Page 53 of Legacy Of Ashes
I cross to him, rising on my toes to press a kiss to his lips. What starts as reassurance turns hungry the moment our mouths meet. His hands fist in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss until I'm breathless and aching.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "Come home to me, Saoirse. Whatever he offers, whatever he threatens—come home to me."
"Always," I promise, though my voice shakes.
The Harbor Club drips with old money and dirty secrets. I spot Valentin Petrov immediately—silver-haired, immaculate in his charcoal suit, positioned at a corner table where he can see everything. A king surveying his potential territory.
He stands as I approach, taking my hand and pressing it to his lips. "Saoirse. Stunning, as always."
"Valentin." I settle into the chair he holds, hyperaware of how his eyes track my every movement. "Thank you for dinner."
"The pleasure is mine." He signals the waiter, who appears with champagne I didn't order. Dom Pérignon, naturally. "To new ventures."
"To understanding each other better," I counter, clinking my glass against his.
We order while he asks polite questions about my education, my time abroad, my thoughts on Boston's changing landscape. I give careful answers, noting his habits—the way his thumb taps when he's thinking, how his accent thickens when he's amused.
The food arrives, but I'm too wound up to eat much. Something feels off about this entire evening, like he's playing a game I don't understand yet.
"Your proposal has merit," I say finally, cutting to the heart of it. "But Irish families prefer business partnerships to personal arrangements."
His smile tells me he expected this. "American women. So independent." He cuts his steak slowly. "In Russia, marriages create unbreakable bonds."
"In Boston, they create complications."
"Your family already has complications." His tone stays conversational, but ice creeps into his eyes. "O'Brien, for example."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Timothy O'Brien—one of our most trusted dock supervisors. Fifteen years of loyal service.
"What about O'Brien?"
"Seventy thousand dollars over six months. Very detailed shipping schedules, security rotations, meeting locations." Petrov sips his wine like we're discussing the weather. "My sources are quite reliable."
The room tilts around me. If O'Brien's been selling us out, what else don't I know? How many others are there?
"Why tell me this?" I manage.
"Because allies share intelligence." His smile turns sharp. "Enemies exploit it."
The threat hangs between us, wrapped in silk but sharp as a blade. Marry him, or he might use our weaknesses to destroy us.
"Generous of you," I say through gritted teeth.
"I'm a generous man. To those who appreciate it." He leans back, completely at ease. "The question is, how many other O'Briens are there? Your father trusted freely. Perhaps too freely."
My blood runs cold. If our security is this compromised, if people we've trusted for years are selling us out...
"I need to go." I stand abruptly, my appetite gone.
"Of course. Think about what I've said." He doesn't get up, just watches me with those calculating eyes. "But don't think too long, Saoirse. In our world, opportunities disappear quickly. Along with the people who miss them."
I'm pacing my apartment like a caged animal when Conall arrives with files under his arm. The moment I see his face, I know it's bad.
"How much of it's true?" I demand.
"All of it." He tosses the papers on my coffee table. "Fourteen payments. Five grand each. Deposited to an account his wife doesn't know about."
"Fucking hell." I grab my wine glass, draining it in one gulp. "What did he sell?"
