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CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

I watch Eamon pace the safe house like a caged animal, fury radiating from every movement. Twenty-four hours since he discovered I'm FBI, and we're still dancing around the explosion waiting between us.

"We need to talk business," I say, spreading surveillance photos across the table. "Byrne expects results, and Moran won't wait forever."

He stops pacing, blue eyes cold as winter. "You want my help catching dirty feds?"

"I want to stop Moran from destroying your family while exposing the agents helping him." I tap the photos. "This affects us both."

Eamon approaches, examining shots of Byrne meeting with Moran's crew. "How long has this bastard been selling us out?"

"Years. Every major hit on your operations happened after Byrne received 'intelligence' about your activities." I arrange the timeline. "He's been setting you up while building his career."

His knuckles go white gripping the table edge. "Son of a bitch."

"If we prove the connection, we eliminate your Moran problem and my corruption case." I meet his stare. "But I need access to family records. Communication logs. Internal documents."

"From the woman who's been lying since day one?"

Fire shoots through my veins. "I never lied about wanting real criminals caught. Just about which badge I carry."

He studies me, war playing across his features. Then he pulls out his phone.

"Cillian," he says when it connects. "We've got a situation requiring family resources."

I listen as he explains—no mention of my deception, just the corruption threat. Smart. Keep it simple.

"She wants to talk," Eamon says, offering the phone.

"Agent Quinn." Cillian's voice carries ice. "My brother says you've identified threats to our mutual interests."

"Corrupt federal agents feeding Moran intelligence. They've compromised your security while advancing their careers on your blood."

"Stopping this benefits everyone?"

"Yes. The corruption ends, Moran loses his advantage, justice gets served."

Silence. "You'll have what you need. But this cooperation dies when the threat does."

"Understood."

The line goes dead. I hand back the phone.

"Easier than expected," I admit.

"Family protects family. Right now, stopping Moran protects family." He pockets the device. "Cillian's practical about useful alliances."

I turn to the evidence. "I need to contact someone at Bureau headquarters. Off the books."

"Someone clean?"

"Rachel Martinez. Trained me at Quantico, now assigned to Los Angeles." I consider risks. "She's solid, but reaching out exposes us both."

"Do it."

Using Eamon's encrypted phone, I dial from memory. Rachel answers quickly.

"Quinn? You're supposed to be underground in Boston."

"I am. Listen—I need help with a corruption case. Unofficial channels only."

"How dirty?"

"Agent-in-charge dirty. Multiple years. Organized crime partnerships." I glance at Eamon. "People die if this reaches wrong ears."

"Copy that. What do you need?"

We establish secure protocols for evidence transfer. Rachel agrees to investigate Byrne through back channels, cross-referencing his career advancement with organized crime prosecutions.

"Dangerous territory, Sorcha," she warns.

"Story of my life."

After disconnecting, I find Eamon organizing family documents. Financial records, security reports, attack summaries—everything needed to build our case.

"Your brother moves fast."

"When family's threatened." He gestures at the papers. "Every Moran hit over three years. Dates, methods, casualties."

I compare his files to my Bureau records. The pattern screams corruption—every successful attack followed Byrne's communications with unknown contacts.

"This is gold," I say, excitement building. "Combined with Rachel's investigation..."

"We'll bury them," Eamon finishes.

Working together, we map connections between dirty agents, Moran operations, and attacks on Kavanagh interests. Despite everything between us, our skills mesh perfectly. His street knowledge, my federal training.

Hours blur past. Evidence builds into undeniable proof. As night falls, we break for food—Chinese takeout eaten in focused silence.

"Tomorrow I contact Byrne," I say, reviewing our strategy. "Feed him false intelligence about your operations while recording everything."

"Risky play. If he suspects..."

"We're dead." I hold his gaze. "But if we succeed, Byrne and Moran both burn."

Eamon shoves back from the table, hands raking through dark hair. "Why trust you? You've lied about everything since we met."

The question cuts deep. I could offer professional justifications about common enemies and mutual benefit. Instead, I give him truth.

"Because I know what corruption costs. Watched good agents die while dirty ones got promoted." My father's face flashes through memory. "Some fights matter more than personal grudges."

