Page 14

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

I watch Sorcha adjust her earpiece, and my cock tightens at the way her fingers graze her neck. She's preparing for what might be her final conversation with that corrupt bastard Byrne, and all I can think about is how badly I want to taste that exact spot where her pulse beats.

Fuck. Not the time, Eamon.

The coffee shop buzzes with morning customers, perfect cover for what we're doing. She sits three tables away, close enough that I catch her scent when she walked past—something clean and dangerous that makes my hands itch to touch her.

My position gives me clear sight lines to all exits. Years running the docks taught me to catalog threats—two ways out, kitchen access, parking lot visibility. If this goes sideways, we need options. And I need her alive.

Sorcha checks her watch, and I study the way her lips purse when she's concentrating. Those same lips that drive me crazy when she argues with me, when she tells me exactly what she thinks. I wonder how they'd feel wrapped around my?—

Byrne arrives exactly on time, his federal credentials hidden beneath a cheap civilian jacket. The sight of him approaching her makes my jaw clench. He thinks he's meeting a loyal asset. Instead, he's walking into our trap.

"Agent Quinn," Byrne says, sliding into the seat across from her. "Report."

I activate the recording app on my phone, angling it toward their table. Every word matters now. But watching her perform for this piece of shit makes my blood burn.

Sorcha leans forward, and I catch a glimpse of cleavage above her conservative blouse. "The Kavanaghs are planning something big. European expansion through their Rotterdam contacts."

Complete bullshit. Cillian and Orla crafted this lie last night while I watched Sorcha pace our safe house, wearing nothing but my shirt and panties. The memory of her bare legs beneath the cotton nearly broke my focus then, just like it's breaking it now.

"Timeline?" Byrne asks, pulling out a notebook.

"Six weeks. They're moving major assets overseas." Sorcha maintains perfect composure while lying to her superior. "Eamon mentioned Caribbean accounts."

Hearing my name from her lips does things to me it shouldn't. The way she says it—like she owns it, owns me. Christ, maybe she does.

Byrne writes everything down. "Good. This fits with our other intelligence."

"Other intelligence?" Sorcha probes, and I admire how smoothly she works him.

"Moran's people have been watching Rotterdam too. We're coordinating a joint operation."

My hands curl into fists. Federal agents working with the Moran crew? The same bastards who've been trying to muscle in on our territory for months?

"Moran?" Sorcha asks, feigning surprise. Her acting skills are fucking perfect. Makes me wonder what else she's good at pretending.

"Lorcan's been providing valuable insight into Kavanagh operations. Mutual benefit." Byrne checks his watch. "We're accelerating everything. RICO charges filed next week."

I see Sorcha's hand tremble slightly before she controls it. That tiny crack in her composure makes me want to cross the room and break Byrne's neck for putting fear in her eyes.

"Next week? That's fast."

"The Director wants results. Moran's intelligence gives us what we need." Byrne leans closer to her, and possessive rage floods my system. "Your role continues until arrest. Document everything."

"Understood."

The bastard's eyes linger on her face, her mouth. I know that look—I've had it myself every time I'm near her. But seeing it on him makes me want to show him exactly what happens to men who look at my woman that way.

My woman. When the hell did that happen?

Byrne leaves through the main entrance. I count to thirty, then follow. Years of collecting debts on the waterfront taught me how to tail someone without being seen—stay back, use reflections, blend with the crowd.

Byrne walks two blocks before getting into a black sedan. I memorize the license plate, continue following as the car moves through downtown traffic. The whole time, part of my mind stays focused on Sorcha back at the café, wondering if she's safe, if she needs me.

The sedan stops outside Moran's shipping office. Byrne exits, walks straight inside like he owns the place. No surveillance, no caution. This isn't his first visit.

I position myself across the street, using a newspaper stand as cover. Through the office windows, I watch Byrne meet with Lorcan Moran himself. They shake hands like old friends, and my anger builds with each passing second.

My phone camera captures everything. Date stamps. Location markers. Visual proof that we can use to destroy both these bastards.

Twenty minutes later, Byrne emerges with a thick envelope. Payment for selling out his own badge. I photograph the exchange, then track him back to his federal vehicle.

The evidence is solid. A federal agent meeting directly with organized crime, taking money, coordinating operations against us. Sorcha was right to suspect corruption.

I text her the all-clear signal, then head to our meeting point, my mind already shifting to how I'm going to keep her safe during what comes next.

The warehouse conference room holds an unlikely alliance. Cillian sits at the head of the table, Orla to his right with legal documents spread before her. Sorcha enters right on time, and I can't help but notice how her hips move in that conservative skirt.

Focus, you bastard.

"Status?" Cillian asks.

"Byrne bought the Rotterdam story," Sorcha reports, her voice steady despite what she just went through. "But he's accelerating the RICO charges. Filed next week."

"And the Moran connection?" Orla looks up from her documents.

I place my phone on the table, showing the photographs. "Visual confirmation. Byrne met Moran right after leaving Sorcha. Cash payment exchanged."

