Chapter 45 Sean
Sean
The cannery smells, a rancid perfume that clings to the back of my throat as we step through the warped metal door.
The Russians are already here, as expected, arranged like chess pieces around a gutted processing table that’s seen better decades.
Three men. No, four. One hangs back in the shadows near a pile of rotting crates, his silhouette deliberately positioned to remind us they have more bodies than we can see.
The man at the center rises as we enter.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of face that’s been broken and reset too many times to hold a genuine expression.
His suit is expensive but worn carelessly, like he put it on this morning and forgot about it.
Power raw and volatile is in every cell in his body.
“Mr. O’Neill,” he says in accented English, spreading his hands in a gesture that could be welcome or mockery. “And Mrs. O’Neill. How... domestic.”
Ciara’s hand brushes mine as we stop a respectful distance from the table. She’s steady beside me, her breathing controlled, her eyes cataloging every face, every exit, every potential threat. My wife is as deadly as they come. Christ, I love her.
“And you are?” she asks.
I fight the urge to smirk. My wife doesn’t suffer fools, even when they’re six-foot-four Russians holding court in a condemned building. The man’s amusement falters, replaced by a flicker of irritation that he quickly smooths over with a shark-like grin. “I am Nikolai Lebedev.”
Nikolai is, without a doubt, the kind of man who smiles while he’s breaking your fingers.
“You wanted to meet the man who took shots at your men. Here I am.”
“Here you are,” he echoes, those dead eyes traveling over me with the thoroughness of a butcher assessing meat.
“I expected someone... bigger. The stories we hear—Sean O’Neill, the drunk who became a killer.
The waste who found his spine.” His gaze slides to Ciara.
“Or perhaps he found something else to straighten him out, yes?”
I don’t rise to the bait. That’s not who I am anymore.
“Your men were in the way of a certain ledger I wanted,” I say evenly.
Nikolai’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “That is quite a collection method.” He laughs, a sharp bark that echoes off the metal walls.
The other Russians don’t join in. They’re watching Ciara and me with the focus of predators deciding whether we’re prey or competition.
“You hear that, Alexei? The O’Neill says we were in his way. ”
The man to his left—Alexei, presumably—grunts something in Russian. Nikolai waves him off.
“My associate says you have balls,” Nikolai translates, though I suspect that’s not exactly what was said. “I agree. Balls, or stupidity. We are still deciding which.”
Ciara shifts slightly beside me. Not nervous—positioning. I know she’s calculated exactly how many seconds it would take to draw, aim, and fire. How many bodies she could drop before they returned fire. She’s done the math, and part of me is terrified by how much that turns me on.
“The ceasefire holds,” I say, bringing the conversation back to solid ground. “Connor made that clear. We’re not here to escalate. We’re here because you asked for a face-to-face. Here’s my face.”
“Yes, and I’m wondering what to do with it.”
“Rearrange it in any way, shape or form, and the ceasefire your boss made with mine is over. You won’t win an all-out war on the streets of Dublin, Nikolai, and I think you know that. Your boss definitely does.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with tension. The man in the shadows shifts, and I hear the telltale click of a safety being thumbed off. Ciara hears it too. Her weight shifts almost imperceptibly onto the balls of her feet.
“Easy,” Nikolai says without looking back, and the shadow stills. He returns his attention to me, and something that might be respect flickers in those dead eyes. “You are not what I expected, Sean O’Neill. The stories say you are weak. A drunk. A failure.”
“The stories are old.”
“Clearly.” He drums his fingers on the table, a rhythmic tap that sets my teeth on edge. “So. You come here, to my meeting, with your wife who shoots like Spetsnaz with eyes like winter.” He smiles, and it’s almost genuine. “I like you. This is a problem.”
“Why is that a problem?” Ciara asks. Her voice is calm, curious even, as if we’re discussing the weather.
Nikolai’s gaze swings to her. “Because, Mrs. O’Neill, it would be much easier if I hated you both. Hate is simple. Respect is... complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“You shot my men.”
“If they were any good at their job, we wouldn’t be standing here,” I point out. “So, I’d say we did you a fucking favor.”
Nikolai stares at me for a beat, the silence stretching until it feels like a wire pulled tight enough to snap. Then, he laughs. It’s a guttural sound, devoid of humor but full of sharp edges.
“Valid,” he concedes. “Weakness is a disease. You cut out the rot. Perhaps I should thank you for saving me the bullet.”
“Consider it a professional courtesy,” I reply, not relaxing an inch.
He waves a hand, a dismissive gesture that causes the shadow in the corner to finally lower his weapon. “Go. The ceasefire stands. But Dublin is a small city, Sean O’Neill. Do not think because we are not shooting today that we are friends. We will be watching.”
“We’ll be watching back,” Ciara adds, her voice cool and level.
Nikolai’s gaze lingers on her with a mixture of wariness and appreciation before he nods. “I do not doubt it.”
I take Ciara’s elbow, guiding her backward toward the exit. We don’t turn our backs until the heavy metal door groans shut between us and the Russians. The sea air hits us instantly, stripping the stench of decay from my lungs.
“Well,” Ciara exhales as we reach the Bentley, the adrenaline finally bleeding out of her stance. “That went better than expected.”
“He respects the kill,” I mutter, unlocking the car. “But he’s a shark, Ciara. He just decided we weren’t worth the bite today.”
“Then we make sure we’re never worth the bite,” she says, sliding into the passenger seat.
I climb in beside her, the engine roaring to life like a beast waking up. As I drive us away from the docks, I know this is just the beginning.