Page 97 of Ruthless Dream

“Walsh is the head of the Irish Mafia in New York City, Ciaran.”

“He’ll try to fold us in.”

“Yeah, that’s why I leave the business to you.” Seamus shrugs, but his eyes remain thoughtful. “Ciaran. . . Do you love Adeline Akatov?”

I tighten my grip on the beer in my hand. We’re thirty flights up; I can’t go dropping it over the railing.

“What the fuck are you on about?”

The wind tugs at his reddish-brown locks. “You spent Christmas with her family.”

I rest my elbows on the railing, forcing myself into a relaxed stance. “You mad I missed opening presents under the tree with you?”

Seamus smiles, but something about it seems different. “You’re almost at the six-month mark.”

I count quickly in my head. “Five.”

Seamus smirks again. “You don’t date women that long.”

A scowl overtakes my face. “I’ve had relationships before, Shay.”

I don’t know what the bastard is on about.

“Never longer than six months,” Seamus contends. “You’re sweet on her.”

I lean into the railing. “I’m dating her, aren’t I?”

As far as Seamus thinks, I’ve swept Adeline off her feet. Or maybe he assumes the Bratva princess is slumming it with me. Either way, he has no idea a dead body was involved.

“You love her.”

I stare at Seamus like he’s got two heads. His words are a statement. Like he thinks there’s no point in me answering a question.

“It’s been five months.”

Seamus nods, the movement slow. Sarcastic. Annoying bastard.

“What about Dublin?” he asks.

“What about it?” It’s my home.

But Seamus has a questioning look on his face. “Are you going to go home?”

The lights along the Strip suddenly become fascinating.

“You know this isn’t forever,” Seamus presses. “Sure, we aren’t done yet. But we aren’t planning on spending another Christmas here, you know that⁠—”

“Of course, I fucking know that.” I rock against the railing. I’m becoming less and less interested in the beer in my hand. At the ripe age of twenty-two, I’ve turned into an old man.

My cousins were excited to spend New Year’s in Vegas. Who wouldn’t?

The beer and boxing should be enticing enough. Or maybe I could add to the artwork along my shoulders.

The truth is, I could be doing anything I want because Knight offers everything to its guests.

I never considered myself a homebody. I’m not wild by Dermot's or Byron’s standards. It’s possible Seamus is right about Cask’s. There’s nothing like the pull of a pint and the warm music in an Irish pub.

Except, I know any pub—any place—pales in comparison to where I really want to be.