He searches my expression for deception. "Your father. You said corrupt cops killed him."

"Chicago PD. Detective Morrison was feeding intel to the Torrino family." Old wounds open fresh. "Dad got close to exposing him. Morrison arranged an ambush during what should have been a routine arrest."

Understanding dawns in Eamon's eyes. "You know what it feels like. Family murdered by people sworn to protect."

"Yes." My voice drops. "That's why this matters."

Eamon moves to the window, moonlight highlighting the rigid line of his shoulders.

"Thomas Nolan," he says quietly. "The accountant I killed. There's something about that night you need to know."

My pulse jumps. "What?"

"Vincent Collins brought me files. Photos. Said Nolan was meeting federal handlers, planning to expose everything." He turns back. "When I broke into his house, found him working late... he asked if I was there about the missing money."

I wait, sensing deeper revelation.

"I didn't understand. Collins claimed Nolan was stealing, then turned informant when caught." Guilt weights every word. "Your guy tried explaining. Said Collins was the real thief, that he had proof. I thought he was lying to save his neck."

The truth hits like a physical blow. "Collins manipulated you."

"Into murdering an innocent man." Eamon meets my stare. "Just like Morrison manipulated his situation to kill your father."

The parallel strikes bone-deep. Both our fathers killed by corrupt authority figures using younger men as weapons.

"That's why you're helping," I realize. "Guilt."

"Partly." He steps closer. "But also because you're right. Some battles transcend personal shit."

The air between us thickens with more than professional cooperation. Shared trauma, mutual understanding, attraction despite betrayal and lies.

"Sorcha," he says, my name rough with want.

I should retreat. Maintain boundaries. Instead, I close the distance.

"This is stupid," I whisper.

"Probably." His hands cup my face. "Give a damn?"

I answer by kissing him, channeling weeks of rage and confusion and desperate need into the contact. He responds with matching hunger, crushing me against him like he can erase every lie between us.

His mouth burns down my throat, teeth scraping sensitive flesh. I arch into him, fingers shredding his shirt buttons. When fabric rips, we both reach for more skin.

"Here?" I gasp as he lifts me onto the table.

"Right fucking now," he growls, scattering evidence papers across the floor.

Documents about murder and corruption flutter down as he works my jeans open, calloused fingers burning through cotton. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him harder against me.

"I should fucking hate you," he says, thumb circling my clit through wet fabric.

"I know," I pant, freeing his cock from leather and denim.

He tears my panties away, positioning himself at my entrance. "Look at me when I take you."

I meet his blazing stare as he drives deep in one brutal thrust. We both cry out at the perfect friction, at how right this feels despite everything wrong about it.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, pulling back to slam in again.

"Harder," I demand, nails raking bloody lines down his back.

He pounds into me with punishing rhythm, each stroke hitting deeper than the last. The table rocks under our violence, threatening to collapse beneath our desperate fucking.

"This what you wanted?" he snarls against my ear. "Getting fucked by the criminal you're hunting?"

"Yes," I sob, sensation overwhelming thought. "God, yes."

His thumb finds my clit again, circling with perfect pressure as he hammers into my pussy. The dual stimulation drives me toward the edge fast and hard.

"Come on my cock," he orders. "Let me feel you break apart."

The command pushes me over. I scream his name as pleasure tears through me, back arching as my pussy clamps down around him. He follows with a roar, pumping hot come deep inside me.

We collapse together, sweaty and shaking. Evidence papers stick to our damp skin as reality slowly returns.

"That was..." I begin.

"Fucked up," he finishes, but his arms tighten around me.

I laugh despite everything. "Understatement of the year."

He helps me down, and we gather scattered documents in charged silence. Rebuilding our case while processing what just exploded between us.

"Tomorrow's dangerous," I say, reorganizing files.

"Deadly," he agrees. "But we face it together now."

I nod, surprised how much that steadies me. Enemy turned ally turned something nameless. Tomorrow we hunt corruption. Tonight, we found connection in the wreckage of our lies.

The evidence rebuilt, our alliance sealed in sweat and confession. Whatever comes next, we'll handle it as partners.

Even though neither of us planned for that part.