Chapter 9
NINE
The building is nothing short of awe-inspiring.
“There are seven floors, plus the parking garage,” Nan rambles as we step into the elevator.
I wonder if she is aware of how much the chatter helps my nerves and racing pulse.
“The ground floor is made up mostly of the McDonough’s bar.
The second floor is the family area. Living room, kitchen, and the like.
The third and fourth floors are the residential suites for the main family.
The fourth floor belongs to Liam, and only his print can open it.
The final floors house the soldiers without anywhere to go. ”
“The whole family lives in this one building?”
That is a lot of people all living under the same roof, constantly underfoot. Liam Kavanaugh has two more sons and a daughter, and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have everyone home at the same time.
Nan laughs. “Jaysus, no.” She smiles at me through the reflective mirror of the doors.
“Liam and his wife have a house near Greenlake, and the young’uns reside in Ireland for the time being.
The twins have an apartment somewhere. God knows where.
The two of them move more often than a plow sowing a field. ”
“Oh.”
Is that all I can say? Nan must think my brain is addled. Not that I care much.
Okay, maybe I care a little.
When the doors to the elevator open, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and bacon assaults my senses. My mouth waters, and my stomach rumbles. Shit, I haven’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday.
My gaze takes in every detail of the floor, searching and cataloging everything I can.
It is an open concept, with windows spanning from floor to ceiling along the farthest outside wall that overlooks the main street below.
Wooden columns dot the space that is softly decorated.
The walls are red brick, unpainted, left in their natural state.
It is homey as much as it is luxurious. Leather sofas in hues of burnt orange sit facing an overly large flat screen that hangs on the wall.
Bookcases crammed with books litter the space, which smells of pine and tobacco.
Voices drift from the dining room as we approach. They aren’t bothering to modulate their tone, and it becomes increasingly clear as we approach who they are talking about.
Me.
“Maybe because the arranged marriage he set up is about to come crumbling down.” That is Seamus. He sounds somewhat smug when he says it, his accent dipping slightly. It is one way I can tell him apart from his brother. That and the shiner Kiernan now has is a dead giveaway.
“How would you know that?” That isn’t an Irish accent.
“Because I refuse to marry a cheating pig,” I interrupt as I step into the massive dining room. My eyes widen slightly, taking it all in. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but this isn’t it.
The table is long and sturdy. A rich, handcrafted acacia wood table with a river of blue resin winding through it.
Several dishes stuffed with an assortment of foods, from crisps to mouthwatering bacon to a light fruit salad, are spread across the surface.
I stop just inside the doorway. All eyes are immediately on me. Suddenly, I am regretting my outburst.
A sea of emerald stares back at me, plus the stormy eyes of one man every knows about, but few barely glimpse.
Matthias Dashkov.
That is the accent I heard before.
“Thank you for joining us, Miss Jameson.” The man at the head of the table pulls my attention. His smile is tight, not quite reaching his eyes. He’s older, but his red hair graying slightly along the edges is his only sign of aging.
He looks like a king sitting at the head of the table, his well-trimmed beard and muscles visible beneath the button-down shirt he wears that stretches tightly over his chest. It is a glimpse into the future—a replica of what the twins would one day grow to become.
One word. Yummy.
Yummier, anyway.
They are already mouthwateringly delicious.
Where the fuck do I come up with this shit?
“I wasn’t aware it was a choice.” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “But thanks for the invite. I’m starving.” Kiernan smirks as I make my way toward him. The empty seat between him and the gaping Seamus has obviously been left empty for me.
“Close your mouth, Seamus,” I chide playfully as I take my seat. “You are not a codfish.”
The woman seated across from him at the table giggles while Dashkov, who sits closely to her right, chuckles lowly. Not every day you see a mafia boss chuckling at a reporter. That is one for the win column.
The man I easily infer to be Liam Kavanaugh, head of the Irish mob and the twins’ father, smirks in amusement, his green eyes lighting up.
