Chapter 20
CHAPTER
TWENTY
I catch Conall watching me in the mirror as I slide the black dress up my body. His eyes burn into me from where he leans against the bedroom doorframe, still shirtless from our earlier encounter.
"Stop looking at me like that," I murmur, reaching for the zipper.
"Like what?" His voice carries that rough edge that makes my stomach flutter.
"Like you want to tear this dress off me before I even leave."
He pushes off the doorframe, moving toward me like a man starved. "Maybe because I do."
My breath catches as he stops behind me, his chest nearly touching my back. His fingers brush mine away from the zipper, drawing it up with agonizing slowness. Each touch sends fire racing under my skin.
"Behave," I whisper, though my body betrays me by melting back against him.
"When have I ever behaved?" His lips find that spot behind my ear that makes me weak. "Cancel dinner. Stay here with me instead."
God, I want to. I want to let him strip this dress away and lose myself in his hands, his mouth, the way he makes me forget everything except how he feels inside me.
"I can't." I force myself to step away, grabbing my purse before he can tempt me further. "Petrov's expecting me."
Conall's jaw tightens. "I don't like you meeting him alone."
"It's the Harbor Club, not some back alley." I turn to face him, drinking in the sight of his bare chest, the way his jeans hang low on his hips. "Besides, I can handle one Russian businessman."
"He's not just a businessman, and we both know it." His eyes flash with something dangerous. "Promise me you'll be careful."
I cross to him, rising on my toes to press a kiss to his lips. What starts as reassurance turns hungry the moment our mouths meet. His hands fist in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss until I'm breathless and aching.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "Come home to me, Saoirse. Whatever he offers, whatever he threatens—come home to me."
"Always," I promise, though my voice shakes.
The Harbor Club drips with old money and dirty secrets. I spot Valentin Petrov immediately—silver-haired, immaculate in his charcoal suit, positioned at a corner table where he can see everything. A king surveying his potential territory.
He stands as I approach, taking my hand and pressing it to his lips. "Saoirse. Stunning, as always."
"Valentin." I settle into the chair he holds, hyperaware of how his eyes track my every movement. "Thank you for dinner."
"The pleasure is mine." He signals the waiter, who appears with champagne I didn't order. Dom Pérignon, naturally. "To new ventures."
"To understanding each other better," I counter, clinking my glass against his.
We order while he asks polite questions about my education, my time abroad, my thoughts on Boston's changing landscape. I give careful answers, noting his habits—the way his thumb taps when he's thinking, how his accent thickens when he's amused.
The food arrives, but I'm too wound up to eat much. Something feels off about this entire evening, like he's playing a game I don't understand yet.
"Your proposal has merit," I say finally, cutting to the heart of it. "But Irish families prefer business partnerships to personal arrangements."
His smile tells me he expected this. "American women. So independent." He cuts his steak slowly. "In Russia, marriages create unbreakable bonds."
"In Boston, they create complications."
"Your family already has complications." His tone stays conversational, but ice creeps into his eyes. "O'Brien, for example."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Timothy O'Brien—one of our most trusted dock supervisors. Fifteen years of loyal service.
"What about O'Brien?"
"Seventy thousand dollars over six months. Very detailed shipping schedules, security rotations, meeting locations." Petrov sips his wine like we're discussing the weather. "My sources are quite reliable."
The room tilts around me. If O'Brien's been selling us out, what else don't I know? How many others are there?
"Why tell me this?" I manage.
"Because allies share intelligence." His smile turns sharp. "Enemies exploit it."
The threat hangs between us, wrapped in silk but sharp as a blade. Marry him, or he might use our weaknesses to destroy us.
"Generous of you," I say through gritted teeth.
"I'm a generous man. To those who appreciate it." He leans back, completely at ease. "The question is, how many other O'Briens are there? Your father trusted freely. Perhaps too freely."
My blood runs cold. If our security is this compromised, if people we've trusted for years are selling us out...
