4. Ciaran
Ciaran
Her name is Adeline Marie Akatov. The youngest of Boris and Gia Akatov, she’s had everything handed to her on a silver fucking platter.
It’s honestly disappointing how Boris lets her post so much stuff on the internet.
I hadn’t even left the party before I started digging into Adeline’s life.
It was easy enough to find her on social media, where she posts too many selfies to her one million followers.
It’s how I discovered she’s enrolled in NYU, drives an Aston Martin, and puts her body on display far too fucking much.
I figured she’d be addicted to her phone, which is why I wormed my way into the system. Boris should be ashamed at the weak protections he’s got set in place.
I was surprised to find more than just vapid photos of herself.
She might enjoy playing at being an influencer, but she’s declared her major and works two days a week at a marketing firm.
The billion-dollar corporation is housed in a tower in Manhattan, so I don’t doubt her name helped her snag the opportunity.
But I’ll admit, I’m interested in the idea that the woman who stomped her foot in front of a Zimin has goals other than vacationing in the Bahamas.
“Why the fuck do you look like you’re up to no good?” Uncle Cormac asks me three days after the party.
I roll up my sleeves. I’ve worn a button-down every day since arriving. The party only served to remind me that this is a make-or-break moment for the O'Connells.
“I have no idea what you could possibly mean.” I smooth a hand through my hair.
We’re out at lunch, another networking meeting. We’ve hit the ground running, trying to maximize our time here.
Uncle Cormac is fairer than I am, his hair and the scruff along his jawline blonder. His eyes are blue. In his navy suit, he looks like he belongs here. In the fancy Manhattan bistro. The women have been eyeing him since we got here.
“You’ve done well, son. You keep holding your chin high.”
I smile softly at the older man. He’s always there to give me pep talks.
“But for the love of God.” He leans forward, his eyes hardening, though there’s still a light of merriment in them. “Do not do whatever you’re about to do.”
I should frown at the statement and rile in response. Instead, I laugh. “I have no idea what you mean, Uncle.”
A waiter comes by, placing another coffee in front of my uncle.
“You damn well do,” he says, taking a sip. “We need to get you back in the ring. Start training again.”
Another smile tugs at my lips. Uncle Cormac was good on his word. We went to Leon’s, where the older man studied me. I know there’s going to be talk about how strings were pulled getting me a match. But Cormac assured me it’s common for people swinging through to get a spot.
“It’s why people come to Leon’s to watch the fights,” he explained. “It’s entertainment. You should’ve seen the Russian bastard I fought in the nineties.”
“I’ll be ready,” I assure my uncle now, tapping my fingers against my coffee mug. My phone sits beside it, and I itch to scroll through it. To go through more of Adeline Akatov’s life.
When I first wormed my way into her phone, I hadn’t expected her calendar to hold so much stuff. Most eighteen-year-olds aren’t planning their lives out, and a lot of university students like their paper planners to keep track of schoolwork.
Adeline not only keeps all of her friends and family’s birthdays listed, but she's also added notes regarding what presents she’d like to get them. A book for her sister, Leonora, who I now realize is the ghost I encountered. A spa day for her sister, Natalie.
Every day is blocked out. Class, internship, study time, and a gym session. I know she gets her pussy waxed every four weeks and goes to the dermatologist regularly. She gets her hair done every six weeks.
I’ve gone through every single text she’s ever sent in her life. There’s a family group chat. The sisters send memes to one another daily, and Nat and Adeline sometimes veer off into veiled discussions about whether Lennie is okay.
There are the stupid shits she’s dated. Those I found the most interesting. Fuck me, maybe dating is done differently in the US, or maybe it's because she’s only ever dated boys, but I’ve never rolled my eyes so much.
Boys, both via texts and messages online, regularly beg her for photos.
Sometimes she sends them cheeky messages back, toying with them.
Most of the ones on social media get immediately blocked, which I highly approve of.
I’m rightfully annoyed by the messages. In general, women shouldn’t be pestered for nudes, but my body became increasingly tense the more and more I dug through her phone.
“Ciaran.” Uncle Cormac grabs my attention. He’s paying the bill but lifts one eyebrow in my direction. “See why I’m worried.”
“I’m just thinking,” I murmur back.
He thanks the waiter, tipping the server well as the culture dictates. “That’s what worries me.”
“Me thinking?”
