But as she’d grown older and watched the world change around her with each new power move she made, she finally understood.
He was threatened.
Not necessarily by who she was, but by who she could become.
“Then what would you have me do?” he asked, accepting his defeat.
“I think it’s time you make contact,” she said, mentally crossing off another line on her checklist. “A warning will do.”
Because if Uilleam was still half the man she thought he was, he would never let a threat go unanswered.
32
Celt.
Who his mercenaries chose to fuck was their business.
They could make their way through half the bodies in the state of New York for all he cared, so long as what he needed done got finished when he requested it.
Which was why he hadn’t been bothered by Red taking a couple of months to acquire what he needed.
Besides, it seemed only fair that he allow Red a few more liberties than he might have another person. After all, he was the reason Red was here in the first place, though he doubted that bit of information would ever come to light.
“Red has arrived, sir,” Dominic said, the sharpness of his accent making the words shorter and crisper. Always the professional, he didn’t linger after he delivered his message, drifting back into the shadows where he could listen but not be seen.
Unlike others, whose loyalty could be bought and bartered, Dominic’s had come after years of service.
Uilleam gave no outward reaction to Dominic’s words as he remained in his seat, watching the singers below him on stage continue to practice for their upcoming performance.
For a long time, he had never understood the allure of the opera, even with his rather privileged background. Hearing people sing at the top of their lungs had never appealed to him when he was a boy, but over the years, he’d garnered an appreciation for it.
He had her to thank for it.
It was one of the many promises he’d made to her before he’d lost her—that he would take her to an opera in Sicily at the time of her choosing.
One of the many promises he hadn’t been able to keep.
Unlike the other mercenaries in his arsenal, Uilleam could hear Red coming. He had a talent for moving within the shadows, just as they all did, but with each heavy footstep he heard, it became abundantly clear that he wanted his presence to be known.
As if he were purposely trying to get under Uilleam’s skin.
He expected nothing less from the Russian.
Uilleam didn’t take it as an act of disrespect.
Quite the opposite, actually.
He was rather amused by him more than anything—a definite change from the man Zachariah had plucked out of that alley.
Certainly nothing like the man he’d been when Uilleam had seen him on that corner all those years ago.
He wasn’t broken anymore—a weapon stood in his place.
“Elias Harrington,” Red said as he approached from his left, though Uilleam never took his gaze off the stage.
But even after he’d heard it, he still didn’t react because for the first time in a very long time, the name wasn’t familiar.
And with the sheer amount of power and influence the man he’d been searching for seemed to possess, his name should have been one that conjured a mental image.
Not one that drew a blank.
It wasn’t even two years ago now that he’d been at the very top of the food chain, but he’d learned otherwise when the one thing in his empty and lonely life he cared for had been viciously taken from him.
One step closer.
“Payment should be posted to your account within the hour,” he said, briefly looking over at him. “You’ve done good work.”
A name was only the beginning.
Now, he needed to find the man himself.
“He knew I was coming,” Red said, drawing Uilleam’s gaze in his direction. “Deal with his people or not, he didn’t care how that went—he only seemed to give a shit that I was there.”
Uilleam considered that a moment. “Did you engage him?”
“He gave me a warning, actually,” Red said to his surprise. “Told me to tell you to back off.”
Someone else might have been frightened.
Another would have taken that warning to heart and stopped while they were ahead.
Uilleam was no such person.
The pizza parlor at the corner of 15th and Lexington had always been one of Uilleam’s favorites, in part because he was allowed to do as he wished inside the establishment—favors did always come in handy—but also because it was one of the few places in the city that allowed him the privacy he need for his meeting.
He’d only been there a short while before Celt walked through the front door, his image captured on the monitor the owner kept in the back.
It wasn’t much longer before the mercenary joined him in the back room, his gaze skirting over the woman sitting quietly at the table behind Uilleam, counting and wrapping cash before tucking the bundles away inside the duffel bag at her feet.
“Kyrnon,” Uilleam greeted, calling him by his name. “Or do you prefer Celt? It’s awfully difficult trying to keep up with these things.”
The Irishman blinked, his expression blanking. “Celt.”
“Right then, Kyrnon. Let’s have a wee talk, shall we?”
Through a rear door, he led him into a more private office where he sat behind the desk and made himself comfortable.
“Now, as you could probably imagine, I have a job for you.” It was the only reason he had called him in, after all. “There was a painting that once belonged to my family for generations. It was a rather grotesque and somber looking thing, but I was rather partial to it all the same.”
Or rather, his mother had been.
And despite his rather complicated feelings toward her, he still loved her all the same, and he knew how much that painting had meant to her.
He drummed his fingers along the edge of the desk, mindful of the way Celt studied his hand—or rather, the initial tattooed there.
While he had never been much of a believer in permanently inking his flesh, but he’d made an exception for Karina.
