8. Lorcan
Lorcan
The heat of Las Vegas hits hard when the cabin door opens. It’s dry, relentless, and smells faintly of jet fuel and dust. I prefer it to the Irish mist. Here, the sun burns away the bullshit.
I step onto the tarmac, my eyes scanning the perimeter by habit before my feet even hit the ground. Four black Suburbans are idling fifty yards away, my men standing like statues in the shimmering heat. This is my soil. My kingdom. And right now, it feels like it’s under siege.
I look back at the plane. Kieran is carrying a sleeping Maeve down the stairs, her rabbit tucked under one arm.
Behind them, Atara emerges. She looks exhausted in that cream knit dress—pale, quiet, and radiating a cold, white-hot fury.
She hasn't spoken a single word to me since I crushed her phone over the Atlantic.
"Welcome home, boss," Echo says, stepping forward as we reach the cars. He looks at Atara, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "The compound is secured. Red protocols in place."
"Good," I grunt. I open the door to the second SUV and look at her. "Atara. Get in."
I expect her to fight. I expect the screaming match she gave me in Ireland.
But she surprises me. She stands on the baking asphalt, her chin tilted up high, her eyes scanning the four idling Suburbans and the armed guards surrounding the perimeter.
I watch her eyes track the weapons, reading the layout of the security detail in seconds.
She isn't stupid. She knows she has no phone, no cash, and nowhere to run in a desert tarmac.
She gives me a look of pure, unadulterated ice—a look that tells me she’s processing exactly how trapped she is—and then she steps past me, climbing into the leather seat without a single word.
No screaming. No hysterical scene. Just a cold, calculating surrender that puts me on edge more than a temper tantrum would have.
I slide in after her, slamming the door. The driver pulls away immediately. She sits on the far side of the vehicle, staring out the tinted glass, completely shutting me out.
The compound is a fortress of glass, steel, and stone tucked into the foothills of the Spring Mountains. To the casual observer, it looks like the home of a tech billionaire with a penchant for privacy. To me, it’s a safe fortress.
The gates hum open and shut behind us. I lead her through the main foyer—all soaring ceilings and white marble—toward the East Wing. This part of the house is secluded, with its own garden and a view of the mountains.
I open the doors to the suite. It’s huge, decorated in soft grays and blues, with a queen-sized bed.
"This is yours," I say, stepping inside. "There’s a closet full of clothes. My staff will bring you whatever you need. You don't leave this wing without an escort. Is that clear?"
Atara stands in the middle of the room, looking at the luxury like it’s a beautifully dressed crime scene. She turns to face me, her posture perfectly rigid.
"A secure wing?” she scoffs. "Let's call it what it actually is, Lorcan. It's a high-end cage."
"It's a fortress," I growl, moving into her space. I'm tired, I'm dirty, and the weight of the leak is pressing down on my neck. "And right now, it's the only thing keeping you breathing. Work with me, Atara. Stop looking at me like I'm the executioner when I'm the one holding the shield."
"I know exactly what you are," she whispers, refusing to back down even as I loom over her.
"And I'm not going to try to scale your walls or run into the desert.
I'm smart enough to know that you are my best chance of surviving whatever psycho is hunting you.
But do not confuse my compliance for submission. "
She steps closer, her gray eyes boring into mine with a terrifying amount of resolve.
"I am staying here until the threat is gone.
I will keep my head down, and I will help keep Maeve safe.
But the absolute second you clear your ledger and things go back to normal, I am taking a commercial flight back to New York.
I am getting my life back. And I am going to forget you ever existed. "
I stare down at her, a dark, dangerous spark igniting in my chest.
"You think it's that simple?" I lean down, my mouth inches from her ear. "You think you can just dip your toes into my world, walk through a war, and just step back onto the pavement like nothing happened?"
"I know I can," she breathes, her chest heaving, her pulse fluttering wildly against the collar of her dress.
I reach out, my thumb catching her chin, forcing her to look up at me. "You're in my world now, Atara. And nobody leaves my world cleanly. Don't promise yourself an exit before you've even survived the night."
