The door kicks open, and my heart pangs deep inside my chest, alive for the first time in months.
Maeve, the goddess that she is, enters on deliciously spiked heels and in a leather skirt. Her matching jacket crinkles asshe saunters in, kohl-rimmed eyes scanning the room with boredom. I can’t find the ability to breathe.
Months. Months since I’ve laid eyes on this vixen, and I’m frozen, stuck, by the sight of her. Subconsciously, I inhale, praying to catch a trace of her perfume, and when I do, I drop back into the chair. Longing ignites in my veins, and it’s a goddamn miracle I don’t cross the distance to grab her.
But I can’t. Ferguson doesn’t know about us—if he did, everything I’ve done would fall apart. Maeve has no power here, and he might be irritated with me if he found out I’m sleeping with his daughter, but he’ll kill her for it.
My eyes scan her again, taking in the knives wrapped around her thigh—right above where my blade would slice her skin to lick her blood before diving into her pussy—to the large silver gun on her hip. Her Eagle, a present from someone else.
Jealousy hisses in my gut.
Her eyes skip over me, and I frown, heart stuttering. Months without contact, and not even a glance?
For years after Michael’s death, I drank down our toxic love as if it would sustain me alone. And it did. Full of carnage and pleasure, it spoke to the delicious darkness inside us both, fed and nurtured us.
And now? Now, she acts as if I don’t fucking exist. Cold rage wraps around the burning desire her proximity brings up. What the fuck is this about?
Ducking my head, I try to catch her gaze, but she’s stubborn. Firmly, she looks at Ferguson, and I’m left sitting here in purgatory, wishing for the holding of my soul to fuckingacknowledgeme.
Ferguson sighs. “What, Ace?”
“Shipment’s been detained,” she says curtly. “It was caught by the Coast Guard.”
“Fuck!” He slams his beefy fist on the desk, our glasses of Irish whiskey clinking together.
That’s a serious problem. The O’Brien clan runs guns, and without that shipment, we don’t have a product. We sell some drugs on the side, but it’s not enough currency. Not to fund the clan, pay back the Board, or continue Ferguson’s spending habits. Man hasn’t seen a catalog he didn't like.
And none of that matters becauseMaeve won’t fucking look at me.
“Killian,” he groans, pinching his brow, and I bite back my retort. “What about your contacts overseas? Think any of them could get some here in time?”
I clench my fists. “Before the next meet? Not likely.”
Maeve shifts her weight. Still not looking at me. I have half a mind to fucking grab her face and force her eyes on me. “What about another player?”
Ferguson perks up, brow furrowed. “Do you know someone I don’t at the docks?”
“De Luca,” she offers, shrugging. My body stills at the name. “They handle imports. Make a truce with the family. They help us get the guns here, and we use our distribution routes to carry their drugs. Win-win.”
O’Brien is the only Irish clan in Boston, and we battle for territory against two long-running Italian families: Bruno and De Luca. Bruno runs a sex trafficking ring of women and kids. Maeve and I have had our fill of their shit, but De Luca? De Luca runs pretty little pills through their clubs that endear them to all the coeds.
Maeve has history with them. Ifuckinghate it.
Ferguson laughs, shaking his head at the absurdity. “De Luca?” He scoffs. “As much as I might admire their heir—he strung up three of Bruno’s men when he was named, and it was glorious to see the old bastard mad—that family would neverwork with us. Nico is a crafty fucker, and he wouldn’t want to sully his family with ours.”
“They might surprise you,” she pushes. “They have needs that we can fulfill.”
I glare at her, willing her toshut up.
“Just like a woman to suggest something so stupid,” he insults, draining his glass. Ire flickers in my gut at his dismissal. “What I wouldn’t give to have a capable heir like Nico.” Standing, he crosses to the bar cart, and I watch her jaw clench, audibly cracking in the quiet room.
As pissed off as I am, a sliver of sympathy hits me. No one would know it, but Ferguson’s comments cut Maeve deeply. They always have. Comes from being the unwanted eldest daughter.
That doesn’t mean she gets away with fucking ignoring me. Sliding from my chair, I block her gaze, my back to her father, who fiddles with pouring another glass. “Missme?”
She looks away, focusing on the large ornate desk full of papers. Her finger circles the edge. “Leave me alone.”
“We need to talk.”
