Page 19 of Ruthless Dream

I brush my elbow into his side. “You’re just worried you’ll have to deal with Nora. But I’m telling you it’s fine.”

“Is it about the fights?”

I shake my head.

“Don’t tell me your father’s gotten into your head.”

He should know me better than that. “Hardly.”

Uncle Cormac is on his best behavior around my da, knowing Cain Murray has the ear of Walsh.

“You’re wrapped up in your head for some reason,” my uncle says. “You’re a thinker, Ciaran, and I’ve always said you’re the wise one. But don’t go overthinking things."

I smile, showing him everything is okay.

He’s right. I am a thinker. A plotter. It’s why I’m good with technology, hacking into things when some of the other O’Connell’s gifts run more innately toward swinging their fists. I can be a patient man. It’s a useful skill in our line of work. When the different powers-that-be are jockeying for power and territory.

“We’ve got a meeting with Walsh tonight,” Uncle Cormac reminds.

“I’ll be there.”

“And where are you headed now?”

“Broadway matinee,” I toss over my shoulder.

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

I don’t have to look back to know he’s smirking.

They say good things happen to those who wait. Who pay their dues and put in the hard work. I know that’s a lie, that men can slave away and never get what’s theirs.

But sometimes shit does work out for the better. The meeting with Walsh goes well. I don’t even find my da as obnoxious as normal. The O'Connells are grinning like fools as we head out into the evening, and I swear there’s the taste of something great in the air.

My cousins want to go out to ride the high. I’ve got bigger plans than that.

Looking through her digital footprint isn’t enough anymore. I need to see her. To watch her every move. Who she interacts with and how.

Tonight she’s at a bar, university students filling the place. I order a pint, keeping to myself at the end of the bar. I’m twenty-two, but I know if I start speaking I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Not just because of the Irish accent.

I don’t have parents who pay my credit card every month. I never gave university a second thought. I’ve just come from a meeting with the head of the Irish Mafia.

Yet, I sit here, putting up with the shit music and the sweltering heat of students letting loose on a Friday night. The air is thick with sexual tension and rich kid problems.

Adeline is one of those problems.

She keeps flipping her long hair over her shoulders. She’s pale in the dim lighting, her features delicate. Her big brown eyes melt with emotion when she speaks. She tilts her chin away after talking, like she’s not sure what else to say.

If I had to guess, Adeline is used to being the center of attention and now she’s struggling. It’s easy to be queen of an elite prep school and not one of New York’s sprawling universities.

I nurse my pint, eyeing the tight and short dress she’s wearing. My fingers squeeze around my glass. It’s not for me to police women’s bodies, but I’d be damned if I let her show her tits off like she is tonight. Not to mention she’s at risk of showing her arse off every time she moves.

And her red lipstick. . . I’m wondering what it would look like smeared.

Seamus had joked the other night about an advantageous match. I’m not quite committed to a marriage, but I’ve decided he’s on to something.

Adeline Akatov has no idea that she’s stomped her way into my life. When I began digging through hers, through the social media posts and the calendar notes and the text threads, it came to me.

I’m here to build connections. To ensure doors are opened.