6. Maeve
MAEVE
PRESENT DAY
During my childhood, I’ve witnessed unspeakable horrors.
I’ve seen men flayed open, left to rot in the basement of my home. I’ve seen puddles of blood run between my sneakers from gunshot wounds. I’ve thrown bodies into the harbor, never to be seen again—or sent into the fires of the Berkshires, where only their souls and ashes now rest.
I’ve seen the ugly to the good, and I’ve become far worse. Just to survive this Hell.
Leveling a cold look at my guests, I turn to the taller of the two.
Doyle Byrne. The youngest sitting Board member, he’s part of the group that backed our entry into America when my father was a hard-ass teen looking for an escape.
His peppered locks are combed over his head, matching the gray suit and wool jacket over his broad shoulders.
He’s maybe fifty? I don’t know. I don’t fucking care.
His dull green eyes scan the office—my office.
I’ve taken a chainsaw to my father’s memory—painting and redecorating, so not an inch of his presence remains.
Gone are the hunting lodge vibes; I’ve hacked away and repainted so it looks like a goth girl’s wet dream with eggplant-colored walls covered in golden masks and large canvases of meadows in the late fall.
With all the changes, my father’s ghost still haunts me.
What good is having a girl as an heir?
Doyle sighs deeply. It’s so inconvenient for him, apparently.
My nails dig into my thigh, the jeans and band shirt I jumped into when they showed up, a bit too personal for such an important meeting. Oh well. Tilting my head, wet hair soaks the collar of my shirt, and I sit, regarding him and Murray James in silence.
There’s nothing special about Murray. He’s a fat pain in the ass with thin, burnt copper locks and beady little eyes like a finch.
He’s the messenger, and he delivers correspondence through all the clans throughout the states.
We have branches everywhere—Irish in Chicago, and, through marriage, a few Frenchmen in New Orleans.
Technically, that makes him untouchable. I wonder if they’d get mad if I cut off his fingers?
Killian stands behind me, against the cold fireplace, a presence that refuses to leave me. I don’t look at him—even though my lips tingle from his kiss.
Lock it down.
Hayes shifts at my side. He’s a hulking mass of a bruiser, and his brown leather jacket cracks in the quietness.
We wait. I’ve learned men fill the void when women are silent, and my reserve puts them both on edge.
Maybe it’s cocky to assume, but I know how I affect people.
I won’t need to do a thing until they break.
Doyle rolls his shoulders and pulls on his cuffs. There’s a pause. He crosses his leg at the knee. His fingers move, and his cheek twitches as he tries to bite it.
“Ace,” he purrs. I have to fight the smile off my face. That didn’t take long.
He glances at my second, then at Killian. “Boys.”
My jaw clenches as I exhale slowly. His disrespect is astounding—and in my fucking house.
“Doyle. Murray.” My eyes cut to the envoy, and I sneer.
“We’re sorry about the late visit—” Murray begins, and I snort.
“No, you’re not.”
Doyle smirks. “No, we’re not.”
“Then to what do I owe this immense displeasure?” My eyes bounce between them. “Did Hale send you?” Hale is the unofficial head of the Board—and no one can do shit without his approval.
Hayes smiles next to me, and Doyle’s grin turns hard.
Tapping my desk with thick leather gloves, he winks.
“You know what, Ace? I like you.” He reclines in the seat, hands clasped under his chin as his stare burrows under my skin.
“Tough. Beautiful.” My skin crawls. “You remind me a lot of your father—ruthless and calculating. Rules and traditions don’t matter to you. You do what you want.”
Those familiar eyes land on Hayes, and he smiles. My shoulders hunch—Doyle is as charming as the devil and just as inconspicuous. I know a strike is coming.
“Take what you did here. The first captain to host the Games in what, twenty, twenty-five years? And you choose the enemy’s son. A bold move.”
“Best man won,” Hayes growls. White knuckles flex. Frankly, I’m impressed with his restraint.
“Right. Remind me of who you were, again?” He picks a piece of lint off his jacket. “Bruno Senior’s whipping boy?”
Hayes surges forward, only held back by my quiet hand in the air. These idiots don’t know what they’re starting by ticking off my second. What I’ll do if they so much as glance at my friend wrong.
I’m tempted to let him go—see him pull the Board member apart. It’d certainly make me smile.
Doyle whistles. “Cute. What about your dog?” His gaze falls on Killian. The Reaper leans there, curling the knife over his knuckles—a party trick—and ignores him. “Is he leash-trained too?”
“Pet him and find out.”
Killian chuckles, his laugh like smoke in the air—heavy and smothering. Doyle frowns, directing his attention back to me.