“There is always a choice, Miss Jameson,” he tells me. “You could have said no and gone hungry.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I mutter under my breath, absently looking down at my bare plate.
There aren’t many memories of my mother left for my mind to cling to, but the ones that stand out the most were the days I’d gone hungry.
Left without food or care. She’d do that.
Leave me without a care in the world while she sought her high in the back of some dealer’s car or in a back alley.
Shaking off the depressive thoughts, I smile up at the feared Irish leader. “Call me Bailey. If your sons are going to hold me captive and feed me, you might as well drop the formalities.”
The redheaded woman snorts her drink at my words, which leads the burly Russian mafia leader to pat her on the back as she struggles to cough up the fluid that has undoubtedly found its way down the wrong tube.
Oops. Apparently, I have more comedic prowess than I realize.
I stare at the coughing woman for a moment as she struggles to breathe properly again.
She could almost be the twins’ triplet. Her red hair is wild and untamed, slightly darker in color, the curls falling well past her shoulders.
Her green eyes are the same luminous emerald as the rest of the Kavanaughs’.
There are faint traces of bruising along her face and scrapes across her knuckles.
This woman is a fighter.
“Tell me who put a hit out on our sister.”
This must be the woman Jimmy Burlosconi had been hired to kill. What an idiot. Anyone with half a brain would have stayed far away from the contract, no matter how much money was put down. Not only is she obviously involved with the head of the Dashkov Bratva, but she is also a Kavanaugh.
What a fucking idiot.
“Very well.” Liam inclines his head at me. “Then you may call me Liam. Seamus and Kiernan, you obviously already know.”
Cue heated cheeks.
“They did kidnap me,” I point out somewhat jovially to deter attention away from the embarrassment creeping up my neck.
Does he know what the twins have done to me?
Kiernan pinches the bridge of his nose and groans quietly next to me, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair.
If they expect me to be intimidated or frightened, they are in for a surprise.
I’m not some wilting flower or damsel in distress, and I sure as hell am not going to be cowed by the amount of power sitting at this table.
I will, however, crawl under the table at the first sign of a sexual innuendo.
Even Superman has his Kryptonite.
“Indeed.” The corners of Liam’s mouth turn up slightly. At least I amuse him. That is better than annoyed or aggravated. “This is my eldest daughter, Avaleigh.” He motions to the woman sitting across from Seamus, who winces at the use of her name.
“Ava is fine.” She sighs as she puts her hand on the Bratva leader’s shoulder. “This is my husband, Matthias Dashkov.”
Ah, yes. I remember hearing about the Dashkov wedding.
Lucille, who had been the journalist covering the extravagant event, had gone on an immediate sabbatical after the wedding turned into a massacre.
Elias Ward’s daughter, Libby, had been brutally shot, and several others had lost their lives as well.
If it wasn’t enough of a showstopper, the FBI rolled in during the aftermath and arrested the surly Bratva leader for murder.
Those charges were false, of course. Matthias Dashkov has been getting away with murder for years.
He wasn’t about to be caught on camera killing his rival.
They just needed a reason to hold him. I wonder why?
I covered the arrest, but since it led nowhere, the story ended up dead in the water.
Even the FBI refused to comment on why they had let him walk out.
I could ask him.
“We’re acquainted.” Matthias shoots me a dark look. Nope, I will not be asking him anything at all. But then again, even if I don’t want to get eaten, that doesn’t mean I can’t poke the bear a little.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” I tilt my head. Even sitting, I have to angle my chin up slightly to look him directly in the eyes. The man is tall.
The Russian smirks dangerously.
“Detective Monty Belgrade told me all about your invested interest in the fire at the shipping port not that long ago,” he lazily explains, as if it is somehow common knowledge.
“And your interest in the explosion at the Ward stables. Both times, you’ve tried to muscle your way into the investigation and into interrogating the freed women.
He thought that it was something I’d want to be aware of. ”
Fucking Monty.
Never trust a cop whose name sounds like it comes straight out of a bad eighties television show.