Most thought the ‘K’ was for himself, and he’d never bothered to correct the assumption.
But he was also in no mood to explain himself, so he shifted his hands.
“About three years ago, the painting was loaned to the Cinquantenaire Museum in Brussels. It was only there a few days before the museum was robbed, but the only thing stolen was my painting.”
Which had told him it had been deliberate.
Of all the priceless artwork that was on display there, the L’amant Flétrie was valuable sure, but there were other pieces that were worth far more.
“For the better part of six months, I tried to find the men responsible—or any information at all about the theft, but nothing. No one knew anything. And believe me when I say people do not want to not have an answer for me.”
Before he could continue, Kyrnon asked a question of his own. “What was the name of it, your painting?”
“L’amant Flétrie—The Withered Lover.”
His face scrunched up with concentration, but Uilleam waved away his sudden unease. “Oh, don’t worry yourself, Kyrnon, because I know you weren’t responsible. You were busy handling that job with the banker, no? I’ve personally handled the men responsible. You’re here now because you are, quite frankly, one of the best at what you do.”
The day he had found Celt in that fighting ring in Ireland, Uilleam hadn’t known what to think of him other than the fact he was good with his fists and had the will to live even in the harshest of circumstances.
He hadn’t known he would inevitably become one of his most valued mercenaries, or that he would become a renowned thief.
“Right,” Celt said after a moment before clearing his throat, scratching at the reddish-brown bear
d he’d insisted on wearing. “What exactly are you asking me to steal? What’s the job?”
“L’amant Flétrie,” he repeated. “You see, when I had the fingernails pried off one of the thieves’ body, he wouldn’t tell me who hired him for the job. By the end of it all—and this went on for many hours, mind you—neither he nor his partner were willing to give up who contracted them. However, their silence told me something their lack of words had not. They feared their boss more than they feared me.”
Because while they might have suffered under Synek, they still hadn’t given up their secrets, no matter how loud they screamed.
“Even as I offered them death in exchange for an end to their suffering,” he said absently, remembering that night far too well, “they remained silent. Nevertheless, though it took some years, I finally found the man responsible.”
Or rather, he had the man’s name.
But it wouldn’t be much longer before he had more than that. It was just a matter of time.
“Whether his arrogance preceded him is still in question, but my painting is up for auction in a few weeks here in New York, though I don’t know where. The location is a carefully guarded secret apparently.”
For more than a year, Elias had made sure the painting had stayed hidden, and for a while, Uilleam had been sure he’d never see it again.
Until a contact had reached out to him and told him about the silent auction coming up and the fact that the L’amant Flétrie would be for sale.
It had become abundantly clear to him that this was another game Elias was playing.
If he thought Uilleam would just accept the slight, he clearly didn’t know him that well.
“And you want me to retrieve it?” Kyrnon asked. “Wouldn’t it be flagged, considering it’s been stolen before?”
“Let’s just say that the painting’s theft was never officially reported, nor did the curator of the museum feel the need to inform anyone of what had taken place there, with the exception of myself, of course.”
Money and the promise of violence always had that effect on people.
“So yes, I want you to return what belongs to me, but I also need you to find out how it got into the country in the first place. I have it on good authority that after last month’s unpleasantries, Elias is not in the country presently. And considering I have men everywhere, I’m surprised that I have just learned of its presence here.”
A frustrating thought.
“And when I find out?”
“Shut it down,” Uilleam ordered. “Whatever it takes. Can you handle that?”
Celt nodded. “I’ll see it done.”
“Excellent. I presume you still take payment in the form of gold?”
“Aye.”
“Your payment will be waiting at the usual drop location. Also …” Uilleam pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers and slid it across the desk toward the mercenary. “The gallery, Cedar Art, is in Greenwich Village. I suggest you start there.”
He picked up the note and turned it over. “Why here?”
“Its owner, Elliot Hamilton, received a phone call from a man named Gabriel Monte. To you, he’s no one, for men like me, he’s a smuggler. Capable of moving just about anything in a short period. I’m sure you can understand my meaning without me having to spell it out for you.”
It was the last bit of information he had, but he trusted Celt knew what to do with it.
As the mercenary stood, readying to leave, he called out, “Be careful where you step, Kyrnon. Snakes are very well hidden.”
Because Elias was proving to be a worthy opponent, and he doubted the man would go down easily.
Which would make his win all the more sweeter.
33
Carmen
“Sir?”
Uilleam was slowly working on the line of buttons down the front of his suit jacket when Dominic appeared behind him. Though it had been on the schedule for days now, and he’d always had a knack for remembering times and dates, he still found himself asking, “Is the jet ready?”
“The pilot is on standby awaiting instruction, sir.”
All was well then.
Retreating back to the Runehart estate had proven to be exactly what he needed.
