I want her. I want to pin her to that bed, shatter that cold composure of hers, and make her admit that she's already tied to me, whether she likes it or not.
But I don't. I can't.
I pull my hand away, the loss of her touch feeling like a sudden chill. "Behave, Atara. For your own sake."
I walk out and lock the door behind me. There is no sound of a vase breaking this time. Just a heavy, echoing silence that tells me she's in there, planning her next move.
The strategy room is in the sub-basement. It’s a windowless bunker filled with screens, maps, and three of the most dangerous men in Nevada.
Echo is leaning against the wall, reading a report. Kieran is at the main terminal. The third man, a silent giant named Miller, is cleaning a rifle.
"Talk to me," I say, stripping off my shirt and grabbing a clean one from the locker.
"The Senator called three times," Kieran says, not looking up. "He’s panicking about the port investigation in Cork. I told him we’d handle it, but he wants a meeting. Face to face. The usual spot."
"Tell him Thursday," I say. "If he calls again, remind him who paid for his last re-election campaign."
"Bratva intel just came in," Echo adds, tossing a folder onto the table. "They’re moving on the northern distribution hubs. They heard about the Ireland breach."
I sit at the head of the table, staring at the screens. Three fronts. The Senator, the Bratva, and Silas. It’s a classic pincer move. Someone orchestrated this.
"The Ireland breach shouldn't have happened," I say, my voice like ice. "Silas knew exactly which resort I was at. He knew the layout of the penthouse. He knew I’d be at the private dining room for breakfast."
Kieran finally looks up. "We’re running the logs, Lorcan. Only six people knew the itinerary. Me, Echo, Miller, and the inner circle leads back here."
"One of them is talking," I say. "Find the leak. I don't care if you have to peel back the layers of their entire lives. If someone in this organization gave my location to a ghost, I want their head on this table by Friday."
I spend the next four hours buried in logistics. I coordinate the defense of the northern hubs. I send a message to the O’Sheas in Dublin to burn the remaining O’Malley assets. I review the security footage from the compound, watching the perimeter feeds.
And every fifteen minutes, my eyes drift to the small monitor in the corner. The one showing the East Wing.
Atara is pacing. She’s moved a chair to the window and is staring out at the mountains. She looks small. Fragile. And completely out of place in this room.
I hate that I keep looking at her. I’m a man who deals in certainties. In controlled systems. Atara is an anomaly. She’s a chaos factor I can’t account for. She makes me want things I haven't wanted in a decade. She makes me feel things that make me slow.
And in my world, slow is dead.
Dinner is served in the main dining room. It’s a formal affair—not because I like the theater of it, but because Maeve needs the structure.
She’s sitting at the end of the long mahogany table, her feet dangling. She’s already changed into her pajamas, a pink set with stars on them.
"Daddy?" she asks, poking at her peas.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Where's Atara? Won’t she join us for dinner?"
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. I look at Kieran, who is sitting at the far end of the table, then back at my daughter.
"She’s resting, Maeve," I say. "She had a long flight."
"Is she going to stay? For the treasure hunt?"
"She’s a guest, Maeve," I say, the word feeling heavy in my mouth. "Just a guest. For a little while."
"I like her," Maeve says, nodding to herself. "She’s brave. I think she’s a princess too."
I almost laugh. A princess. If Atara heard that, she’d probably throw a shoe at my head.
