Chapter 16
Liam
The air in Conor O’Connell’s private study is stale, recycled, and smells faintly of lemon polish and secrets.
It’s been five days since the ball. Five days of letting Lexie and River explore the grounds, letting them laugh and bond while I’ve stayed locked in this room, staring at screens far too long.
I’m hunting ghosts.
Or rather, I’m hunting the rot.
I scroll through another encrypted ledger, the blue light reflecting in my glasses.
I’ve been systematically cutting the cancer out of the Family business for months, ending my father’s trafficking routes, burning the bridges with the cartels, pivoting everything toward high-stakes shipping, arms, and tech.
Legitimacy. Or as close to it as a man like me can get.
But cancer doesn’t like to be cut out. It fights back.
And someone is bleeding money because of my conscience.
The list of suspects is long enough to pave a road to hell. The Old Guard is the longest: men who worshipped my father’s brutality and see my “morals” as weakness. Private investors lost millions when I shut down certain shipment lines. Family, close or distant, is no exception.
My tablet pings. A security alert.
I don’t reach for my gun. If they were here to kill me, there wouldn’t be a ping.
The side door opens, and a man slips inside. He’s dressed in black, inconspicuous. Cian. The Ghost. One of my personal loyal guards.
“You look like shit, Donovan,” he rasps dryly.
“Charming as ever, Cian.” I lean back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Tell me you have something.”
Cian doesn’t sit. He never sits. He stalks to the edge of the desk and drops a small, encrypted drive onto the mahogany. “The trap worked. We traced the chatter regarding your ‘relocation’ to the safehouse in the Catskills.”
A cold, grim satisfaction settles in my gut. I leaked false info that I was moving there to recover from my injuries.
“Who took the bait?”
“Two channels,” Cian says, crossing his arms. “Your uncle, Eamon. And your manager, O’Malley.”
I close my eyes for a split second. Eamon. My father’s brother. The man who taught me how to throw a knife. A little too Hamlet-cliche for my taste. But the butler-like manager betrayal isn’t much better.
“The safehouse was raided two hours ago,” Cian continues. “Professional hit squad. They went in heavy. If you’d been there…”
“I’d be dead.”
“In pieces,” Cian corrects. “They weren’t there to capture.”
It clarifies things. The street gang in the alley was just a probe—something messy and deniable. This…this was the execution.
“Your uncle wishes to meet with you,” adds Cian.
The vein in my throat throbs. “How very Claudius of him.”
Cian gives me a blank look, and I dismiss the uncultured bloke.
“Where?” I ask.
“The Family mausoleum. Tonight. 9 pm sharp. He vows to come alone.” Cian shrugs.
I consider how simple this could be a trap. But if O’Malley is the traitor, Eamon could also hold valuable information. And provide an alliance to confirm and trap the rat. A calculated risk.
“And the other matter?” I note.
Cian’s expression shifts, a subtle tightening around the eyes. “Claire Ryan. Lexie’s grandmother.”
He pulls a folder from inside his jacket and slides it across the desk. “You wanted a background check. You might want to sit down for this.”
“I am sitting.”
“Read it.”
I flip open the file. The first page is a standard bio: Queens, Art Historian, widow. But the second page is redacted so heavily, it’s like a censorship art project.
“She wasn’t just authenticating paintings, Liam.” Cian taps the page. “She was undercover FBI. Deep cover. The Russians, the Italians…she worked them all.”
My blood runs cold. “And my father?”
“Especially him,” he confirms. “She was a master forger. She’d recover stolen masterpieces for the Bureau by replacing them with forgeries so good, the Families never knew they’d been robbed. For a decade, she walked in and out of vaults, and no one suspected the woman with the magnifying glass.”
I stare at the photo of the sweet, white-haired woman from the pictures on Lexie’s phone. “She worked operations against the Donovan family?”
“She was the handler for one of the biggest informants in ‘92. She knows the game, Liam. Better than you. And if she’s letting her granddaughter stay with you…”
“She has a plan,” I finish, my stomach hardening like lead.
“Or she’s gathering intel,” he suggests. “Lexie visited her a week ago, right? If she told her anything…”
“Lexie didn’t know anything then.”
“She knows now.”
I slam the file shut. “Lexie is not an asset, Cian. She’s not a spy.”
“She’s still blood,” Cian counters sharply.
He drops another item on the desk, a small, black key fob. “Access to the offshore account. Untraceable. It’ll fund the cleanup.”
“Thank you, Cian.”
He nods, turning to the door. “Watch your back, Liam. And maybe watch the girl. You know families hold dangerous secrets.”
He slips out as quietly as he entered, leaving me with the weight of betrayal.
But none will ever come from Elexia Carter.
Taking a deep breath, I pocket the drive and the key fob. I need coffee. And I need to see Lexie. Just seeing her quiets the storms in my head.