Cillian studies the images while I study Sorcha. She's wound tight, adrenaline still coursing through her system. I want to pull her against me, let her know she's safe now. Instead, I grip the edge of the table.

"How long has this been going on?" Cillian asks.

"Years, based on how comfortable they were together," I reply. "This isn't new."

Sorcha leans forward, giving me another glimpse of cleavage that makes my mouth go dry. "Byrne mentioned 'other intelligence' from Moran's people. They're feeding him information to target your family while protecting their own operations."

"Eliminate the competition through law enforcement," Orla says. "Classic corruption."

Cillian drums his fingers on the table. "What are our options?"

"Expose everything," Sorcha answers without hesitation. "Federal corruption, Moran cooperation, the whole damn network."

"Risky for you," I point out, hating how true it is. "Byrne finds out you've switched sides, you're dead."

"I'm dead anyway if this continues. He's accelerating because Moran wants your territory." Sorcha meets my eyes, and something electric passes between us. "At least fighting back gives us control."

The way she says 'us' makes my chest tight. When did she become part of us? When did I start wanting her to be?

Orla spreads more documents across the table. "Legal framework for federal corruption cases. We need irrefutable evidence."

"More than photographs?" Cillian asks.

"Financial records. Communication logs. Multiple sources." Orla traces the requirements with her finger. "Build a case that can't be dismissed or buried."

I consider what we need operationally. "Surveillance on Byrne. Document his meetings, payments, communications with Moran."

"And infiltration of their operation," Sorcha adds. "I maintain my cover while gathering evidence from inside."

"That's fucking suicide," I snap, the words coming out harsher than intended.

Her eyes flash. "It's the job."

"The job doesn't matter if you're dead."

"This corruption threatens both our interests," she continues, ignoring my concern. "Your family's freedom and my integrity as law enforcement."

Cillian looks between us, and I realize my protective instincts are showing. "You're proposing we help a federal agent build a case."

"Against other federal agents working with your enemies," Orla clarifies. "Strange allies, but effective ones."

I see the strategic value, even through my desire to lock Sorcha away somewhere safe. "Better fighting corruption together than getting destroyed separately."

"Agreed." Cillian stands. "What do you need from us?"

Sorcha pulls out a notepad, all business despite the danger. "Access to your financial systems. Documentation of legitimate versus questionable income streams. Evidence of Moran interference with your operations."

"And protection," I add, meeting her eyes. "If Byrne suspects your loyalty, he'll eliminate you."

"Family protection extends to allies," Cillian says, but his gaze moves between Sorcha and me like he's seeing something new. "You'll have our full support."

Orla gathers her legal documents. "I'll coordinate with federal prosecutors I trust. Build cases against Byrne and Moran at the same time."

"How long do we have?" I ask.

"Five days," Sorcha answers. "Byrne expects major intelligence by Friday. We either deliver enough evidence to destroy him, or he destroys us."

The room falls silent. Five days to expose federal corruption, eliminate the Moran threat, and protect both criminal and law enforcement interests.

"Resources?" Cillian asks.

"Everything," I reply. "Surveillance teams. Financial documentation. Communication intercepts. Full family operation."

Sorcha looks around the table, her green eyes finally landing on mine. "A month ago, I planned to arrest all of you. Now you're my only hope for justice."

"Not criminals," Cillian corrects. "Family. Which now includes you."

The declaration hangs in the air. Sorcha Quinn, federal agent, accepted into the Kavanagh organization. Life's strange fucking turns.

"Operational planning starts now," I say, though what I really want is to get her alone. "Surveillance schedules. Evidence collection. Communication protocols."

We spend the next hour developing strategy, and I catch myself watching Sorcha more than focusing on the plans. The way she thinks through problems. How she challenges our assumptions. The competence that's sexy as hell.

"Friday's meeting with Byrne," Sorcha says as we finish. "I'll wear recording equipment. Document everything."

"Backup surveillance," I add, already planning how to keep her safe.

"Legal documentation," Orla continues. "Proper evidence handling for prosecution."

"And extraction plans," Cillian concludes. "If everything fails, we get you out alive."

Sorcha stands, checking her weapon with practiced ease. The sight of her armed and dangerous does things to me. "Five days to take down federal corruption and criminal cooperation."

"Five days to prove family loyalty goes beyond blood," I correct.

As everyone prepares to leave, Sorcha approaches me. This close, I can smell her shampoo, see the flecks of gold in her green eyes.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "For watching my back today."

"Partners protect each other," I reply, my voice rougher than intended. "Family rule."

She nods, and I see understanding in her eyes. Federal agent or not, she's under Kavanagh protection now. My protection.

"Eamon." Her voice drops, becomes something more intimate. "What happens after? When this is over?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility and danger. I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.

"We figure it out as we go," I say, my fingers brushing hers. "Together."

Her pupils dilate, and I know she feels this thing between us too. Whatever the hell it is.

The next five days will determine everything. Justice versus corruption. Family versus institutional betrayal. And whether a federal agent and an Irish mob enforcer can find something real in the middle of all this chaos.

Time to find out what we're both made of.