Ruthless Dream (Ruling Love #5)

Prologue

CIARAN

Fujimori’s is lit in the night, a beacon to those who love chaos and sushi. Naturally, my brother and I stand across the street, peering into it.

“You’re sure about this?” I ask Ian for the fifteenth time. It’s nearly eight in the evening, but I’m on Dublin time.

The lanky bastard finishes a cigarette, crushing the butt under one scuffed-up boot. He’s wearing his typical uniform—a leather jacket he rescued from a thrift shop, black jeans, and his trusty boots.

He didn’t try to make any effort with his appearance. Before I got off the plane, two hours ago, I made sure there wasn’t a damn thing out of place. My suit is pressed. My shoes shined.

This is Fujimori's, after all. The one spot in New York City revered by all.

Well, maybe not the Stuarts after the mess they made. Ren Callahan blew them to pieces, something that still brings a smile to my face.

That’s where the danger lies. Callahan isn’t a mafia lord or a princess who’s climbed up the ranks. She’s a businesswoman through and through. She controls almost all the contracts in this city. If a triggerman wants to get hired, she’s who they go to.

Ian Hayes—God love him—is a great shot. I’ll give my brother that. But his work ethic? It needs work. A lot of it.

It’s why I’m tagging along with my older brother at what’s essentially a job interview.

One that’s not easy to get. No one waltzes in and requests a meeting with Callahan. She calls you.

I’m certain if it wasn’t for my brother meddling around, he’d never have gotten this opportunity.

He’s going to have to learn at some point, meddling only gets you so far.

His networking needs to pay off. The bastard’s got to do better than batting his green hazel eyes and making people swoon.

He’s got to follow up on the promises he makes.

Ian might be my older brother, but he floats on the wind like a fucking dandelion seed. New York City is not the type of place where one should just follow the current. It’s full of men who kill.

I am one of those said killers.

Ian says he wants to be one too, but he’s never taken an interest in the family business before.

“Relax,” Ian says, patting his leather jacket. He pulls out a lighter, flame flickering. “In fact, why don’t you wait out here.”

He’s doing that thing where he purposely makes his voice lazy. Christ. He’s going to play the stumbling Irish guy, charming and lovable. And completely full of shit.

“This is serious,” I snap, taking him by the shoulders. We’re both over six feet tall, but I could bench press this skinny motherfucker like he’s nothing.

Ian’s green gold eyes slice to the Rolex on my wrist. “Is that new?”

I shake his shoulders. “Just one word from Callahan and you’ll be done here. Do you understand that?”

Ian frowns, but my fingers curl into his leather jacket. “I understand a lot more than you think, deartháir.”

“Using Irish doesn’t make you endearing.”

“Ren loves it when I speak Irish.”

“You are not on a first name basis with Callahan.”

Ian pushes me back, smoothing his jacket. “I’m on first name basis with a lot of people here. I’ve actually made quite a few friends.”

“Friends? You’ve been here a couple of weeks.”

The idiot left a note on his mother’s kitchen table.

Gone to America to be a triggerman. He added ‘I Love NYC’ in a big giant heart.

The only reason I didn’t go after him immediately was because shit stirred up with the Stuarts, and then Tristan Trevino called talking about an entity calling themselves the Spider.

That brought a whole new wave of panic, and suddenly the O'Connells of Dublin were working with the Stuarts over in London.

And even then. . . I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to come to New York again. Not after last time.

“This place doesn’t like O’Connell’s,” I remind my brother.

“Good thing I’m not an O’Connell.”

I don’t know why he’s got to sound so fucking proud of it.

“Look.” Ian jerks his head toward Fujimori’s.

We might be across the street, but the wide windows make us visible to the interior of the restaurant. No doubt Ren knows we’re right outside and is already studying us.

“Don’t come in if you don’t want to,” Ian says. “In fact, you really should stay outside if you’re not going to pretend like you even think I can do this.”

I stroke the thick beard over my jawline, perfectly trimmed just for this meeting. “It’s not. . .”

Ian doesn’t look hurt. Ian’s mother used to always say, ‘Life doesn’t care if you go around looking like a kicked puppy.’ Nora was right. She always is.

But he’s quiet in the night, his eyes more golden in the dim light. Most of the businesses along the street are dark. One is empty, the other a tax office already closed up for the night.

A siren cuts the air, and across the street a group of tourists with backpacks and a map on their phone agree this is where they want dinner. The university age students file in, greeted by Jane Fujimori.

