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The second time had been in the city. That time he hadn’t been sure it was her — he’d never run into her outside of Southie — but there had been something about the curve of her jaw and the way she carried herself that had made him almost positive it was her. He’d followed her two blocks, right until she’d disappeared into an office building on Huntington Street.
It hadn’t been until she was gone that he’d felt embarrassed and ashamed, that he realized he’d behaved like a stalker. He’d sworn then that he’d stop looking for her in every crowd, that if he ever thought he saw her again he’d turn around and walk the other way.
“That can be easily remedied,” Marchand said, pulling him back to the present. “I’m sure you know where to find her.”
“Why not ask Will MacFarland to warn her? He works for Seamus too.” Nolan’s heart was already rebelling against the idea of seeing Bridget again, of coming close enough to hear her voice, see her smile. Even now, all these years later, he didn’t trust himself not to fall into the abyss of his love for her.
“Precisely why we can’t approach him.” Marchand finished his drink and set the glass on Nolan’s coffee table. “We can’t be sure of his loyalties. Approaching him ahead of a turf war would be dangerous — for us and for him.”
Nolan nodded, angry at himself for making the suggestion. He couldn’t put Will at risk because he was too much of a fucking coward to approach an ex-girlfriend.
His mind called the classification a lie. Bridget had never been just a girlfriend. She’d been the food he ate, the air he breathed, the blood in his veins.
“I see your point,” Nolan said, “but I don’t have any sway over Bridget anymore. I might as well be a stranger.”
Marchand studied him. “Somehow I doubt that’s true.”
Nolan stood, as much to get away from Marchand’s probing gaze as to work off the energy winding its way through his body at the prospect of being close enough to Bridget to have a conversation.
He walked to the bar, poured himself another bourbon, and downed it in one drink.
“What else?” Nolan asked, his gaze fixed on the wall above the bar.
“Pardon me?” Marchand asked.
Nolan turned to face him. “When I asked you why you were here, you said ‘First.’ I can only assume that means you have a secondary reason for being here.”
“We need help taking O’Brien down. Inside help.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
Marchand drummed his fingers on the back of the sofa. “You worked for Carlo Rossi under Raneiro Donati. You left the Syndicate when it fell after Donati’s assassination.”
“So?”
“You can’t be called a Syndicate loyalist, but you do have experience working in the organization, and you know O’Brien from the neighborhood.”
“I still don’t understand,” Nolan said.
“You can get into O’Brien’s operation,” Marchand said. “You can get the information we need to take him out, replace his operation with a new model, one we’ve been rolling out all over the world since Donati’s death, one that is in keeping with the twenty-first century, that has a semblance of honor.”
“And profit I imagine,” Nolan said.
Marchand’s smile was faint. “Of course.”
“What kind of information are you looking for?” Nolan asked.
“That’s something I’m prepared to share should you decide to work with us.”
Nolan shook his head. “I can’t get into O’Brien’s operation. And I don’t want to. I left all that behind a long time ago.”
Marchand nodded. “And how are you enjoying your new endeavors?”
Nolan gestured to the apartment with his drink in hand. “What do you think?”
Marchand hesitated. “I think you’re a complex man — a man not easily satisfied with the trappings of wealth and tradition. I think you still care enough about Miss Monaghan to want her safe, and your friend Will too. I think this might be the opportunity you’ve been waiting for.”
Nolan forced himself not to squirm under the other man’s observations. Not to give weight to them by considering how close to the mark they might be. “Opportunity for what?”
