The Wedding Pact (The O'Malleys #2) (9 page)

Though she seriously doubted he’d approve of the way she was currently using it.

“Why did you come back to the club tonight?”

She froze in the middle of climbing back onto her massive bed. To answer that was to strip bare a small part of her. It wasn’t anywhere near her center, but it was still closer than she wanted to let James.
Then hang up, idiot
. But she didn’t. Instead, she answered. Honestly. “Curiosity.”

“You know what they say about curiosity and that damn cat.”

Yeah, she did, and that hadn’t stopped her. Her days were numbered as it was—if she didn’t use what was left of her freedom to take chances, she was wasting precious time. “Are you planning on hurting me, James? Maybe finishing what your father started?”

“Fuck, no. The world would be a darker place without you in it.” Before she could fully process that comment, he moved on. “You’re not being strictly honest, though. It was more than curiosity that drove you to sit down across that table from me.”

He was right. It had been a number of things that she didn’t want to give voice to. This conversation was already strange enough—it was almost intimate to sit here on her bed in the darkness and exchange words with him. Which meant she had to do what she’d been shoring herself up to since the moment she realized he was on the other end of this call. “Good night, James.”

“A little too close to the truth, huh?” He sounded like he was smiling. “I can take a hint—on occasion. Good night, lovely.”

And then he was gone, leaving her wondering if maybe it really had all been a dream. She went so far as to check her phone to see if she’d actually received a call, and there it was. James’s number. Before she could think too closely about what she was doing, Carrigan saved the number under
J
and set her phone aside.

She lay back in bed, going over the conversation even as she cursed herself for doing it. She wasn’t sixteen anymore, dancing home from school after the popular boy talked to her. Hell, she hadn’t even done that when she
was
sixteen. And James Halloran wasn’t some harmless jock. He was a
Halloran
. More than that, he was now the man in charge of all Halloran territory and everyone under their control. One could argue that he was equally as powerful as her father, though she’d never be stupid enough to say as much where Seamus O’Malley could hear her.

She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. Sleep. Sleep was what she needed more than anything right now. Maybe in a few hours things would look clearer.

*  *  *

Cillian stared at the untouched drink in front of him. He could almost taste the whiskey on this tongue. The sense memory made him want to lick his lips and puke, all at the same time. He hadn’t touched the stuff in months—not whiskey, not Guinness, not anything else with a drop of alcohol. Guilt was his new drug, and he excelled at it. If he hadn’t been so shit-housed, Aiden wouldn’t have decided that they should walk home from the bar that night. If they hadn’t walked home, they wouldn’t have been vulnerable, and that bastard Halloran wouldn’t have had a chance for a drive-by. If he hadn’t had the chance, Devlin would still be alive. Cillian had been more concerned with chasing skirts than chasing grades in school, but even he remembered that old logic equation—if
A
equaled
B
and
B
equaled
C
, then
A
equaled
C
.

It meant that Cillian was responsible for Devlin’s death.

There was plenty of guilt to go around, or that was what both Teague and Aiden had told him time and time again over the last three months. They could keep believing that if it made them feel better. Cillian knew the truth. He might not have pulled the trigger, but he was the reason they were there in the first place.

He glanced at the table where they’d shared their last drink. The memory of the night was hazy at best—at least before they hit the street—but he vaguely recalled needling Teague about marrying a Sheridan. They’d all been laughing and shooting the shit. For a second, it’d almost been like the good old days. Before Aiden grew up and got serious about his role as heir. Before Teague took it upon himself to save every one of his siblings. Before Cillian recognized the noose around his neck and resolved to live life to the fullest before it yanked tight.

Before
.

With Devlin’s death, Cillian’s entire life devolved into Before and After. He barely recognized the man he was now, the hard son of a bitch he was turning into. A wall of ice had started around his heart, and it only seemed to get thicker with each passing day, freezing him from the inside out.

“Is this seat taken?”

He barely glanced at the man. “Nope.” None of the seats at the bar were. There’d been a rowdy group in here earlier, but this close to last call, the place was damn near deserted. Which didn’t explain why the hell this guy felt the need to sit directly next to him.

“Buy you a drink?”

It took a second for him to place the accent. Russian, but a little different. Maybe somewhere eastern European, like the Ukraine. He wasn’t going to ask—it would just mean opening up a conversation that he didn’t want in the first place. Cillian motioned at the full drink in front of him. “I have one.”

“You’ve been staring at it for three hours. It’s no longer drinkable.” The man leaned forward and caught the bartender’s eye. “Two vodka.” His accent turned the
v
into a
w
.

Since the man obviously wasn’t going anywhere, Cillian finally gave him his full attention. He was in his mid-thirties and had one of the best suits Cillian had ever seen. There was nothing crazy or loud about it, but it managed to scream money nonetheless. It was more than that, though.
Cillian
had expensive suits in his closet. Fuck, he was wearing one right now. But he was conscious of the cloth against his skin and the pull of the fabric every time he moved.

This man wore his suit like he’d been born to it.

Cillian frowned. This didn’t feel like a pickup, though. There was no interest in this guy’s dark eyes—or at least no interest that had anything to do with sex. In a way, it was a relief—it saved him from having to explain that he didn’t swing that way—but it also opened up the question: What the fuck was this guy doing?

When the bartender, Benji, dropped the vodka off, the man lifted his. “I’m Dmitri.”

