Wicked Duty (Irish Kings #5)

Prologue

Callum

Tucked away in a corner study of the Gallagher estate, I stifle a yawn.

Wall-to-ceiling bookshelves, priceless paintings and art works, and oversize high-end leather furniture surround me.

Meanwhile, I’ve chosen to sit in the one piece of furniture, a plush chaise lounge, that barely fits my frame.

In the couch next to it, Darren Kelly—one of my oldest friends—sits with his new wife, Veronika.

Darren, who grew up in this mafia palace, tracks everything in the room with his intense blue eyes. He’s behaved this way since we were kids.

His left hand tangles with his difficult-to-read partner’s.

Her pale blond hair, usually tucked into a tight bun at the back of her neck, gives her an uptight appearance.

And there’s always some mysterious storm brewing behind her gray eyes.

That pristine poker face rarely reveals anything.

Still, behind that perfect posture, I note the subtle tension in her lean muscles.

She hides any worries by masking her expression, but my gut insists she’s nervous. And my gut rarely lies.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand why today must be important to her.

Directly across from me, in the massive wingback to Veronika’s left, sits one of the most dangerous men on US soil. He puffs on a cigar in pensive silence, intimidating the very air in the room.

The one and only Shane Gallagher.

Old Bulletproof, as he’s known in organized crime circles.

Everything here belongs to this man. Shit, as long as we’re within the property line, we belong to him too.

His metallic silver eyes, sharp as live steel, slice with a single glance. His stubbled face conveys a combination of impatience and disinterest.

After completing my initial assessment of the room’s inhabitants, I allow my gaze to wander.

Around me, polished wood panels gleam. Books line every shelf, low to high.

An elegant spiral staircase curves up and around to a second level.

Sculptures line the mantle of a marble fireplace, and a larger-than-life painting of a Dublin cityscape from the nineteenth century completes the over-the-top architecture.

An old-world floor globe stands to my right. From this distance, Ireland resembles a splatter of baby food more than my birth country. I’d rather be there right now than stuck in this room.

After all, it is August. About this time every year, I make a special trip back.

Just to visit…

A man’s voice interrupts my ruminations. “I apologize for the delay.”

Striding along the upstairs banister toward the spiral staircase, with a matte black laptop secured under one arm, is the man I suspect we’re waiting on.

“No problem, Ror. It’s not like any of us have better things to do than sit around until you show your ugly mug.”

Veronika elbows Darren in the ribs, effectively shutting him up.

The newcomer ignores Darren’s taunt. “Trinity called to ask me how to get rid of a computer virus. I lost track of time.”

I mouth the name at Darren, who leans close and whispers. “Finn’s half-sister.”

“Rory.” Shane shifts, prompting Darren to resume his upright position. “Any news?”

“Something’s definitely going on in LA. I’ve got feelers out but nothing solid to report.” Rory runs a hand through his messy brown waves while bypassing our little group for a mahogany lectern in the corner. “I’ll update you as soon as I know more.”

“Callum.” Darren nods at me. “This is Rory O’Connor. He runs all the Kings’ technology operations.”

Ah. The IT guy.

I mask a twinge of irritation. So the four of us have been sitting here for over twenty minutes, cooling our heels and twiddling our thumbs, while waiting for…a computer geek?

I only came today because Darren, the adopted son of Donal Gallagher and a member of the Irish Kings’ ruling family, requested my presence. Aside from belonging to one of the most powerful mafia organizations in New York City, he’s also a friend.

Darren “retired” from the mob world, so to speak, and opened shop as the director of a security firm.

Or, I guess it’s more accurate to say Darren and his wife founded this security firm together.

He’s the tactical, explosive part of the duo, while Veronika is the calm former ballerina turned hacker.

Darren and I go way back. He’s tossed me multiple jobs over the years, so when he reached out to see if I still freelanced for high-profile clients in need of protection, linking up was a no-brainer. For Darren Kelly, I’ll always be muscle for hire.

The chaise lounge creaks as I adjust my weight. I’m starting to wonder if getting involved in this—whatever this is—was a bad idea. Pungent-sweet cigar smoke reaches my nose, and I flick another subtle glance in Shane’s direction.

That man is more than just the head of the Irish Kings.

