He nodded. “Perfect. Then we’d just need to convert the crypto each month?”
She liked that he was facile, quick to understand, and sparing in his questions.
“You might want to have it ongoing. Do smaller amounts every week or even every day. It won’t raise any red flags, and the income will be relatively consistent for that portion of the sales.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing those nicely muscular arms across his broad chest. She couldn’t help but glance at the tattoos running up his right arm. Some sort of battle scene, it was chaos, all dark lines with bright splashes of color.
“It’s the Battle of Clontarf,” he said, smirking at her.
She snapped her gaze to his. “I wasn’t—I mean—”
“It was done by an old friend of mine. He owns a shop on Washington.” He looked down at his arm and used the opposite hand to point. “This is Cian mac Máelmuaid,” he said, sounding incredibly Irish as he pointed to the central figure who wore armor and a metal helmet while brandishing a large sword with two hands. “He and his father-in-law, the High King of Ireland, won the battle, freeing Ireland from the Vikings, but they perished in it as well.”
“That’s very sad,” she said, feeling oddly disturbed by the idea.
His voice was deeper and quieter as he answered. “Sometimes you have to lose something that matters in order to win something even greater.”
“So you were named for him?” she asked, reaching across the table before she’d even realized it to touch the warrior’s face on his forearm.
He made a small hiss as her skin touched his, and she moved to pull away, but he was faster, grabbing her fingers with his own, tracing over the lines of ink as he spoke softly.
“I was born on April twenty-third, the same day as the Battle of Clontarf. My mother saw that as a sign. Luckily, she chose Cian as the warrior to name me after and not Murchad or Toirdelbach.”
He chuckled, and she couldn’t help but join him. But as their gazes met, the laughter died out and all that was left was his hand on hers as they both touched his arm. Heat sizzled in his eyes, and warning sirens screamed in her head.
She snatched her hand away as if she’d been burned. Leaning back, her heart racing like a rabbit caught in a snare, Lila clicked off her tablet and hurriedly grabbed her bag off the floor, swinging it over her shoulder in one rushed motion.
“I think I understand all the security protocol we’ll need for this project,” she said, her voice tight, words clipped. “I’ll have Xavier get in touch as soon as I have it ready.”
He watched her warily, as if she were a wounded animal, prepared to strike should anyone get too close.
She opened her mouth to speak again, but no words came out. She was so disturbed by the feeling of his skin on hers, it had rendered her speechless, like some sort of high school girl when the quarterback speaks to her in the hallway. Finally, she simply muttered, “Okay, then…” and turned to go.
“Lila from Rogue,” he said, not loudly, but commanding all the same. She managed a quarter turn, looking at him over her shoulder, her breath frozen in her lungs. “Next time, you’ll take a cup of coffee.”
It wasn’t a question and not quite an order. Simply a statement of fact, a reminder that she could run, but she couldn’t hide. From him. From his family. From whatever the hell had just happened. All Lila could do was walk away, something inside her flaring with the realization she’d finally crossed a line she couldn’t come back from.
Chapter 3
Connor lounged on the leather sofa in the back office of Banshee. Cian was lecturing, and Connor had heard it all before. He understood it was Cian’s job to make sure nothing ever raised a red flag that would get unwanted attention, but good God, did he need to lecture as if Connor was a child?
“…And before you say Pop used to do it, I’ll remind you what nearly happened to Pop and Liam three years ago,” Cian said, jabbing a finger at Connor. Connor considered snapping his brother’s finger off, but decided it was more trouble than he wanted to go to.
“They didn’t get hauled in because they mixed the legit with the not so legit,” Connor muttered.
“You have no idea what triggered the investigation, and we’re on the feds’ radar worse than normal ever since. Did you notice the sedan parked around the corner by the bakery this morning?” Cian shot back.
Connor’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”
“Right.” Cian’s expression could only be described as smug. Fucker.
“Sons of bitches,” Connor snarled. “They can sit out there for the next year and they’ll never get a warrant to search. They’re like neutered dogs. They can hump all day long and not do a damn bit of damage.”
Cian’s brows drew down. “What’s it going to take to get through to you?” he asked in exasperation. “This isn’t the good old days when Pop was running things and we had our people doing pickups and drop-offs from his pub all damn day. We have to keep the money separate, we have to keep the dealers away from us. We can’t keep the product in central locations. There’s no room for sloppiness here. I don’t care how many judges and cops Pop’s got on the payroll, you can’t know what the feds might have on us at any given point in time.”
Connor closed his eyes as he laid his head back on the sofa. Damn. He’d messed up. He could admit it to himself, but he really didn’t want to admit it to Cian.
Cian looked at him, and suddenly, he didn’t seem angry anymore, only tired. Connor felt the wind leave his sails. His brother loved him, he knew that. Never doubted it for one moment. If only he’d give him a little rope.
“I need you to stop taking these kinds of risks,” Cian said softly as he leaned back against the desk. “When Liam was inside, I thought I might lose my mind. I need you three out here where I can keep you safe. Please don’t take these risks. Stop for me if you won’t stop for you. You’re young, I get you feel invincible, but I’m telling you, you’re not.”
