried he’s a liability. You’re worried he’ll say no.”
The cognac glass turned slowly in my fingers.
“Or worse.” His voice was quieter now, stripped of his usual easy cadence. “That he won’t.”
I let out a small grunt under my breath. “Kids these days think they know everything.”
He watched me, continuing to rotate his knife through his fingers in smooth, practiced movements. The look lingered long enough to become irritating.
Something moved behind his eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Understanding. I didn’t have the energy to examine it.
“Suit yourself,” he said eventually. “But I think you’ll want him.”
The room fell silent again. I ignored him. Or tried to.
My attention returned to the screens. To the cover Bas had created out of thin air. An elusive “fixer” for the Russian mafia. A deadly ghost of whispered legends. A man they hadn’t met but already feared.
I had the Mikhailov identity. Mikhailov had an invitation to the auction. I didn’t need the boy. I could walk into the Sons home under the guise of a phantom and nobody would question it. I could gather everything Bas needed to expose them.
And if the opportunity presented itself, I could put a bullet in Alistair’s skull myself.
I didn’t need Lorcan.
I didn’t need anyone.
My jaw tightened as the thoughts rang hollow.
When the Sons were gone, when every last one of them had been reduced to ash and memory, she would have to look at me differently. Maybe not with affection. Nor with trust. I had long since forfeited both.
I would settle for one moment of her not looking at me like I was monstrous. One single moment where she looked at me the way she had before she learned what I had done.
I would settle for that.
For that, I would burn the Sons to the ground.