Page 18 of Ruthless Dream

She might enjoy playing at being an influencer, but she’s declared her major and works two days a week at a marketing firm. The billion-dollar corporation is housed in a tower in Manhattan, so I don’t doubt her name helped her snag the opportunity. But I’ll admit, I’m interested in the idea that the woman who stomped her foot in front of a Zimin has goals other than vacationing in the Bahamas.

“Why the fuck do you look like you’re up to no good?” Uncle Cormac asks me three days after the party.

I roll up my sleeves. I’ve worn a button-down every day since arriving. The party only served to remind me that this is a make-or-break moment for the O'Connells.

“I have no idea what you could possibly mean.” I smooth a hand through my hair.

We’re out at lunch, another networking meeting. We’ve hit the ground running, trying to maximize our time here.

Uncle Cormac is fairer than I am, his hair and the scruff along his jawline blonder. His eyes are blue. In his navy suit, he looks like he belongs here. In the fancy Manhattan bistro. The women have been eyeing him since we got here.

“You’ve done well, son. You keep holding your chin high.”

I smile softly at the older man. He’s always there to give me pep talks.

“But for the love of God.” He leans forward, his eyes hardening, though there’s still a light of merriment in them. “Do not do whatever you’re about to do.”

I should frown at the statement and rile in response. Instead, I laugh. “I have no idea what you mean, Uncle.”

A waiter comes by, placing another coffee in front of my uncle.

“You damn well do,” he says, taking a sip. “We need to get you back in the ring. Start training again.”

Another smile tugs at my lips. Uncle Cormac was good on his word. We went to Leon’s, where the older man studied me. I know there’s going to be talk about how strings were pulled getting me a match. But Cormac assured me it’s common for people swinging through to get a spot.

“It’s why people come to Leon’s to watch the fights,” he explained. “It’s entertainment. You should’ve seen the Russian bastard I fought in the nineties.”

“I’ll be ready,” I assure my uncle now, tapping my fingers against my coffee mug. My phone sits beside it, and I itch to scroll through it. To go through more of Adeline Akatov’s life.

When I first wormed my way into her phone, I hadn’t expected her calendar to hold so much stuff. Most eighteen-year-olds aren’t planning their lives out, and a lot of university students like their paper planners to keep track of schoolwork.

Adeline not only keeps all of her friends and family’s birthdays listed, but she's also added notes regarding what presents she’d like to get them. A book for her sister, Leonora, who I now realize is the ghost I encountered. A spa day for her sister, Natalie.

Every day is blocked out. Class, internship, study time, and a gym session. I know she gets her pussy waxed every four weeks and goes to the dermatologist regularly. She gets her hair done every six weeks.

I’ve gone through every single text she’s ever sent in her life. There’s a family group chat. The sisters send memes to one another daily, and Nat and Adeline sometimes veer off into veiled discussions about whether Lennie is okay.

There are the stupid shits she’s dated. Those I found the most interesting. Fuck me, maybe dating is done differently in the US, or maybe it's because she’s only ever dated boys, but I’ve never rolled my eyes so much.

Boys, both via texts and messages online, regularly beg her for photos. Sometimes she sends them cheeky messages back, toying with them. Most of the ones on social media get immediately blocked, which I highly approve of. I’m rightfully annoyed by the messages. In general, women shouldn’t be pestered for nudes, but my body became increasingly tense the more and more I dug through her phone.

“Ciaran.” Uncle Cormac grabs my attention. He’s paying the bill but lifts one eyebrow in my direction. “See why I’m worried.”

“I’m just thinking,” I murmur back.

He thanks the waiter, tipping the server well as the culture dictates. “That’s what worries me.”

“Me thinking?”

We both stand, smoothing our shirts out, and walk out the glass door onto the busy streets.

“You’re plotting something, aren’t you?” Uncle Cormac says quietly.

I stick my hands in my pockets. I’ve lived in a big city my whole life, but I swear the people here walk faster. I, for some reason, walk slower. My movements take the shape of Ian’s lazy strides. We came here with an open time frame, and ideas are starting to take shape.

“You don’t have to worry about me.” I’m not the nephew who’s ever given him trouble. That’s Seamus and Dermot, who haven’t stopped acting like tourists since they got here.

“I’ll always worry about you.” The wind picks up, tugging at his blond strands. This is the man who came to every school play. Who made sure there were presents on Christmas Day. Who taught me how to fix my tie.