Page 1 of Lawless Rivals

Chapter 1

Saint

“How are ya getting the girl out?”

Dane flips the keys of his gunmetal-gray ’70s Escort to the valet. “Scratch her paintwork, mate, and you’re dead.”

The collar of my starched white shirt bites at my throat.

“Same as always.” I tap the gun under my jacket. “Negotiate.”

The night reeks of wet earth, a heavy downpour turning the fields beyond us to swamp. We stride toward Cork’s prestigious Ardglass Stud, its grand entrance gleaming beneath the floodlights.

The armed doormen straighten when they see us. I breathe out a cloud of frosty air and wait. After a glance at the guest list, they find our names and step aside.

Inside, the air’s thick with roasted beef and top-shelf liquor. Laughter rings hollow beneath chandeliers that sprinkle fractured light across jewels and watches worth more than most could afford.

My smart shoes click over marble while portraits of long-dead men watch me, judging, or maybe recognizing their own ruthless kind.

Maybe the snobby bastards can sense the storm I’m bringing through their front door.

“You’re good, Saint,” Dane mutters, eyes sweeping the crowd. “But ya really think a Harrington will leave a charity event quietly—just because you ask nice?”

I cut him a sideways look. “You ever known me to fuck up a job?”

A crack of static hisses in my earpiece. Then Rafe’s voice comes through: “Do we even know what Keira looks like these days? Last I heard, she was holed up in Paris.”

Dane snorts, snatching a champagne flute from a waiter whose bow tie looks tight enough to cut off air. He drains it in one swallow.

“You can always spot a Harrington,” he says, lowering the glass. “Stuck-up. Polished. Smells like money and lies.”

The Harringtons are old-blood horse breeders and mafia royalty, born with ancestral wealth and judges willing to look the other way.

I weave through the crowd, scanning exits, counting cameras, noting the staircase curling up to the mezzanine.

We’re their neighbors across Black Heath, but we built our legacy with grit, muscle, and jobs that don’t leave clean hands.

There’s a stretch of our land between them and us that runs to the river. When I was fifteen, my father’s corpse turned up there, and nobody ever gave me a reason that made sense.

That strip doesn’t just hold my father’s blood. It controls the only quiet route from our yard to the river, and Harrington knows exactly what that’s worth.

I’ve been fighting for access ever since.

Tonight, we remind Alasdair Harrington whose land he’s stolen.

Rafe’s voice comes again, full of amusement. “I’ve got eyes on Fionn Vaughn Harrington. Jesus, he’s such a pretty boy prick.”

“Where?” I ask, angling my face toward the balcony overhead. “Is Keira with him?”

“I’m in the trophy room. But she’s not here.”

“Maybe she’s with her da.” Dane nods toward the ballroom. “We’ll split up.”

I give a curt nod before he disappears into the sea of suits and arrogance. Reaching into my jacket for a smoke, I grit my teeth and sigh.

This crowd would frown on indoor smoking, and I can’t risk getting thrown out before I’ve found the Harrington girl.

I keep the cigarettes in my pocket and make for the stairs instead. A higher vantage point will give me a better view. The string quartet’s music trails after me, a ghost of sound rising with every step.