Ian told me when I got off my flight that he hasn’t been to Fujimori’s. He said he knew better than just showing up. I know him, though. He’ll walk in there with the confidence of a lazy cat and not put a thought into the bigger picture.

If he’s serious about going to Callahan for work, it’s got to be for the long haul. An actual career. Not something he can get bored with a couple of months in.

“This life takes commitment,” I tell Ian. He cocks his head to the side, matching my seriousness. “I’ve spent over a decade working my arse off to make sure our bills are paid.”

He glances at the Rolex on my wrist again.

“You know we’ve got plans,” I say.

“You mean the O'Connells have plans.”

I’m an O’Connell. My brother is a Hayes. We’re connected by one man—Cain Murray.

But I’ve told Ian time and time again that he’s an O’Connell because I fucking said so. It’s him who acts like an introvert when he comes across my uncle or mam, or one of the million cousins running around.

Our last names aren’t the same, but we’re fucking brothers. He should feel more connected to the O'Connells anyway, and not the New York Irish, who he’s barely interacted with.

“Look, if you’re doing this because of Da—”

“Da’s fucked shit up again.” Ian fidgets with his jacket. “Probably best not to mention him.”

Without checking to see if it’s clear, he steps into the road.

You can’t coddle him. That’s what Nora said when I told her someone had to go after him.

Ian makes a mess of things. I once thought I was willing to do anything just so long as Cain fucking Murray looked at me. I know Ian. I know our da. There’s about to be a mess.

The bell over the front door chimes, and Ian nods at Jane. “Well, if it isn’t the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. The door rebounds, hitting me in the face before I squeeze in behind Ian. His hands are on his hips as he chats to Jane, who smiles—actually smiles—like she finds Ian amusing.

He nods at a younger man, Abe Fujimori. He’s good friends with Callahan and apparently does know my brother.

“Ren!” Abe shouts, clearing off a table. “The Irish guy is here. And he brought another hot guy with him.”

Ian smirks at me, further proof he’s not taking any of this seriously.

“Hot guy?” A voice cuts through the air. Under my suit jacket, my skin flushes.

I never made it to Fujimori’s the last time I was here. Back then, Aunt Macy took care of business. I would have done anything to come in here and walk around like Ian, acting like I deserved to be here.

Bide your time, son. That’s what my Uncle Cormac said when we left New York the first time.

It’s better this way, that I’m coming to Fujimori’s now versus then. I’ve paid my dues, clawed my way up in life. The O'Connells aren’t chasing after the New York Irish. We’ve made a name for ourselves in Dublin. We’ve fucked shit up for the Stuarts.

I’m not some kid acting like a man, desperate for validation. I’m Ciaran O'Connell, and people fucking know my name now.

“Ian.” Ren’s voice curls in the air again, a siren beckoning. “Did you bring a hot guy to our meeting?”

Hands in his pocket, Ian strides through the restaurant at ease. I straighten my cufflinks and follow, chin held high.

“Hello,” Ren says, leaning back into a booth.

She’s tucked in the back, right near the kitchen, which I can peer into thanks to a cutout in the wall. Abe, with a handful of dirty dishes, pushes through a swinging door, and the next second he’s yelling to another cook in Japanese.

The door doesn’t finish swinging before it pushes back and another woman appears.

She nods at Ian, barely glancing at me, but I categorize the details. Blonde, blue eyed, a blank face. This is the British triggerman who’s now dating Trevino.

“Did you dress up for me?” Ian asks her, nodding at the button-down she’s wearing.

“Nah, I’m meeting up with Tyler after this. He not mention anything,” Isolde Matheson replies.

Ren snorts, pulling a planner closer to her. She barely looks up, but there’s a smirk on her face as she listens in.

Ian’s face drops just the slightest, which has my brotherly instincts on high alert. Is she talking about Tyler Mulligan? And is this really happening? Ian is already joking around with Matheson and Callahan.

“Who’s the hot guy?” Ren nibbles on the end of a pencil. “You the brother?”

The back of my neck pricks. She’s not eyeing me because she likes what she sees. Even if she were, I’m not looking to make an enemy out of Roman Zimin, even if he removed himself from the family business. Ren’s after information.

“Cain Murray’s youngest.” Silky brown hair falls over her shoulders as she tilts her head, further inspecting. I don’t let myself clench my jaw. It’s just a fact—Cain is my father.

“You want something to eat?” Abe calls through the window.

Ren holds a hand up.

“You’ve already had dinner,” Abe tells her.

“Ice cream.”

My brows furrow together. She’s in her late twenties, but she could easily pass for a college student with her demand.