Chapter 8
Eight
“Even the prettiest gifts can feel like handcuffs once you know who sent them.” – Aria Boschett
Since Simon dropped the bomb about Hayden, my workload has tripled.
The moment he smugly informed me of the extra client files dumped into my online workspace, I knew this was his version of a punishment.
Too bad for him... it’s a blessing in disguise.
Numbers are the only predictable thing in my life right now, keeping me grounded, anchored in logic while the rest of my world spirals into chaos.
If I keep my head down, drowning in spreadsheets and profit margins, I don’t have time to think about Cyan.
I work late every night, pushing myself until exhaustion claims me. It’s the only way to avoid obsessive thoughts about Hayden’s death, or the disturbing, unwanted dreams of the man currently threatening my life.
A few days later, I’m halfway through my tuna sandwich when Judith breezes into the break room. The second she spots me, she beelines straight over, eyes gleaming with fresh gossip. I like her, I do—but I’m not in the mood. My life is already a soap opera.
“Oh my God, Aria! Did you hear what happened between Terry and Jamie? You won’t believe it!
” She drops her butt in the empty seat opposite me.
I don’t get the chance to respond before she launches into a full-speed breakdown of their secret romance, messy workplace drama, and the supposed engagement ring hidden in Jamie’s drawer.
Judith is a natural talker. The type of person who knows everything about everyone.
Which means if anyone knows about Cyan, it’s her.
I weigh my options. How do I get her talking without raising suspicion?
“Hey, Judith, I wanted to ask you something. I bought something at the woodcarver’s booth at the Harvest Festival.
There was a mix-up, and I think I got the wrong item.
It belongs to a guy named Cyan. Any idea where I can find him?
” Judith gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as she leans in dramatically, lowering her voice to a hushed whisper.
“O...M... G. You met a MacBrady.” She pauses for effect.
“And not just any MacBrady... the head of the family.” My pulse stutters.
Judith is already spinning this into something it isn’t.
If she tells anyone else, the rumor will spread like wildfire through the office.
She grins excitedly. “Well, good thing Hayden is out of the picture! You just hit the jackpot, girl.” The weight of Hayden’s name settles like lead in my stomach.
I force the guilt down and keep my focus on Judith rattling info.
“I forgot you’re new in town. Remember, I told you about the MacBrady Clan being eye candy to women!
There are ten of them that live on the compound on the hill; they’re not all related, but they act like they are. You’re so lucky...”
“It’s not like that. Trust me, I’m swearing off dating for a while.”
Judith tilts her head, eyes sparkling. “Oh, come on. You’re telling me you weren’t even a little interested?”
I fake a laugh. “Nope. Just need to return his item, that’s all. You sure it’s the same guy?”
She squints at me. “Describe him.”
I pretend to think. “Tall. Ridiculously broad shoulders. Well-groomed auburn Van Dyke beard. Chiseled cheekbones. Piercing blue-green eyes. Irish accent.”
Judith lets out a squeal of excitement. “Yep! That’s Cyan MacBrady!
CEO of Cannonics Enterprises Corp.” She leans in closer.
“You know, people say he was a bit of a mystery when he moved here some years back, but that only adds to his allure.” Her voice turns dreamy.
“He’s done so much for Crescent Bay. When the fishing industry collapsed, people were losing everything.
Cyan stepped in. He paid off debts, saved businesses, my parents’ diner included.
He never asked for anything in return. Just stops by for a free meal now and then.
The man’s got a heart of gold. Everyone in town loves him.
” Her words clash with what I know. The man who threatened my life.
The man who stabbed Hayden without blinking, and yet, I remember Rosa’s words.
“In this town, family and loyalty are everything.” The sheriff’s actions that night were like shouting, Cyan MacBrady owns this town.
Judith waves a hand, pulling my wandering thoughts back to her.
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell my mom to let him know about the mix-up next time he comes in for dinner. ”
That’s the last thing I want. There’s an uncomfortable roll in my stomach—my sandwich threatening to make a comeback. I force a smile. “Thanks, Judith. No rush. Gotta get back to work.” As I stand, my heart pounds in my ears. I hope Judith will forget I ever asked her about Cyan.