File in hand, I head downstairs, the morning sun streaming through the high windows, casting long shadows across the runners. The house is quiet. River left early this morning for her flight, tears and hugs, and promises to visit. It’s just us now.
I push open the double doors to the dining room, expecting to find an empty table or maybe my woman anxious to share breakfast.
I freeze.
Sitting at the head of the table, calm as you please, is an elderly woman. She has perfect white curls, a twinset camel-colored blazer, and she’s sipping coffee from one of Conor’s bone china cups.
Instant recognition. Claire Ryan.
I don’t reach for my gun, but every muscle in my body coils tight. I force a smirk and stroll into the room, pulling out the chair opposite her.
“Top of the mornin’ to ye,” I drawl, leaning back and crossing my arms. “An honor to meet Lexie’s grandmother. And the famous Claire Ryan.”
She doesn’t flinch. She puts her cup down with a soft clink and nods graciously. “A pleasure to meet the infamous head of New York’s Irish Family, Mr. Donovan.”
“Liam, please.” I glance around before selecting a fork. “Do I need t’eat quickly, then?”
She taps a manicured finger on the table and tilts her head, her eyes cunning and assessing. Similar to Lexie’s, but hidden behind decades of steel. “Whatever for?”
I peer around the empty room. “Just waiting for the men in black suits to haul me away. Perhaps they’re rappelling down the chimney as we speak?”
Claire smiles, small and dangerous, and lifts her coffee cup again.
“Perhaps I am not here to oversee such nasty business. We both know it’s unwarranted…
and why,” she hints, gesturing to the file I’d placed on the table when I sat down.
“Or perhaps I simply wanted to see the man who has my granddaughter so…flustered.”
The staff bustles in with the food. I stay seated, watching her, but I lift the basket of steaming rolls and offer it to her.
“I’ll have the steak and pork sausages, please,” she informs the server, not looking away from me.
I crook a smile. “A woman after me own heart.”
I oblige her, serving the meat onto her plate before helping myself to Eggs Benedict and the potato pancakes. I pour her fresh coffee, tea for myself, the domesticity of it jarring against the tension.
“Care to share why it’s unwarranted, Ms. Ryan?” I add a dollop of honey to my roll.
She cuts into her sausage, precise, clinical slices. “I knew your father, Liam.”
I stiffen. The knife in my hand stops moving.
“You’re nothing like him,” she adds, popping a piece of steak into her mouth.
I slowly butter my roll, forcing my shoulders to relax. “I will take that as a compliment.”
“Please do.” She chews thoughtfully, surmising me. “I know you have been operating through certain channels to purge the Family of its filthy enterprises. The sheer volume of wealth you’ve walked away from…it’s impressive. Stupid to men like Eamon, but impressive.”
She knows about Eamon. Of course she does. “I would prefer to say redirected the wealth.” My net worth is still in the hundreds of millions. Billions is an underhanded and unnecessary amount.
“Am I to assume you are here to take Lexie with you?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave.
Claire dabs her mouth with the napkin, then folds her hands on the table. “The thought crossed my mind. To lock her in handcuffs, kicking and screaming, until we reach an off-the-grid house in witness protection. I still have the clearance to make you disappear, Liam.”
“But…?”
She takes a deep breath and releases it, the mask slipping just enough to show the grandmother beneath. “Perhaps she has shared a few things with me.”
“You know about—”
“Brett. Yes.” Her eyes return to steel. “Two days. You killed for her after two days.”
I slice into my potato pancake. “And now, it has been a week. Are you also intrigued to know how our relationship will progress?”
“I will tell you what I know, Liam Donovan. One: I know you are a man of honor who would never intentionally harm my granddaughter. Two: Elexia is a grown woman and her own person. She is entitled to make her own choices, something she has been denied for too long under Brett’s shadow.
Three: I know my Elexia will be far safer in your care than anywhere else. ”
She leans forward, lowering her voice. “But here is what you must know. If you do let any harm come to her, directly or indirectly…if your world even bleeds onto her…I will rain down such a hellfire of federal and private consequences, it will make your father’s reign seem like a tea party.”
The threat is real and potent. But I also see the love.
“A fourth thing you should know, former Agent Ryan,” I say roughly, spine locking up, muscles bulging. “If any harm comes to my Lexie…” I emphasize the possessive. “I will castrate and dismember my way through a thousand men to protect her. If the world tries to bleed on her, I will drain it dry.”
Claire holds my gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Good. Then pass the marmalade.”
I release a deep breath and pass the jar.
Just then, the double doors swing open.
“Sorry, I’m late!” Lexie breezes in, smoothing down the front of a pink dress much shorter and lower-cut than anything she’s worn. She’s definitely showing off for me, and I definitely notice.
“I couldn’t decide what to we—”
She lifts her head, spotting the woman at the table. Her mouth falls open, her jaw dropping.
“Nana?!”