She gasps softly, her eyes blowing wide as the proximity hits us both like a physical blow. The anger between us mutters into something heavy, thick, and laced with a dark desire we can’t entirely smother. She looks at my mouth, her lips parting, a quiet shock of electricity passing between us.
I want her. I want to pin her to that bed, shatter that cold composure of hers, and make her admit that she's already tied to me, whether she likes it or not.
But I don't. I can't.
I pull my hand away, the loss of her touch feeling like a sudden chill. "Behave, Atara. For your own sake."
I walk out and lock the door behind me. There is no sound of a vase breaking this time. Just a heavy, echoing silence that tells me she's in there, planning her next move.
The strategy room is in the sub-basement. It’s a windowless bunker filled with screens, maps, and three of the most dangerous men in Nevada.
Echo is leaning against the wall, reading a report. Kieran is at the main terminal. The third man, a silent giant named Miller, is cleaning a rifle.
"Talk to me," I say, stripping off my shirt and grabbing a clean one from the locker.
"The Senator called three times," Kieran says, not looking up. "He’s panicking about the port investigation in Cork. I told him we’d handle it, but he wants a meeting. Face to face. The usual spot."
"Tell him Thursday," I say. "If he calls again, remind him who paid for his last re-election campaign."
"Bratva intel just came in," Echo adds, tossing a folder onto the table. "They’re moving on the northern distribution hubs. They heard about the Ireland breach."
I sit at the head of the table, staring at the screens. Three fronts. The Senator, the Bratva, and Silas. It’s a classic pincer move. Someone orchestrated this.
"The Ireland breach shouldn't have happened," I say, my voice like ice. "Silas knew exactly which resort I was at. He knew the layout of the penthouse. He knew I’d be at the private dining room for breakfast."
Kieran finally looks up. "We’re running the logs, Lorcan. Only six people knew the itinerary. Me, Echo, Miller, and the inner circle leads back here."
"One of them is talking," I say. "Find the leak. I don't care if you have to peel back the layers of their entire lives. If someone in this organization gave my location to a ghost, I want their head on this table by Friday."
I spend the next four hours buried in logistics. I coordinate the defense of the northern hubs. I send a message to the O’Sheas in Dublin to burn the remaining O’Malley assets. I review the security footage from the compound, watching the perimeter feeds.
And every fifteen minutes, my eyes drift to the small monitor in the corner. The one showing the East Wing.
Atara is pacing. She’s moved a chair to the window and is staring out at the mountains. She looks small. Fragile. And completely out of place in this room.
I hate that I keep looking at her. I’m a man who deals in certainties. In controlled systems. Atara is an anomaly. She’s a chaos factor I can’t account for. She makes me want things I haven't wanted in a decade. She makes me feel things that make me slow.
And in my world, slow is dead.
Dinner is served in the main dining room. It’s a formal affair—not because I like the theater of it, but because Maeve needs the structure.
She’s sitting at the end of the long mahogany table, her feet dangling. She’s already changed into her pajamas, a pink set with stars on them.
"Daddy?" she asks, poking at her peas.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Where's Atara? Won’t she join us for dinner?"
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. I look at Kieran, who is sitting at the far end of the table, then back at my daughter.
"She’s resting, Maeve," I say. "She had a long flight."
"Is she going to stay? For the treasure hunt?"
"She’s a guest, Maeve," I say, the word feeling heavy in my mouth. "Just a guest. For a little while."
"I like her," Maeve says, nodding to herself. "She’s brave. I think she’s a princess too."
I almost laugh. A princess. If Atara heard that, she’d probably throw a shoe at my head.
"Eat your peas, Maeve."
I finish my meal in silence, the weight of the compound pressing in on me. Silas is out there. The leak is in here. And the woman who called me a failure is locked in the East Wing, probably plotting my downfall with a butter knife.
I’m the Don. I run the Syndicate. I own the city.
But as I look at the empty chair where Atara should be sitting, I realize that for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m in control.
I feel like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And I have a feeling that when it does, it’s going to be wearing a very expensive heel.