I grin, and I don’t care how psychotic it looks. “Is there a point to all of this?”
“Just making observations,” he says, shrugging. “About how nontraditional you are. You keep the enemy’s bastard as a friend, and a sociopath as a contract killer on payroll.”
“I’m actually a psychotic killer.” Killian winks. “I plan out my kills. Not very impulsive. Unlike our captain.”
Hayes snorts.
Doyle continues, unamused. “No one has the balls to act the way you do, spitting in the face of things that have kept your organization going for decades.”
“Good thing I don’t have a pair of balls to get in the way.”
He laughs loudly, slapping his knee. My hand finds my knife on my hip, and I watch him closely. “See? You’re different. You’re not like other women.”
Ironic. If he knew anything about women, he’d understand we’re more alike than not. If allowed to express our rage, we’d set the entire world on fire with our fury and dance in the ashes that blow away. Hell, I know I would.
“Most women care about money, gems, or status. Not you. You’re into different things.”
“Like pretty knives and spilling the blood of idiotic men who waste my time.” My grin turns wicked. “Get to the fucking point, Doyle.”
The asshole smirks, gesturing for Murray to give me something. Out of his messenger bag, he pulls a thick white contract and tosses it onto my desk. “I’m sure you remember this.”
Of course, I do. I remember those words—I remember everything my father tried to do to my siblings. All the contracts, the underhanded deals, and the venomous words are imprinted into my mind like a fucking sick lullaby that won’t rest.
Leaning back in my chair, I lift my chin. “Enlighten me.”
“It’s the decree your father gave to Sloane.” He points to her name as if to prove a point. “It says here, on the day of her twenty-first birthday, she was to become my wife. Mine. And yet, your father dies, and you conveniently ignore his last wish.” He shakes his head. “Unbecoming of a captain.”
His eyes glint with malice. “How did you become the captain, anyway, Ace? Last time I checked, women can’t hold this role.”
I sit there, silently fuming. It takes every ounce of willpower not to slash his throat and toss him out into the snow. He’d make a pretty frozen statue for the birds to shit on.
“And last time I checked,” I begin, words soft, though no less murderous, “my father was dead. I don’t honor dead men’s requests.”
“It wasn’t a request!” he shouts, slamming his fist onto the desk. My pens rattle, my computer shakes, and my heart lurches. There’s a brief moment where my body locks down at the sudden noise, and a switch flips. I can’t react fast enough—can’t draw my knife and fight back.
I’m there again—stuck with Michael and his disgusting punishments. Cigar smoke chokes me, and I can’t see past his horrible grin.
Such pretty skin.
But it doesn’t stay. The memories fade as someone moves. Killian. Standing behind the prick, he has his knife to his throat, the tip already drawing the tiniest bit of blood.
Forcing myself to relax, I exhale and stay seated. Control. I have to look like I have it together. That Killian is acting on unspoken words from me, at my command, even though I panicked.
He doesn’t look at Doyle—his gaze is trained on my face. Those soulless fucking eyes see every hidden fear, read every unhappy thought, see every memory, and I turn away.
“Apologize,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Or I find out what your heart looks like while it’s still pumping.”
“Call off your mutt,” Doyle seethes, perfectly still.
Licking my lips, I shrug. “I’m not inclined to do so. Tell me what you want, and maybe I’ll consider it.”
Doyle grumbles, and Murray’s jowls tremble. It’s fucking exhilarating, and it chases away the dread in my gut.
“I want what I was promised.”
“My sister?” I cock my eyebrow. “You want to marry my sister.”
“Your father gave me his word.” Killian lowers his face to Doyle’s cheek and grins, inhaling his fear like a snake tasting prey. “Sloane is mine, by right.”
“Hayes,” I call lightly, not taking my eyes off the envoy. “Do you think the De Luca capo would be inclined to end his marriage to Sloane? Just for Doyle?”
Hayes tsks, rubbing his chin. His rough beard is the only noise in the room besides Doyle’s furious breaths. “You know, I don’t think so, Ace. He’s pretty adamant about keeping his wife.”
“Not to mention the twins,” Killian says, smirking. “He’s awfully protective as of late.”
Holding out my hands, I smile. “Sorry. Out of luck. Maybe next time.”
Doyle lurches forward to attack me, but Killian grips his hair, holding him back. The knife digs deeper, a large drop of red smearing against his neck, and it releases the tangible fear in my chest. “You fucking bitch?—”
Chucking my tongue, I stand slowly; the air shifts immediately. It grows heavier, darker, the cloak of something demonic rising from the bowels of the Earth to suck the warmth out of the room. My eyes narrow, and I know the green has fled—hidden under the black of a predator.
“Such language for a Board member.”