When I get back to my desk, work is the furthest thing from my mind.
My hands hover over my keyboard, fingers twitching.
I have his last name now, and I intend to use it.
A quick search brings up a curated bio of Cyan MacBrady, painting him as an upstanding businessman, a self-made CEO.
A modern-day corporate success story. Bullshit.
I dig deeper, scrolling past the PR-polished surface.
The first ten pages are scrubbed clean, either through the efforts of powerful lawyers or something far worse.
The only thing of interest is a short article from The Boston Times, detailing how Cyan sued the city four times for harassment and wrongful arrest. Each time, he won multi-million-dollar settlements.
I keep searching. My pulse ticks higher.
Nothing. Then, I find a link buried on page eleven.
“The Rise of Boston’s New Capo—Cyan MacBrady.
” I click, and what I find is worse than I imagined.
Cyan’s world shattered the night his entire family burned alive.
His father, mother, and sister gone. A freak fire, the article says.
Mysterious circumstances... I swallow, fingers tightening on my mouse.
My stomach knots at the parallel between us.
Losing your parents leaves a wound that never heals.
I shake off the empathy, forcing myself to read on.
Cyan and his younger brother, Collin, were sent to live with their uncle, Calum MacBrady, a suspected small-time Irish gang boss.
Years later, while Cyan was in college, his uncle was killed in a drive-by.
That’s when everything changed. Cyan returned to Boston. He took over his uncle’s operations, barber shops, pubs, and small-time rackets. No one saw him coming. What happened next rewrote Boston’s underworld.
Cyan did the unthinkable; he unified the fractured Irish factions under one rule, his rule.
The Irish are usually divided and volatile, difficult to organize.
But somehow, he got them to fall in line.
Then, the war with the Boston Italians erupted.
Bodies started dropping. No one knew who was responsible until the Italians conceded.
A year later, Cyan’s officially recognized as Capo of Boston.
My throat runs dry as I keep reading. Cyan turned his underworld empire into a legitimate one. Collected favors from politicians. Built multi-million-dollar companies. Acquired rival businesses.
The Púca, an Irish nightmare shapeshifter.
That’s what they call him in the underworld.
He’s a specter woven into the fabric of Boston’s crime world.
It’s alleged that Cyan has a hand in everything.
I scroll down. Written by Henny Penny. How is a site like this one even still up?
I try searching for the author’s name but find nothing. I sit back, exhaling slowly.
With what I just read, how many people does Cyan own?
How many powerful men and women are indebted to him?
I’m nothing to him. A nobody. If I keep my head down, he’ll leave me alone until he needs a favour, maybe.
As I go back to my files, the image of Cyan flickers in my mind.
Not the ruthless crime boss, not the man who carved into Hayden’s flesh without hesitation.
The man I met at the festival booth, his voice curling around my senses with a gaze that lingered just a second too long.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head.
That was before I knew the truth. Before I knew it, he is a man dictating life and death.
Yet the memory of his piercing blue-green eyes still stirs something unsettling inside me. A slow, wicked pulse beats under my skin.
“Aria Boschett?” A sharp yelp escapes me as I jolt upright. A deliveryman stands before me, a towering bouquet of red roses in his hands. What the hell?
“Miss Boschett?”
“Uh... yes? That’s me.”
“Good. These are for you.” He shifts the massive arrangement forward. Who sent me flowers? “Ma’am?” The deliveryman pauses, brows furrowed.
“Ah... uh, hold on. Let me grab a tip.” I reach for my purse.
“No need.” He gestures to my desk. “I can leave them here if you like?”
I nod. “Sure, thanks.”
The bouquet sits there, a bold, taunting presence. Finally, I force myself to reach for the card. Reading it my heart skips a beat, and the card slips from my fingers. It flutters onto the desk, message side up.
For my Dove—C
My world tilts. Cyan just sent me flowers.