"I need to go." I stand abruptly, my appetite gone.
"Of course. Think about what I've said." He doesn't get up, just watches me with those calculating eyes. "But don't think too long, Saoirse. In our world, opportunities disappear quickly. Along with the people who miss them."
I'm pacing my apartment like a caged animal when Conall arrives with files under his arm. The moment I see his face, I know it's bad.
"How much of it's true?" I demand.
"All of it." He tosses the papers on my coffee table. "Fourteen payments. Five grand each. Deposited to an account his wife doesn't know about."
"Fucking hell." I grab my wine glass, draining it in one gulp. "What did he sell?"
"Everything. Shipping manifests, guard rotations, family meeting locations." Conall's voice is granite. "Enough information to plan a hit on any of us."
The walls feel like they're closing in. I pour another glass of wine with shaking hands, trying to process the betrayal. O'Brien sat at our family table. His kids played with our cousins.
"How many others?" I whisper.
"We don't know yet. But Saoirse..." Conall moves toward me, his expression grim. "There's more."
"More?"
"O'Brien's been meeting with someone. Same person every time. We have photos."
He hands me a photo that makes my knees buckle. O'Brien shaking hands with Detective Morrison—the cop who's supposed to be on our payroll.
"Jesus Christ." I sink onto the couch. "Morrison's playing both sides?"
"Looks like it. Which means Petrov knows about our police contacts too."
The full scope of our exposure hits me like a physical blow. Our security is Swiss cheese. Our trusted people are selling us out. And now a Russian crime boss wants to marry me to keep from exploiting those weaknesses.
"We're fucked," I breathe.
Conall sits beside me, pulling me against his chest. "No. We're not."
"How can you say that? Our entire operation is compromised."
"Because we're still breathing. Because we found out before it was too late." His hands stroke my hair, grounding me. "And because you're brilliant, and we'll figure this out."
I want to believe him, but the weight of it all threatens to crush me. Every decision I make could get someone killed. Every person I trust could be another O'Brien.
"I can't do this," I whisper into his chest. "I'm not ready to lead. I don't know who to trust."
"You trust me." His voice is fierce, certain. "That's enough."
I pull back to look at him, seeing nothing but absolute conviction in his eyes. No doubt. No fear. Just unwavering faith in me.
"Is it? Is trusting one person enough to run an empire?"
"It is when that person would burn the world down to keep you safe." His thumb traces my cheek. "I love you, Saoirse. Whatever comes next, we face it together."
The words break something loose in my chest. I've been holding back, afraid to give him everything, afraid to need him too much. But sitting here surrounded by betrayal and threats, I realize he's the only solid thing in my world.
"I love you too," I whisper, and his entire face transforms.
He kisses me then, soft and reverent, like I'm something precious he can't quite believe he gets to hold. But I don't want reverent. I want fire. I want to forget about O'Brien and Morrison and Petrov's smug threats.
I bite his lower lip, hard enough to make him groan. His control snaps instantly. His hands fist in my hair, yanking my head back so he can claim my mouth. This kiss is desperate, hungry, full of all the fear and need we've been holding back.
"Need you," I gasp against his lips. "Need your cock inside me."
"Christ, Saoirse." His voice breaks on my name.
He's already working the zipper of my dress, his hands shaking with need. The black fabric pools around my feet as he lifts me, carrying me toward the bedroom. I wrap my legs around his waist, grinding my pussy against the hard length of him through his jeans.
"Off," I demand, tugging at his shirt. "I want to feel your skin."
He sets me down long enough to strip, and God, the sight of his cock makes my mouth water. Hard and thick and perfect. Mine.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathes, drinking in the sight of me in just my bra and panties. His eyes are dark with hunger. "So fucking beautiful."
He backs me toward the bed, mouth hot on my throat. "You have no idea what you do to me," he murmurs against my skin. "How hard you make me just thinking about you."
"Show me," I whisper, already wet and aching for him.