Connor sighed but nodded his assent. “Fine. I’ll follow the rules. No product at the legit businesses, everything spread out, nothing central. But the guys are going to bitch.”
Cian’s expression hardened. “And if they do, you make sure they remember who’s in charge here. They work for us, not the other way around. Anyone gives you blowback, you tell them they can talk to me about it.”
Connor had to smirk. He’d never seen his brother do serious harm to anyone, but his reputation was that of a total badass, and for whatever reason, the men had a healthy fear of him. Connor wished he was able to get Cian to discuss it. He suspected Liam knew what had gone down, but neither older brother would give up the goods. Connor had a vague memory of Cian’s eighteenth birthday, he and Liam coming home with their father late one night. There was shouting, their mother crying. Cian’s eyes the next morning were dead and flat. At ten years Cian’s junior, Connor had been too young to understand it all, and Finn had only been twelve.
Whatever had happened, the reputation had stuck.
Cian walked toward the door and opened it. “Now, don’t you have things to do?” He raised an eyebrow.
Right. Get the product out of the back room. Because he’d been an idiot to think he could take the easy way out by keeping it here.
“Aye aye, Captain,” he muttered with a little salute to his brother.
As he passed by Cian in the doorway, his brother’s big hand clamped down on his shoulder. “I love you, you little bastard,” Cian said, his voice rough with emotion. “Everything I do is to protect you.”
Connor felt his throat tighten as he nodded. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Cian squeezed his shoulder, then gave him a gentle shove. “Go fix it, then we can have some dinner at the pub. I’ll text Finn and Liam.”
Connor went about the business of getting his men over to the club to move the product, small batches of it going to each of about a half-dozen locations the MacFarlanes kept within a rotating batch of nearly thirty. Connor h
ad been drilled on the rules since he was eighteen and started working in the family business. Each year, the family bought and sold several run-down office and industrial properties, using them for storage and distribution of the drugs that were the mainstay of their empire.
It was a complex system, the purpose of which was obvious—never let anyone know where the drugs might be stored. The distributors would be told an address one hour before they were scheduled to pick up product, and it would be a different address each week. They hated the system and complained about it endlessly. They couldn’t plan ahead and often had to arrange transportation at the last minute. Chicago’s traffic made it hell to get anywhere quickly. When they complained to Connor, who was in charge of local distribution, he often gave in to them. The fact was, he’d brought all the product to one location several times before for weeks on end. Cian simply hadn’t known.
Once the onerous task of moving the week’s shipment was handled and Connor had put Cian’s main man, Danny, in charge of the particulars, he walked outside to the back parking lot, swinging one leg over the seat of his Ducati. He revved the engine, fishtailing as he peeled out of the parking lot and turned toward Halstead, where his brother had seen the feds parked earlier. Sure enough, when he got to the corner, there sat a late-model dark American sedan. He shook his head in disgust. Didn’t they ever learn? The damn car was like a neon sign flashing cop, especially in a neighborhood like this one.
As he slowed his roll around the corner heading the opposite direction the car was parked, he saw the agent in the driver’s seat turn his head to watch. Okay, so maybe they weren’t trying to be incognito. The agent lowered his sunglasses so he could peer at Connor over the top and grinned. Connor flipped him off, hitting the gas hard as he popped a wheelie and flew down the street. Motherfuckers. He tried to make the rapid rhythm of his heart be about the speed of his bike and not the insidious fear that worked its way through him when he saw the confidence the agent displayed, sitting in broad daylight, watching everyone who came and went from Banshee and baiting them. Connor had never realized just how serious his family’s business was until Liam and their father had been arrested. Now he lived in constant fear of ending up in prison.
He’d gone only a few blocks when a familiar set of legs and an ass that was the stuff dreams were made of caught his attention on the sidewalk. What the hell was she doing here? This part of town wasn’t the best, and after dark, it became downright sketchy, nothing like the solidly working-class neighborhood both their families had historically lived in. He pulled over, cutting in front of a cabbie who flipped him off and yelled at him in Arabic.
Jess glanced over her shoulder to see what the commotion was about, and he watched her face go through about a dozen different emotions when she saw him.
He switched off the engine, jammed down the stand with his booted heel, and dismounted, reaching Jessica in ten seconds flat.
She looked up at him, her face weary but not angry for once.
“What do you want now, Connor? And are you stalking me?” she asked.
He ran a hand through his hair that was wild from the wind.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, taking her by the elbow and scanning the area around them before he led her to a small niche in front of a pawn shop. He took comfort in the feeling of his gun holstered under his left arm.
She breathed deeply and rolled her shoulders like she was about to go into a center-ring brawl. “Just some business for my dad,” she answered.
“Yeah? He know you’re doing it?” Connor kept his hand on her elbow in spite of her scowl, and she didn’t pull away.
“What does it matter? I’m a grown woman. I don’t have to get my dad’s permission to walk around town.”
He let go of her and put a hand to his forehead for just a moment. “No, you don’t, but Jess, you know as well as I do, it’s not safe for you down here, especially as my girlfriend. Vasquez’s territory is only a few blocks to the south. He hangs in Pilsen all the time.”
