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CHAPTER

TWO

The whiskey glass shatters against the brick wall, amber liquid spraying across faded Guinness posters. I don't flinch as shards rain down near my feet, just keep polishing the bar like I've been doing this job for years instead of three hours.

"Fucking useless," the drunk mutters, swaying toward me. "Can't even pour a proper drink."

I bite back my real response—that his "proper drink" request involved grabbing my ass while ordering. Instead, I give him Sarah Murphy's nervous smile.

"Sorry about that. Let me get you another."

The pub reeks of stale beer and old wood, exactly what you'd expect from a Southie dive. What you wouldn't expect is the security camera hidden in the shamrock decoration above the register, or the fact that half the "regulars" carry guns under their leather jackets.

Finnegan's Pub serves as the Kavanagh family's unofficial headquarters, and I've been behind this bar for exactly three hours and seventeen minutes. Long enough to catalog twelve different ways someone could kill me without the other patrons noticing.

The drunk reaches for me again. This time I step back, bumping into solid muscle.

"Problem here, Murphy?"

The voice rumbles through me like thunder, Irish accent thick enough to drown in. I turn and look up—way up—into the most dangerous blue eyes I've ever seen.

Eamon Kavanagh.

Every cell in my body screams at me to run. This man has killed federal agents. Tortured information from enemies. Made people disappear without a trace. He stands close enough that I smell his cologne mixed with something darker—gunpowder, maybe. Violence.

"No problem," I manage, voice steady despite my racing pulse. "Just explaining our selection."

Eamon's gaze moves from me to the drunk, who's now trying to blend into the bar itself. Smart man.

"Selection's fine," Eamon says, never taking his eyes off the other man. "Quality of customer could use work."

The drunk throws money on the bar and flees. Smart choice.

I'm alone with the most lethal member of Boston's deadliest crime family, wearing a wire that could get me killed and a cover story thin enough to shred. Agent Byrne's warnings echo in my head— Eamon Kavanagh will kill you without hesitation if he suspects deception.

But he's not looking at me like a threat. His blue eyes track from my face down my body and back up, assessment that feels more personal than professional. Heat spreads through me despite every rational thought screaming danger.

"You're new," he says. Not a question.

"Started today. Sarah Murphy." I extend my hand, hoping he doesn't notice the slight tremor.

His palm engulfs mine, callused and warm. He holds the contact longer than necessary, thumb brushing over my knuckles. The touch sends electricity up my arm.

"Eamon." He releases my hand but doesn't step back. "Where'd Flanagan find you?"

I launch into my rehearsed backstory—recent divorce, moved from Chicago, needed work fast. All lies wrapped around carefully constructed truths. His eyes never leave my face, cataloging every expression.

"Chicago," he repeats. "Rough city for a woman alone."

"I can handle myself."

Something flickers in his expression. Amusement? Interest? "Can you now?"

Before I can answer, the pub door slams open. Three men enter like they own the place—which, considering the Kavanagh connection, they probably do. Their leather jackets can't hide the weapons underneath.

"Eamon!" The leader calls out. "We need to talk."

Eamon's jaw tightens, but he doesn't turn around. "Later, Connie."

"Now." Connie's voice carries threat. "About the shipment."

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. I feel it in my bones—violence gathering like a storm. Other patrons sense it too, conversations dying as men position themselves.

Eamon finally turns, putting his back to me. Mistake. In my real life, I'd use the opening to assess threats, plan escape routes. But Sarah Murphy would cower behind the bar.

Instead, I find myself studying the breadth of his shoulders, the way his dark hair curls at his collar. This man is my enemy. My target. The person I'm here to destroy.

So why does my body respond to him like he's salvation instead of damnation?

"The shipment arrived intact," Eamon says, voice deadly quiet. "Your boys damaged three crates fighting over territory."

"Territory that ain't yours anymore."

The pub goes silent. Even the jukebox seems to hold its breath. I've read the files on Kavanagh territorial disputes. They end in blood and body bags.

Eamon takes a step toward Connie. Just one. But the threat radiates from him like heat from a flame.

"Wanna repeat that?" His accent thickens when angry. "Because I might have misheard you."

Connie's hand moves toward his jacket. His companions spread out, flanking positions. I count weapons, escape routes, wonder if my backup team is close enough to matter.

Then Eamon smiles.

It's the most terrifying expression I've ever seen. Not angry or wild—coldly pleased, like a predator spotting wounded prey.

"Outside," he says. "Now."

They file out like obedient dogs. Through the window, I watch Eamon speak quietly to Connie while his men surround the group. Whatever he says makes Connie's face go white.

Two minutes later, the rival crew drives away. Fast.

Eamon returns, straightening his jacket like he just stepped out for air instead of delivering death threats.

"Sorry about that," he says, resuming his position at the bar. "Business."

"Exciting business." My voice sounds breathless. Not from fear—from adrenaline. From watching him dominate through pure presence.

This is wrong. I'm a federal agent. He's a criminal. I should be disgusted by his violence, not aroused by his power.

His eyes find mine, and I see he caught my reaction. One eyebrow raises slightly.

"You don't scare easy."

"Takes more than posturing to rattle me."

"Posturing?" He leans across the bar, close enough that I feel his breath against my cheek. "That wasn't posturing, love. That was mercy."

Love. The endearment shouldn't make my stomach flutter. Shouldn't make me want to lean closer instead of backing away.

"My mistake," I whisper.

"Aye. Best not make another."

It's a warning wrapped in silk, delivered close enough to be a caress. Every instinct tells me to retreat. Instead, I hold his stare.

"I'll remember that."

He studies my face for a long moment, searching for something. Then he places a twenty on the bar.

"For the whiskey I never got."

"I never poured you whiskey."

"No. But you will." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Sarah Murphy from Chicago. Welcome to Boston."

He walks out, leaving me alone behind the bar with shaking hands and a racing heart. I pour myself water, trying to process what just happened.

I came here to destroy Eamon Kavanagh. To gather evidence that will put him in prison for life. To get justice for Patricia Reeves and countless other victims.

But standing in the lingering heat of his presence, breathing air that still carries his scent, I face a terrifying truth.

The most dangerous thing about this assignment isn't that he might kill me.

It's that he might make me want him to.