Page 3 of Stolen Temptation (Irish Kings #3)

Rory

Bass pumps through the darkened room, vibrating with a sultry beat that apparently appeals to upscale twentysomethings given how many of those fuckers are currently crammed onto the dance floor.

Like usual, Madden is packed with wall-to-wall people, the air teeming with the smell of competing perfumes, sweat, and sex.

Decorated in sleek chrome and deep blue velvet, the Irish King’s pride and joy serves as one of the city’s hottest nightspots.

Madden and its two sister clubs comprise some of the Kings’ most profitable business holdings. The rich and beautiful flock here from all over the country for a good time and the privacy to enjoy it.

We also use the clubs to move product and cash, successfully enough over the years that our patrons trust us to move their products and cash.

But a mole within our organization chips away at our reputation, day by day.

A woman in a miniscule silver dress stumbles up to the table where I sit, fluttering her fake lashes and shoving a pair of huge silicone tits against my arm. “Hi, I’m Brandy! What’s your name?”

Beside me, Darren Kelly snickers. I hide my impatience behind a friendly grin. “Rory, and as nice as it is to meet you, I’m afraid my buddy and I are in the middle of something.”

Brandy catches a glimpse of Darren’s eyes and flinches. Even with his movie star good looks, the bright, chemical blue of his irises disconcerts most people at first glance.

Although, pure instinct could also cause the knee-jerk retreat he often triggers in the unaware. Similar to how a prey animal senses danger.

Darren might be one of my best friends, but the guy plays with explosives for fun. Even I approach him with caution sometimes.

Recovering, Brandy pouts at me. “Are you sure?”

“I am, much to my eternal regret.” Ignoring Darren’s eye roll, I nod at the closest bar. “Go tell Scotty that Rory said to comp your drinks tonight. He’s the platinum blond wearing the black vest.”

Squealing, she presses a sloppy kiss to my cheek before grabbing another woman’s hand and tripping toward the bar.

Darren cocks his head. “Not sure that’s the right color red for you. I think you need a more blue-toned shade, and that one’s a little too orange for your complexion.”

“Fuck off and focus.” Swiping a napkin off a table, I rub the bright lipstick off my skin. Darren and Finn love to give me shit for being too approachable, but not all of us can repel people with the force of our grumpiness or inner-crazy alone. “Is he taking the bait?”

From our table, we both surreptitiously watch one of our employees scowl and shake his head at the man dressed in a fitted gray button-down who’s leaning close to his ear. “Not sure yet, but it doesn’t seem like it.”

Sure enough, the employee recoils at whatever the other man says before pointing toward the exit.

The man raises his palms and retreats, slipping into the crowd while the employee whips out his phone and stabs at the screen.

He returns to the bar, visibly agitated while he mops up a spill with a towel.

Fuck.

Less than a minute later, my phone vibrates with a text from Finn.

No dice. He reported the incident to his manager.

A second text from a different number follows.

Guy wanted nothing to do with me. Pretty sure he was this close to punching me in the face.

My shoulders droop. “Guess he’s in the clear too. We can probably pack it up for the night.”

Grimacing, Darren flicks his lighter off and on.

The action draws my attention to the faded scars on his fingers, remnants from one of his early explosive experiments gone wrong.

The guy’s lucky to alive, although some days, I’m not sure he agrees.

“Not looking forward to reporting another fail to Shane.”

I share his pain. Ever since this mole shit unfolded, Shane Gallagher, head of the Irish Kings, has been in a piss-poor mood. And our inability to catch traitors with our loyalty-testing stings hasn’t helped matters.

In the past, I usually went to Madden or one of the Kings’ other two successful nightclubs to pick up women for the night, not to spy on employees.

Playing James Bond isn’t my typical role in the organization, but when Shane Gallagher tells you to do something, you don’t question him.

Not if you possess more than a few working brain cells and want to keep them safe on the inside of your skull where they belong.

We head upstairs to review the video feeds on the off chance we missed something. As I suspected, there’s nothing to see.

By the time we leave Madden and enter the hallway outside Shane’s private study, Darren is noticeably on edge.

No surprise there. This mole shit we’re dealing with has everyone stressed out, and for good reason.

This is the single greatest threat our organization has seen in over a decade. We’re not handling the news well.

These days, we face two huge problems.

