Page 1 of Ruthless Dream

Prologue

CIARAN

Fujimori’s is lit in the night, a beacon to those who love chaos and sushi. Naturally, my brother and I stand across the street, peering into it.

“You’re sure about this?” I ask Ian for the fifteenth time. It’s nearly eight in the evening, but I’m on Dublin time.

The lanky bastard finishes a cigarette, crushing the butt under one scuffed-up boot. He’s wearing his typical uniform—a leather jacket he rescued from a thrift shop, black jeans, and his trusty boots.

He didn’t try to make any effort with his appearance. Before I got off the plane, two hours ago, I made sure there wasn’t a damn thing out of place. My suit is pressed. My shoes shined.

This is Fujimori's, after all. The one spot in New York City revered by all.

Well, maybe not the Stuarts after the mess they made. Ren Callahan blew them to pieces, something that still brings a smile to my face.

That’s where the danger lies. Callahan isn’t a mafia lord or a princess who’s climbed up the ranks. She’s a businesswoman through and through. She controls almost all the contracts in this city. If a triggerman wants to get hired, she’s who they go to.

Ian Hayes—God love him—is a great shot. I’ll give my brother that. But his work ethic? It needs work. A lot of it.

It’s why I’m tagging along with my older brother at what’s essentially a job interview.

One that’s not easy to get. No one waltzes in and requests a meeting with Callahan. She calls you.

I’m certain if it wasn’t for my brother meddling around, he’d never have gotten this opportunity. He’s going to have to learn at some point, meddling only gets you so far. His networking needs to pay off. The bastard’s got to do better than batting his green hazel eyes and making people swoon. He’s got to follow up on the promises he makes.

Ian might be my older brother, but he floats on the wind like a fucking dandelion seed. New York City is not the type of place where one should just follow the current. It’s full of men who kill.

I am one of those said killers.

Ian says he wants to be one too, but he’s never taken an interest in the family business before.

“Relax,” Ian says, patting his leather jacket. He pulls out a lighter, flame flickering. “In fact, why don’t you wait out here.”

He’s doing that thing where he purposely makes his voice lazy. Christ. He’s going to play the stumbling Irish guy, charming and lovable. And completely full of shit.

“This is serious,” I snap, taking him by the shoulders. We’re both over six feet tall, but I could bench press this skinny motherfucker like he’s nothing.

Ian’s green gold eyes slice to the Rolex on my wrist. “Is that new?”

I shake his shoulders. “Just one word from Callahan and you’ll be done here. Do you understand that?”

Ian frowns, but my fingers curl into his leather jacket. “I understand a lot more than you think, deartháir.”

“Using Irish doesn’t make you endearing.”

“Ren loves it when I speak Irish.”

“You are not on a first name basis with Callahan.”

Ian pushes me back, smoothing his jacket. “I’m on first name basis with a lot of people here. I’ve actually made quite a few friends.”

“Friends? You’ve been here a couple of weeks.”

The idiot left a note on his mother’s kitchen table. Gone to America to be a triggerman. He added ‘I Love NYC’ in a big giant heart. The only reason I didn’t go after him immediately was because shit stirred up with the Stuarts, and then Tristan Trevino called talking about an entity calling themselves the Spider.

That brought a whole new wave of panic, and suddenly the O'Connells of Dublin were working with the Stuarts over in London.

And even then. . . I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to come to New York again. Not after last time.