Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
I find Mother in the garden the next morning, deadheading roses with the precision of someone who's spent decades cutting away what doesn't serve her. The early sun catches the emerald in her wedding ring—a ring worth more than most people's houses.
"Walk with me," she says without looking up.
We move through paths she designed twenty years ago, past jasmine that blooms white against stone walls. This garden is Mother's kingdom—the one place she rules without question.
"Your brothers think you're playing house," she says, settling onto the bench beneath the old oak. "Pretending at business while they handle the real work."
"And you?"
Her smile could cut glass. "I think they're idiots. Just like their father."
She pulls a slim leather portfolio from her coat pocket. "Your father never knew about the Swiss accounts or the London properties." Satisfaction drips from every word. "Men see what they want to see."
The documents she hands me make my economics degree feel like a children's coloring book. Investment statements. Property deeds. Asset transfers spanning decades. Numbers with more zeros than I can count at first glance.
"You've been hiding family money?"
"Growing it. Protecting it. Multiplying it." Mother smooths her skirt. "Your father built the empire. I made sure it would outlive him."
"How much?"
"Enough to keep this family comfortable for three generations. Even if every other revenue stream dried up tomorrow."
The weight of her secret presses against my chest. All those years of watching her play the dutiful wife while she quietly moved mountains of cash through offshore accounts.
"Why tell me now?"
"Because you'll need weapons for what's coming." Mother stands, brushing dirt from her hands. "Cillian has vision but no spine. Eamon has fire but no brain. You have both."
"And Conall?"
Her eyes turn predatory. "Conall is dangerous in ways my sons will never be. He's earned his place through blood and brutality. But he serves the family, not himself."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he'll follow whoever proves they deserve to lead." Mother heads back toward the house. "Question is whether you have the balls to prove it."
Two hours later, I storm into Cillian's office. He looks up from his computer like a deer caught in headlights.
"I want in," I say. "The legitimate businesses."
He leans back. "Saoirse?—"
"I have a master's degree in economics from Oxford. I speak three languages fluently. I've spent six years learning how international markets actually work." I plant my hands on his desk. "Use me or explain to Mother why you're wasting family resources."
That shuts him up. Cillian knows better than to cross our mother.
"The shipping companies are hemorrhaging money," he says after a long pause. "European contracts need complete restructuring. You'd be working with Conall on operational oversight."
My pulse kicks up at his name. "Perfect."
"He doesn't coddle anyone. Or take orders from anyone except Father."
"Good thing I'm not planning to coddle him or give him orders."
Cillian studies my face. "Conference room in twenty minutes. Try not to get yourself killed."
I find Conall spreading maps across the mahogany table, red ink marking territories like a predator claiming hunting grounds. He doesn't acknowledge me when I enter, just continues his work. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that could snap a man's neck—or pin a woman beneath him.
"Your brother thinks you can help," he says without looking up.
"My brother's right."
Now those gray eyes find mine. They take inventory—my tailored suit, my straight spine, the way I position myself across the table instead of cowering in a corner chair.
"These are our current shipping routes." He points to lines crisscrossing the Atlantic. "Portuguese and Spanish operations turn profit. Everything else bleeds money."
I lean forward to study the documents. His scent hits me—leather and sandalwood and something purely male that makes my stomach clench with want. The table separates us, but I feel his presence like heat from a fire.
"The problem isn't your routes," I say, scanning the numbers. "It's your overhead. You're paying full port fees in cities where you own half the dock masters."
His finger traces a shipping lane. "Go on."
"Dublin, Liverpool, Amsterdam—our family has people in all these ports.
" I move around the table to point at specific entries, bringing us within arm's reach.
"But you're still paying standard rates instead of using those connections.
Cut fees by thirty percent, redirect through family-friendly terminals, save two million annually. "
When I reach across him for a calculator, my breast brushes his shoulder. The contact sends fire straight between my legs, making me wet with want. I pretend to focus on numbers while my body screams for his hands on my skin.
"You see what others miss," he says.
"I see opportunity." I punch calculations into the device. "European operations could turn fifteen percent profit within six months."
Conall straightens, studying my work. His presence overwhelms the room—six feet three inches of controlled violence and raw sexuality. When he leans over the maps to verify my calculations, his cologne wraps around me. I imagine that scent on my sheets, on my skin after he's fucked me senseless.
"Your brothers underestimate you," he says quietly.
"Everyone underestimates me."
"Not everyone."
Our eyes lock across scattered papers. The air crackles with electricity that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the way his gaze drops to my mouth.
I should step back. Create distance. Remember this is work, not foreplay.
Instead, I lean closer until I can feel his breath. "What do you see that they don't?"
"A woman who knows exactly what she wants." His voice turns rough. "And takes it."
Heat floods my body, soaking my panties. The way he looks at me—like he wants to bend me over this table and take me hard—makes my knees shake and my pussy clench with need.
His phone explodes with sound, destroying the moment. He answers with deadly calm.
"Devlin." Pause. "How many down?" His face turns to stone. "Burn it all?"
I watch him transform from the man who almost claimed me into something cold and lethal. Power radiates from him as he handles the crisis, his voice carrying absolute authority that makes my core throb with forbidden desire.
"Secure eastern terminals. Reroute Amsterdam through Cork. Get me Connor—now."
He ends the call and fixes those gray eyes on me. "We're done here."
"What happened?"
"Someone torched our South Boston facility. Three dead, half our inventory ash." His jaw could cut diamonds. "Go home, princess. Let the wolves handle this."
The dismissal burns, but I catch the concern flickering in his gaze. He's protecting me the only way he knows how—by pushing me away.
"This conversation isn't finished," I say, gathering my papers with hands that still shake.
"No," he agrees, his stare scorching. "It's not."
I walk out on unsteady legs, my body aching with unfulfilled lust. My panties are soaked, my nipples hard against my bra, every nerve ending screaming for his touch. Whatever's building between Conall and me just became infinitely more dangerous.
And I've never wanted anything more in my life.