Now that their heir and freshly minted don, Leonardo, is out of jail on a technicality, the De Luca family has returned from the grave with a new lease on life. That human-trafficking son of a bastard didn’t waste any time either.

Leo declared war on us the second he gained his freedom.

For him, it’s about revenge. Our families share a long and ugly history, and he wants to settle scores. For the people that follow him, it’s about toppling the current balance of power in the criminal underworld.

No single crime family is strong enough to take down the Kings, but if a bunch of them join forces, we’ve suddenly got an issue the size of Manhattan on our hands.

Skirmishes, shoot-outs, and ambushes against our operations have cropped up all over the place. Routine drops and pickups have transformed into harrowing near-misses, ending in lost merchandise and our foot soldiers hobbling home broken and wounded.

Despite my best efforts as the Kings’ tech spymaster, fighting off the De Lucas and their allies is starting to feel like whack-a-mole.

No matter how often I’m reassured that it’s not my fault, guilt and grief still rake me over hot coals every time one of our own falls.

We’ve lost three men in the past week alone. At this rate, we’ll soon be single-handedly bankrolling the funeral industry.

We look sloppy, and even some of our long-time clients are starting to search elsewhere for their needs.

“We doing this, or are we just gonna hang out in the hallway all night?”

Darren’s question drags me back to the present. I wonder how long I’ve been standing with my hand coiled around the door handle.

“Let’s do it.” I yank the door open without another thought, swallowing down the last of my hesitation and leading the charge into the office.

Shane Gallagher’s private study smells of old leather, pine, and a faint hint of high-end cigars. Bright hardwood panels the walls and floor. Dark leather seating complements the deep mahogany of his desk and worktable. Somehow, his office manages to ooze both formality and coziness.

Despite the first impressions, it’s the kind of place where only Shane can be completely relaxed. The rest of us are on eggshells the minute we step inside.

But today, not even Shane seems comfortable as we approach his desk.

Titanium gray eyes pour over the paperwork in his hands. He doesn’t glance up until we’re several steps into the room.

Abrupt and agile, Shane rises from his chair and stalks toward the worktable. Just the speed with which he moves to a standing position reminds me that despite his age, the man is a coiled snake. A viper always ready to strike.

He may be getting older, but Shane Gallagher could still decapitate a grown man with his bare hands. He’s done it. More than once.

Shane’s worth fearing. He wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise.

And Darren and I definitely wouldn’t be here without him or his leadership. Or without the faith and responsibility he places in us.

Failure isn’t an option.

We both serve as enforcers for the Gallagher family.

In addition to providing muscle, Darren’s the explosives expert, and I’m the family’s tech wizard.

Darren’s good with his hands, and anything involving spying, hacking websites, or developing new technologies usually involves me. From behind a screen, not in person.

At the end of the day, I’m really just an IT guy with a gun.

“Well?” Shane demands. “Let’s hear it.”

I suck in a breath and swallow. “Neither of the two employees we set up tonight took the bait.”

Shane scowls as if having loyal employees is the most despicable thing in the world. Then he directs his ire at me, as if I’m personally to blame. “So you’re saying we’re no closer to finding a lead on the traitor in our family than we were when we started.”

Acid singes my stomach. Shane isn’t wrong to blame me. As the go-to computer specialist, I can’t help but think I’m missing a digital breadcrumb somewhere. “Yes, sir.”

“Meanwhile, the stolen shipments continue.” Shane grumbles deep in his throat. “So does the theft, arson, shoot-outs, death…”

“Maybe we just haven’t tested the right person yet. The mole’s got to be the most anxious member of our entire outfit right about now.” My words run together when I’m on edge, and then I end up overcompensating by speaking too slowly. Focus, Rory. “We just need to catch them making a false move.”

“But even if we do that, there’s no guarantee that the employee you catch is actually the mole. They could just be some greedy asshole who’s taking advantage of an offer falling into his lap.”

Darren and I exchange a glance. He’s not wrong, but at least it’s a place to start. And it’s not as if weeding out any kind of traitor is a bad idea, mole or not.

Shane falls quiet, and in the long, awkward silence, my hand twitches with the urge to shoot something.

When he delegated Darren and me to head up the mole hunt, I didn’t realize I was agreeing to the most stressful work project of my career to date.