Page 98 of Ruthless Secrets
The scalding hot shower does little to relieve the tension in my body.
I’m exhausted and irritable, which are two things I should definitely not be feeling as I meet with one of the most dangerous crime bosses in the city.
Once I’m dressed and freshly shaved, I make my way back downstairs and quickly head out the door before Clara has a chance to intercept me because I don’t think I could handle turning her away again.
The drive from Westchester to Cillian’s bar takes me almost an hour. Having so much time to ruminate over my thoughts leaves me in a foul mood, so by the time I’m pulling up outside Cillian’s bar, I’m in desperate need of a drink.
The Bloody Harp sits on a narrow, grimy street in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s been there for decades, and the once green painted exterior now mostly peeled away to reveal the old redbrick underneath. Above the entrance there’s a rusted metal sign with a red-painted harp which looks like it might fall down at any moment. The solid oak door is scarred with knife marks and what looks to be dried bloodstains near the bottom.
I wrap my still-bruised knuckles against the door and wait.
As per Cillian’s instructions I’ve come completely unarmed and alone, though he and I both know that means fuck all. Adam is proof of how much damage I can do with my bare hands.
As the sound of heavy footsteps approaches, I plaster an easy smile on my face and tuck my hands into my pockets in time for the door to open and one of Cillian’s cronies to appear.
He’s a good few inches shorter than I am but built like a boxer, with a crooked nose and several scars etched into his cheek.
His piercing blue eyes narrow as he takes me in. “Yes?”
I don’t let my smile falter. “I have an appointment with Cillian.”
“You alone?”
“Yes.”
The man glances behind me before stepping aside to let me in.
Instantly, I’m hit with the smell of stale cigarette smoke mixed with beer. I try not to wrinkle my nose as I’m led across the dimly lit floor toward the bar.
I glance around and notice a small stage in the corner with an upright piano collecting dust. Rows of red leather booths line the walls, though the material is cracked and stained.
The place is even more of a dive than I remember it being.
I eye the three men standing near the bar, pretending to nurse their pints. It’s clear the only reason they’re here is in case I decide to try something, not that I’m that stupid.
I glance at the bottles of liquor behind the bar and try to stifle a sigh. It seems Cillian keeps all the cheap shit out front and hides the good stuff away for himself.
A door off to the left opens, and I brace myself as Cillian Moore appears.
We’re similar in terms of height and build, though he has at least two decades on me from the deep lines etched into his face.
His Irish heritage is present in his graying auburn hair that is cropped short, and his pale weathered skin that is dotted with freckles. His navy three-piece suit looks out of place in a rundown bar like this.
A part of me is a little surprised that he’s actually shown up to this meeting, though I don’t let my face show it.
Cillian stalks toward me, a glass of whisky in hand. “Didyecome alone?”
“Yes.”
Cillian grunts before taking a seat at one of the round wooden tables between us.
“Sit.” He points to the chair opposite from him.
He looks to have collected a few more scars along his cheeks and neck since the last time I saw him.
“How have you been?” I unbutton my jacket and take the seat he offered.
“Cut theshiteand tell me whatyewant, De Luca,” Cillian’s accent is still thick despite decades of living in the city.