He pushes me back onto the mattress, following me down. His mouth finds my breast through the lace, sucking and biting until I arch beneath him. When he finally strips away my bra, his tongue circles my nipple, making me cry out.
"Please," I beg, too desperate for pride. "I need you inside me."
"Tell me what you want," he growls, hooking his fingers in my panties and dragging them down. "Tell me exactly how you want my cock."
"Hard," I gasp as he settles between my thighs. "Fast. I want you to fuck me until I can't think."
He drives into my pussy in one brutal thrust that steals my breath. We both groan at the perfect friction, the way his thick cock stretches and fills me completely.
"God, you're so tight," he breathes, holding still for a moment. "So wet for me."
I dig my nails into his shoulders, urging him to move. "Fuck me, Conall. Make me come on your cock."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He sets a punishing rhythm that has me screaming with every stroke. The headboard slams against the wall as he pounds into my pussy with desperate need.
"Mine," he growls in my ear, one hand gripping my hip while the other finds my clit. "This pussy belongs to me."
"Yes," I cry out, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Only you. Only your cock."
He rubs my clit in tight circles while he fucks me, and the dual sensations push me toward the edge embarrassingly fast. My pussy clenches around his cock as pleasure builds.
"That's it," he pants. "Come for me. Let me feel your pussy squeeze my cock."
His dirty words shatter my control. I convulse around him, his name torn from my throat as my orgasm crashes over me. He follows with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing as he fills me with his come.
We collapse together, hearts racing and skin slick with sweat. I curl against his side, using his heartbeat to steady my own.
"Whatever happens with Petrov," I say into the comfortable silence, "I'm not marrying him."
Conall's arm tightens around me. "Good. Because I'd have to kill him if you did."
"Would you really?"
He tilts my chin up, meeting my eyes with deadly seriousness. "In a heartbeat. You're mine, Saoirse. I don't share."
The possessiveness in his voice sends heat spiraling through me again. "What if he retaliates? Uses what he knows against us?"
"Then we'll be ready. We know about O'Brien now. We can feed him false information, set traps, turn the tables." His fingers trace patterns on my bare shoulder. "Your father built this empire by being smarter than his enemies. You're his daughter. You can do the same."
"And if I can't?"
"Then we'll figure something else out. Together." He presses a kiss to my hair. "I meant what I said before. Whatever you decide, I'll support it. I trust you."
His faith steadies something inside me. With Conall beside me, I can face anything—Russian threats, Irish betrayals, the weight of family legacy.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it, frowning at the unknown number.
"Saoirse Kavanagh?"
"Yes."
"This is Detective Morrison. We need to talk. There's something you should know about O'Brien."
My blood turns to ice. I meet Conall's eyes as he tenses beside me.
"I'm listening," I say carefully.
"Not over the phone. Meet me at the Seaport Hotel bar in an hour. Come alone."
The line goes dead.
"Well?" Conall asks, though his expression says he already knows it's bad.
"Morrison wants to meet. He says there's something I should know about O'Brien."
"It's a trap."
"Probably." I sit up, mind racing. "But what if it's not? What if he has information we need?"
"Then I'm coming with you."
"He said come alone."
"I don't give a shit what he said." Conall's eyes flash with fury. "You're not walking into a trap without backup."
I study his face, seeing the fear beneath the anger. He's terrified of losing me, and honestly, the feeling is mutual.
"Fine. But you stay hidden unless things go sideways."
"Deal." He kisses me hard, claiming and desperate. "But if that bastard tries anything..."
"You'll kill him. I know." I smile against his lips. "My very own guard dog."
"Damn right."
As we dress for what could be another trap, I realize something has shifted between us tonight. The careful distance we've maintained, the professional boundaries—all of it burned away in the face of real danger.
Whatever Morrison wants, whatever game Petrov is playing, we'll face it together. As partners. As lovers.
As equals who would burn the world down for each other.