We both stand, smoothing our shirts out, and walk out the glass door onto the busy streets.
“You’re plotting something, aren’t you?” Uncle Cormac says quietly.
I stick my hands in my pockets. I’ve lived in a big city my whole life, but I swear the people here walk faster. I, for some reason, walk slower. My movements take the shape of Ian’s lazy strides. We came here with an open time frame, and ideas are starting to take shape.
“You don’t have to worry about me.” I’m not the nephew who’s ever given him trouble. That’s Seamus and Dermot, who haven’t stopped acting like tourists since they got here.
“I’ll always worry about you.” The wind picks up, tugging at his blond strands. This is the man who came to every school play. Who made sure there were presents on Christmas Day. Who taught me how to fix my tie.
I brush my elbow into his side. “You’re just worried you’ll have to deal with Nora. But I’m telling you it’s fine.”
“Is it about the fights?”
I shake my head.
“Don’t tell me your father’s gotten into your head.”
He should know me better than that. “Hardly.”
Uncle Cormac is on his best behavior around my da, knowing Cain Murray has the ear of Walsh.
“You’re wrapped up in your head for some reason,” my uncle says. “You’re a thinker, Ciaran, and I’ve always said you’re the wise one. But don’t go overthinking things."
I smile, showing him everything is okay.
He’s right. I am a thinker. A plotter. It’s why I’m good with technology, hacking into things when some of the other O’Connell’s gifts run more innately toward swinging their fists.
I can be a patient man. It’s a useful skill in our line of work.
When the different powers-that-be are jockeying for power and territory.
“We’ve got a meeting with Walsh tonight,” Uncle Cormac reminds.
“I’ll be there.”
“And where are you headed now?”
“Broadway matinee,” I toss over my shoulder.
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
I don’t have to look back to know he’s smirking.
They say good things happen to those who wait. Who pay their dues and put in the hard work. I know that’s a lie, that men can slave away and never get what’s theirs.
But sometimes shit does work out for the better. The meeting with Walsh goes well. I don’t even find my da as obnoxious as normal. The O'Connells are grinning like fools as we head out into the evening, and I swear there’s the taste of something great in the air.
My cousins want to go out to ride the high. I’ve got bigger plans than that.
Looking through her digital footprint isn’t enough anymore. I need to see her. To watch her every move. Who she interacts with and how.
Tonight she’s at a bar, university students filling the place. I order a pint, keeping to myself at the end of the bar. I’m twenty-two, but I know if I start speaking I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Not just because of the Irish accent.
I don’t have parents who pay my credit card every month. I never gave university a second thought. I’ve just come from a meeting with the head of the Irish Mafia.
Yet, I sit here, putting up with the shit music and the sweltering heat of students letting loose on a Friday night. The air is thick with sexual tension and rich kid problems.
Adeline is one of those problems.
She keeps flipping her long hair over her shoulders. She’s pale in the dim lighting, her features delicate. Her big brown eyes melt with emotion when she speaks. She tilts her chin away after talking, like she’s not sure what else to say.
If I had to guess, Adeline is used to being the center of attention and now she’s struggling. It’s easy to be queen of an elite prep school and not one of New York’s sprawling universities.
I nurse my pint, eyeing the tight and short dress she’s wearing. My fingers squeeze around my glass. It’s not for me to police women’s bodies, but I’d be damned if I let her show her tits off like she is tonight. Not to mention she’s at risk of showing her arse off every time she moves.
And her red lipstick. . . I’m wondering what it would look like smeared.
Seamus had joked the other night about an advantageous match. I’m not quite committed to a marriage, but I’ve decided he’s on to something.
Adeline Akatov has no idea that she’s stomped her way into my life. When I began digging through hers, through the social media posts and the calendar notes and the text threads, it came to me.
I’m here to build connections. To ensure doors are opened.
An Akatov can help me do that.
There’s no fucking way Boris would ever take one look at me. But his university age daughter with a tight arse and Bambi eyes?
Fuck me. I’ll turn on the Irish charm and worm my way into her life.
It’s not like any of these fuckers here understand her life. That she’s Bratva royalty.
Thanks to some sleuthing, I have it confirmed she’s not promised to any mafia prince.
Which means she’s open. Ready, for someone to sweep her off her feet.
That fuck me red lipstick she’s wearing—it’s just begging to be fucking smeared. I’ll be damned if anyone besides me gets the opportunity.