Page 63 of Dublin Beast

Harper grins as she grabs her own plate and joins us. “I brushed it with maple syrup and baked it. You don’t have maple bacon here, which is a crying shame.”

I snort. “You Canucks have maple bacon?”

She levels a smug look my way. “We have mapleeverything. Bacon, cookies, candies, beans, popcorn, chips, cakes. It’s a major industry in Canada. Have you never heard of the Maple Syrup Mafia?”

Kieran barks a laugh. “That can’t be a real thing.”

“Oh, it’s real. About ten years ago, someone pulled off one of the biggest heists in Canadian history. Stole nearly twenty million dollars’ worth of maple syrup from the national reserve and almost got away with it. There’s a Netflix movie and everything.”

Kieran shakes his head, chewing slowly. “I love that the most notable Canadian crime wave involves pancakes.”

Harper shrugs. “Don’t downplay it. People take their syrup seriously where I come from.”

I glance down at the bacon and take another bite. Fucking hell, it’s good.

Domestic bliss, I think again. Only this time, the thought isn’t quite as distant. Not quite as abstract.

Not wanting to look at that too closely, I put my head down and dig in.

* * *

Harper

It’s crazy how people take getting up and feeling like themselves for granted. I never really considered it until it was taken away from me. But, with the last traces of grogginess from the drugs and the weakness in my limbs gone, I feel like taking on the world.

After breakfast, Kieran and Bryan want to talk about private Quinn business, so I leave them to the cleanup and treat myself to a little TLC.

After turning on the water, I give it time to heat up and then step under the spray. I do some of my best thinking in the shower, so by the time I’m dry and dressed, I have a plan.

Being kidnapped was terrible, but it taught me a lot. It also gave me a location—a physical place to focus on to peel back the layers of Mason’s business.

Settling at the little desk in the corner of the bedroom, I crack my knuckles and open the research file I have on Mason’s private parties.

If that estate is where he hosts his auctions, then maybe I can track other events he’s held there.

If I have any chance at finding Zhara, Macie, or Chantal, I’ll need something to go on: attendee guest lists, dates of the events, or emails for party set up.

Yeah, that’s it. Bryan said everything about that auction screamed elegant affair, from the themed décor to the scantily clad servers to the catering staff.

And that’s my way in—the party staff.

If the catering company is legit, there will be a paper trail. There will also be chatter about a mafia war gun fight blasting through their event.

I open an incognito browser and start searching.

When I find nothing about Eddie Mason’s mansion getting shot up by two masked thugs, I assume the catering company is either being silenced or isn’t as legit as I had hoped.

Opening the list of Mason company holdings, I find one that offers potential—Windsor Catering.

My pulse kicks up as I sit back, drumming my fingers against the table, thinking through how I want to approach this.

When I’ve got it figured out, I dial the number, switching my phone to speaker as I open a blank document, fingers poised over the keyboard.

The line connects, and a woman’s voice answers.

“Windsor Catering, Emmaline Greaves speaking. How can I assist you?”

I clear my throat. “Hello, Ms. Greaves, this is Amanda Martin. I work with the legal department of Mason Enterprises and given the nature of what transpired at the Aigburth estate private event the other night, I want to clarify a few things with you regarding your staff who were there. Do you have a moment?”

---