“Cillian.” The exchange of names was so automatic, his was out of his mouth before he had a chance to think better of it. Then again, he highly suspected this Dmitri knew exactly who he was. Nothing about this indicated it was anything but planned. The knowledge sat like a burr in the back of his throat. “What do you want?”

“Direct. I like that.” Dmitri took his shot without flinching. “We spend too much of our days wasting time making small talk. You and I, well, we know there is nothing guaranteed in this world.”

He didn’t like this guy lumping them in together, especially when he still had no fucking idea what his game was. “For the second and final time—what do you want?”

Dmitri seemed to be considering him. “It’s bad luck to turn down a drink.”

“I don’t drink anymore.” It didn’t matter if his hand itched for the glass. He wasn’t touching the damn thing. Cillian had been weak too much of his life. It stopped now.

He nodded like Cillian had admitted to something entirely different. “I understand. As for what I want…perhaps I want a friend.”

“A friend.” He put every ounce of his derision and disbelief into the last word.

“Is that so hard to believe? Men like us don’t have many friends. We have pawns and enemies and family—and sometimes those circles even overlap.”

That was true enough, but that still didn’t answer the question. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. “Trust issues go with the territory.”

Dmitri laughed, a deep rolling sound that instantly made him want to join in. That laugh was a weapon, and one he’d bet the man had honed to perfection. He shook his head. “Let’s be frank then, shall we?”

Somehow, he doubted there was anything about this conversation that would be frank. The man talked in circles, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was giving Cillian enough rope to hang himself with. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t done anything or agreed to anything to merit the feeling. It was there nonetheless. “Let’s.”

Dmitri ignored the sarcastic tone. “Your father is keen to marry off your oldest sister.”

He knew that. Hell, everyone knew that. “I’m aware.”

“I’m one of the men in the running, such as it is.” Dmitri shrugged, as nonchalant as if he was talking about the weather. “If I’m going to become family, it wouldn’t hurt to get to know her brothers. And you’re a kindred soul of sorts.”

He blinked. This guy had a set of steel balls to come in here and chat him up like his sister was a sure thing. He sat back. If Carrigan had settled on someone, he would have heard about it. Most likely. He hadn’t exactly been playing dutiful O’Malley minion recently. It was possible he’d missed the announcement.

But Cillian didn’t think so.

There would be no reason for this guy to come cozy up to him if he thought Carrigan was a sure thing. No, this was something else altogether. He turned the shot glass, eyeing the writing on the side. It was the bar logo, one he’d seen a million times. He watched Dmitri out of the corner of his eye. The man didn’t seem impatient or worried or scheming—which meant he was even more dangerous than Cillian had originally guessed. Dmitri was a player in this game of power, and it would be stupid to underestimate him.

So he didn’t tell him to get lost. “Sure, I get that.” If this man had his eye on Carrigan, Cillian had to figure out what his game was. He didn’t seem like the normal power-grabbing sort their father liked to string along by their noses. Dmitri practically
reeked
of power.

Not to mention, Cillian had never seen him before. If he was someone of note in the Boston scene, he would have before now. All of which added up to the conclusion that the man was from out of town.

What the fuck did you invite into our lives, you old goddamn fool?

Dmitri plucked the shot glass out of his hand and downed that vodka, too. “Perhaps next time we’ll manage a meal.”

It wasn’t a question, but he answered it anyway. “For sure.” He didn’t want to spend another minute in this man’s presence. If Devlin were alive, it would just be a matter of a few hours on the computer and they’d know where Dmitri was born, everything about his childhood, and what he ate for breakfast that day. Cillian was learning software and had fledgling hacker skills, but he was nowhere near as good as his little brother had been.

Devlin
.

The loss reached up and sucker punched Cillian. He took a careful breath, all too aware of Dmitri’s attention on him. He had to get out of here. Showing weakness wasn’t acceptable in front of his family, let alone in front of a man who might very well be an enemy. He pushed to his feet, weaving slightly. “I’ll see you around.” He was aware of the man’s gaze on him as he walked around the tables between the bar and the door.

“You can count on it.”

It sounded more like a threat than a promise.

Chapter Seven

C
arrigan stared at the list her father had provided, not sure if she should be grateful or insulted. There were six names and phone numbers and…nothing else. No information. No pictures. Nothing. She resisted the urge to crumple the paper and throw it across the room. Barely. “Nothing an Internet search can’t fix.”

She grabbed her rarely used laptop and brought up the Internet browser. The first name…“Chauncy Chauncer. Wow, your parents must either have been mad at you when you were born or presumptuous beyond measure.” With a name like that, there couldn’t be that many out there in the world. Thankfully—both for her and any potential Chauncy Chauncers—the one that popped up in half a dozen articles on the first page seemed to be the one on her father’s list. She pulled up a picture of him and sighed. He was exactly what his name had led her to expect—middle-aged with a comb-over to do Donald Trump proud.

Gross
. She might be staring thirty in the face, but that didn’t mean she was willing to spend even a second of thinking about what sex with him would be like. It was bad enough that she’d have to go on one date with him. Carrigan shuddered and moved onto the next name.

Adam Marrow.

This one had a wider field of range. She paged through site after site of different Adams, eventually narrowing it down to two. One was old enough to be her grandfather. The other was in his early forties and, if the news articles were anything to be believed, had apparently been under suspicion for killing his wife a little over a year ago. They hinted at his criminal background and listed his rap sheet. She pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting off a headache. That had to be the one.