He’s one of the most revered—as well as ruthless and dangerous—businessmen on the Eastern Seaboard. Darren hadn’t mentioned that “Uncle Shane” would be here today. Or that this mysterious assignment involved the Kings’ leader at all.

If I’d realized the Gallagher patriarch was somehow connected to all this, I wouldn’t have come. As I know from past experience, there’s no such thing as assisting the mob once.

And there’s no favor that won’t come back to bite you in the ass.

Still, I’m already here. And I sure as fuck could use the money, so I might as well keep an open mind and see how this plays out.

Rory, the tech master, presses some buttons I can’t see on the lectern. Four bookshelves split apart to reveal a flat screen television set into the woodwork’s foundation.

He opens his laptop and begins fiddling as we all rotate in anticipation of the show. When he finishes, a video conferencing window pops to life on the screen, along with the blinking icon that indicates someone’s on hold.

Veronika shares a quick glance with Darren. “Oh good, she’s here.”

Shane gestures toward the screen. “Put her through, Rory.”

I straighten. I have no clue who “her” is, but I guess I’m about to find out.

In a matter of seconds, we’re all staring at a brunette woman with alert dark eyes and a nervous cast to her features.

Veronika’s the first to speak. “Maya, you know Darren.” She goes on to introduce the rest of us without specifying exactly who Maya is.

“We’ve gathered all of you here today to discuss our newest client.

” Darren’s a pro at commanding a room’s attention, though that’s often because of his fierce energy more than his oration skills.

He addresses me directly. “Lucy Marlow, Maya’s younger sister, is a burgeoning supermodel, and we want you to handle her protective detail going forward. ”

Cold disbelief splashes my face. I shoot Darren an incredulous look, because, what the fuck?

“A model.” My flat tone hides another twinge of annoyance.

An unflinching Veronika meets my gaze head-on. “She needs a bodyguard. A good one. A lot of powerful players are after her, and we don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.”

Despite my knee-jerk reaction to the idea of guarding a snooty, shallow, empty-headed model, a burst of intrigue pierces through my skepticism.

I sit up taller in my seat. “What happened ‘last time’?”

“A few months ago, while pursuing work through a local modeling agency, Lucy got mixed up with a human trafficking ring operated by Sophia Kovaleva and Troy Sullivan.” Darren never minces words.

“They planned to sell a number of women at a huge summit, but with Veronika’s help, we managed to bust up the party and shut the whole operation down. ”

Damn. Was not expecting that. How the hell did Maya’s little sister get involved with a human trafficking ring operated by the Russian Bratva? And what did Lucy think she’d gain in exchange? Money? Influence? A leg up in a mediocre modeling career?

And Darren wants me to be this woman’s bodyguard?

I battle the urge to sneer. “Let me guess. Shutting down the summit didn’t make you any friends?”

“We originally believed Kovaleva and Sullivan’s Red Hill goons were the driving force behind the auction, but the event was actually meant to be Viktor Roguilin’s American debut.”

My jaw hits the floor when Darren drops that name.

No wonder his uncle’s in the room.

Viktor Roguilin is more than a Russian mob boss. That powerhouse of a man heads an international crime network that makes the Irish Kings seem like a bunch of Martha Stewarts. Compared to Roguilin’s resume, Shane Gallagher might as well be an altar boy.

“We’ve been monitoring his operations closely ever since the summit’s collapse.” Veronika’s voice darkens with every word. “We found out he has modeling agency fronts all over Europe and Asia.”

Rory crosses his arms over his chest as he angles toward me. “From what we’ve gathered, he was trying to expand to the US, and he put the event in Kovaleva’s hands to manage.”

Darren pulls the fat dossier off the coffee table between us and hands it to me.

The thing weighs at least a pound. “Long story short, a lot of his highest profile clients and associates showed up for the opening and were killed in the crossfire, and the backlash has been more than Roguilin bargained for.”

“What’s this?” I open the flap to find a huge manuscript tucked inside.

“The charges Viktor’s been slapped with.”

I balk. “The Feds are involved?” No one in the room replies as I pull out the document. “Just how much chaos did you guys create?”

“This is why we need your help, Callum.” Maya’s clear, if anxious, voice drifts across space, time, and technology.

“My sister, along with everyone else involved, was named in the court case against him, and…” The woman chokes up, and I can see her eyes well with tears from twenty feet away.

“I’m worried he’s going to send someone to hurt Lucy… or worse.”