“I’m not your girlfriend,” she said brusquely, as if that settled the issue.
He sighed. The woman was killing him with this shit. “Anyone who’s paid any attention knows how I feel about you, Jess. Through you is the easiest way to get at me.”
He saw her obstinance waver for a split second.
“Well, maybe you should quit hanging around everywhere I am, then. It’s putting me at more risk.”
“The only thing that’s putting you at risk is refusing to get back together with me so I can take care of you.”
He looked at her hard, his jaw flexing in frustration. Her face softened incrementally until finally she reached out and touched his arm with the tips of her fingers. “Connor,” she said softly. “Even if you hadn’t done what you did…” She paused, swallowing as a cloud passed over her eyes. “I wouldn’t want you to take care of me like that. Things have changed—I’ve changed. And isn’t that why you did it in the first place? Because you could feel what was coming?”
Connor’s throat ached, and he ground his teeth, watching her as she gazed at him in sympathy. Yeah, he’d felt it. The shift when she’d started avoiding his family functions, didn’t want to tell people his last name when they were introduced, started complaining when he had to work late with his brothers. Jess had wanted to live together, go out with friends, do the things other couples their age did. So yes, Connor had definitely felt the change, the transition from her loving him no matter what to her loving only the parts of him that weren’t tied to MacFarlane business.
“I’m not the same girl you met all those years ago. I’ve grown up, and I can’t go back to that—to her.”
He leaned against the wall next to them, looking down at their hands that had somehow become linked, her fingers wound through his the way they used to, no thought, just instinct.
“So, I’ll change too,” he whispered. “I’ll do whatever you want, be whatever you need.”
She shook her head sadly. “No, you won’t.” She paused, and it was significant, the space filled not with what she did say, but what she didn’t. Until finally, “You can’t.”
Connor swallowed, the backs of his eyes burning like he was a fucking pussy. If Liam could see him now, he’d have a fit. “Anything but that, Jess. I’ll do anything for you but that.”
A tear rolled slowly down her smooth cheek, and Connor’s chest squeezed. “I know. It’s why I’ve never asked, but it’s the only thing that would change this.”
“They’re my family,” he whispered.
She caressed his cheek with the back of her fingers before going up on tiptoe to kiss his lips chastely. His insides twisted in panic.
“I know. And I can’t have them be my family. I want more—I want things you can’t give me.”
“Shit,” he gritted, his voice so rough, the word was almost unintelligible.
She stepped away and gave him a sad smile before she resumed her walk down the dirty pavement. Connor breathed deep, releasing the pain on an exhale before he walked to the curb, mounted his bike, and pulled into traffic, following Jessica’s lead for the next ten blocks until she turned into familiar territory and the safety of a popular business district.
Then Connor gunned his bike, weaving in and out between gridlocked cars until everything around him was a blur and the racing of his heart was truly about speed and not his wrecked life.
Chapter 4
Xavier stared at the screen of his computer as it showed Cian MacFarlane buckling his belt. The man was an early riser, like Xavier himself, and that got him a few points of respect. On screen, Cian sat in an armchair in his very modern high-rise apartment and laced up an expensive black leather boot. Xavier wondered where Cian had bought the boots, and if maybe he should try a similar pair. It seemed like the mobster had a handle on the whole dressing-for-success thing, unlike his three younger brothers, who looked like varying degrees of rich, spoiled hoodlum.
As Cian grabbed a wallet and
keys from the dresser, Xavier’s heart beat a tad faster—don’t close it, don’t close it, the mantra played on a loop in his head. When MacFarlane then walked out of the room, and Xavier’s line of sight, he breathed a sigh of relief. He pressed some buttons on his keyboard, and the image of the room zoomed in. Xavier looked carefully at the various pieces of furniture in the image—a nightstand, the armchair, a lamp, the bed, and there—at the far left of the screen, on the floor in the corner was a large potted plant, undoubtedly put there by an interior designer or an ex-girlfriend to soften up the cold space. It was on a stand, a strange thing made of what looked to be white Lucite. But it had curves, and the plant was lush and full. It would work.
Xavier picked up the phone and pressed two numbers.
“Yeah, he’s out. There’s a plant stand in the corner of the master bedroom. Last night, I was able to see the home office, and there’s a trophy in there, a large cup on the shelf behind the desk.”
He paused as he clicked off the image on the screen. “You’ll have to wing it in the living room.”
After he hung up the phone, Xavier muttered to himself. How most of the supposedly intelligent people in the world could refuse to admit the fact that their laptops provided cameras available to anyone with even rudimentary hacking skills was perplexing to him.
The text came at six a.m. on a Tuesday, and all Lila could think was that Cian MacFarlane must be nothing like Tony Soprano, because she knew for a fact Tony stayed up all night snorting coke and screwing hookers and wouldn’t have been caught dead texting people at six a.m.
We need to meet. Eight a.m. at Starbucks?
Lila squinted at the phone, because, unlike her mobster associate, she was not normally awake at six a.m.—business in the world of the dark web started sometime around ten—and had been sleeping soundly before his texts started chiming in her ear.
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