The Arian Sea Club Carmen owned came into view as they rounded the corner. Housed inside a building erected in the 1800s, it still held some of its old-world charm, timeless in a city that was becoming far too modern.
Even the events that transpired within its four walls stood the test of time, no matter how illegal it might have been.
As they rolled to a stop alongside the curb, the door was opened before his driver could step out by the waiting attendant. He was careful to keep his gaze level, but tilted down just slightly so he was never meeting the eyes of whoever exited.
He wondered whether that was for his own protection, or if it was one of Carmen’s rules.
As he walked up toward the entrance, he thought he saw a white car pulling off, but when he turned to look, he found no sign of it at all.
The doorman didn’t bother asking a name, but instead wrapped knobby fingers around the heavy brass handle and opened the door.
Warm candlelight flickered in the darkened entryway, glinting off polished marble and gilded features. The decor spoke of old money and elegance, but he was not moved by such simple details.
He wasn’t there to share in the opulence of the room and atmosphere. There was work to be done.
And as he walked farther into the club, he found the woman he had come to see sitting in the parlor room, a long thin cigarette held aloft in her manicured hand, the sweet-smelling tobacco scenting the air.
A far cry from the woman he’d been with in the Mexican desert willing to do anything if it meant she got a taste of how the other side lived life.
He wasn’t there to share in the opulence of the atmosphere.
He’d come for the woman sitting in the back parlor room, a long thin cigarette tucked between two manicured fingers, sweet-smelling tobacco scenting the air.
Despite how casual the patrons who’d been offered an invitation to one of her events, Carmen was dressed rather formally in a jewel green satin gown that clung to curves the best money could buy. Even her hair was done up in elaborate curls, falling in waves around her shoulders, the strands as dark as an oil spill.
Alluring and dangerous.
Very much like her daughter, though when Uilleam looked at Carmen, he didn’t feel the same sentiment he did when he saw Luna.
Her gaze slid in his direction as he came closer, tracking his movements with an amused grin. “I didn’t expect you to come. Why had you told me the last time we crossed paths? That my husband was beneath our notice, and that I was beneath his?”
In the years since Luna’s “death,” Carmen had not only divorced her first husband, but she had also moved to California where she was able to attain the power she craved. She’d even found another living soul who was willing to tolerate her—Cesar Rivera.
Uilleam didn’t particularly dislike the man, though he was an awful businessman who’d probably see himself dead before he ever managed to claw his way to the top of anything, but he strongly abhorred his wife.
Not to mention, the one and only time Uilleam had thought to have some sort of business arrangement with the man, he’d managed to bungle it up so badly, Uilleam had thought about killing him himself.
Which had always been curious to him, considering he hadn’t been the first, or last, to have a business arrangement with the man go south.
It was amazing that he’d still been managing to keep his business alive at all—but that was before Uilleam had realized who they were working with.
No matter his feelings on the matter, Elias Harrington was still very good at whatever it was he did—which was very much looking like he was trying to ruin him.
“Cesar is now beneath your notice as well, no?” Uilleam asked as he helped himself to the seat op
posite her. “Or at least, that’s what I’ve been told.”
Carmen’s answering smile was a touch demure, but Uilleam saw it for what it was. In their world, it was what was left unsaid that mattered the most.
“Why are you really here?” Carmen asked, setting her empty martini glass on the table. “I doubt it was to exchange pleasantries.”
“I have a proposition for you.”
One perfectly arched brow shot up as she leaned in, clearly intrigued. “I’m listening.”
“Cesar has been running your club for almost a decade now, unrivaled since I took care of that nasty business you had with the Vega Cartel.”
Carmen’s reaction was carefully controlled, her gaze drifting down to her lap at the very mention of the organization that had tried to kill her … twice.
That was the consequence of doing business with men like Uilleam. While he was able to solve problems one might not have otherwise, that still left them open to attack because Uilleam then knew their weaknesses.
And he was far worse of an enemy to have than any cartel.
“I’m sure we have expressed our gratitude in that regard,” Carmen replied coolly.
“Indeed. But I’ve been curious. Cesar has failed to move his business further since I fixed the problem. One would think he would have progressed farther than he has since then, yet here we are.”
Carmen tossed her hair over her shoulder. “My husband’s business is his own.”
“Is it?” Uilleam asked with a telling smirk. “Come now, Carmen. You should know by now that nothing escapes my notice.”
He made it a point to know as much about anyone he crossed paths with as he could. It was just a matter of good business practice.
Carmen was quite good at her deception, considering Cesar was no more the wiser of what she was up to, but it would have taken far more than a few hushed conversations to keep Uilleam’s attention away.
“You’ve been thinking about pushing your husband out of the business,” Uilleam said as he watched the ice dance around in her glass. “A daunting task for someone like you, but not impossible for someone like me.”
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