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I hummed as I wandered out of the office, closing the door with a snick behind me.
The Davidsons’ house in the Hamptons had been one of the properties under the threat of foreclosure when he’d come to us with a proposition nine years ago. The fourteen-bedroom colonial mansion belonged to my family, not his, but it was on loan to him for the foreseeable future.
Unless he reneged, of course. But he’d lose more than just his fucking house if he did that.
As I wandered around the halls, I heard the music from the wedding party in the ballroom, but it held no interest to me.
Alan Davidson Jr. had been strong-armed into this marriage, and it was clear for all to see.
He’d barely looked at his bride once, hadn’t touched her, and when it had come time to kiss her, he’d placed a peck on her cheek… They might have gotten him down the aisle, but that wouldn’t continue their political dynasty if he couldn’t touch her without cringing.
As I entered the wintergarten—I’d seen the deeds so I knew that was the official name of the fancy greenhouse—where daffodils grew in November thanks to Victorian heating pipes that ran under the flower beds in there—I heard the softest of moans.
My lips quirked up at the corners as I snuffed out the cigar in one of the soil beds and craned my neck to investigate exactly where the sound had come from.
In the distance, over the private beach, a flurry of fireworks lit up the sky and provided some relief from the gloom in here.
My eyes caught a couple in full embrace: her skirts up, his pants down.
I’d have laughed if that skirt wasn’t part of a wedding dress.
Not much surprised me, not in my line of work, but when the lights flashed again, the sky blowing up with reds and blues and whites—ever the patriots—there was no mistaking the man who was fucking the newest member of the Davidson household.
Michael Byrne.
Jesus Christ.
There were few men whom I feared. In my position, not only was fear a weakness I couldn’t afford, but the Five Pointswerethe monster under the bed.
Wewere the ones to be frightened of.
Unless you were acheile, of course.
Those fucking ECD zealots from the motherland were more insane than my elder brother, and that was really saying something.
Defrosting, I backed away, but of course, as luck would fucking have it, I walked into a goddamn planter.
With a crash, it soared onto the Victorian-era tiles, and Elizabeth Davidson née Ó Cléirigh gasped and started tugging her skirts down.
Not Byrne though.
With his gaze on mine, he pinned her to him. One arm banding around her waist, his other hand coming to her throat to hold her as he carried on fucking her while she struggled to cover up.
As I stared into the gaze of acheilewith the blood of thousands on his hands, who felt righteous in his actions and not like the worst kind of sinner, I knew that for catching them in the act, I was a dead man walking.
