Dublin, Ireland
Ronan’s darkened blue eyes flicker over the men that surround him.
“Kill him,” he says again with finality.
I don’t budge. Don’t so much as take my eyes off the cold bastard.
“Before you kill me,” I say calmly. “Do you at least want to hear how your son died?”
He stops. Freezes, really.
And yet, his face remains unchanged. It’s as though I’ve given him the weather report.
But I know better than to assume he feels nothing.
Men like him have curated their image to perfection. If I can’t tell what’s he’s feeling, it’s because he doesn’t want me to know what he’s feeling.
But I’m not looking for emotion. I’m looking for hesitation.
And when I see it, I seize my opportunity.
“He died four months ago,” I say. “He took the bullet that was meant for me.”
Ronan turns to me slowly, his eyes boring into mine. He really looks at me this time. He gives a small nod.
His men lower their weapons.
“Get in the car,” he tells me. “We’ll finish this discussion inside.”
I glance back at the bartender who’d brought me here. He’s staring at me open-mouthed, clearly shocked at how I’d managed to get myself out of what he clearly thought would be a short and fatal confrontation.
Fucking idiot. He’s too dumb to last long in this world.
I turn my back on him and walk to the foot of the mansion’s marble staircase. Before I ascend, I’m stopped, frisked and unburdened of all my weapons by a pair of suited goons.
Ronan stands at the top of the stairs, looking up at the ornate gargoyles looming above the entryway. Waiting for me, no doubt, but his back is turned so I can’t see his face.
Does he feel the loss?
He clearly feels something—otherwise, why invite me back to the house?
It gives me a small glimmer of hope, but I’m still cautious. I knew next to nothing about the O’Sullivan clan. Nothing real, in any case.
Cillian had spoken about them in brief, bitter anecdotes. And only when he was very drunk or really pissed. The family portrait he painted was less than flattering.
The goons push me up the stairs. I mount slowly, wary of everything around me.
When Ronan hears me coming, he slips inside without a word.
I follow him in.
The house is surprisingly modern inside, made of clean lines and a lot of glass. Everything is sleek and jaw-droppingly expensive.
Fuck me. The O’Sullivan’s are doing better than anyone realized.
“Follow me,” Ronan throws back over his shoulder at me. He walks fast.
We cross a massive foyer, go through a great room with three fireplaces all burning. Libraries, lounges, a cinema, a sprawling office. I get glimpses of each room as we pass.