Page 4 of The Games We Play

“Cillian Ó Ceallaigh is on his way with medical help to pick up his niece and goddaughter.”

On instinct, I let go of her hand like I’ve been electrocuted. “Cillian Ó Ceallaigh?”

King nods.

The entire room comes to a standstill, everyone looking at Iris as we process what we just heard.

“Who is Cillian Ó Ceallaigh?” Gwen asks.

“The head of an Irish crime family,” King says.

“Allegedly,” Iris says, and she offers me the whisper of a smile then a teary wink. Fucking winks at me.

“Did someone die?” Clutch asks as he walks back into the room.

“We might,” King says and fills Clutch in.

Clutch looks to Vex, our tech expert, and the guy who found out Iris had witnessed the accident. “And we didn’t know this?”

“You asked me to find the witness, not to research her family tree,” Vex says with a shrug.

While others debate what we should do next, I realize Iris’s wound is bleeding less. I get Gwen to cover her with the cream blanket.

My fingers are stained with dried blood, but I lean close and push a lock of hair back from Iris’s face. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Iris grips my wrist, then pushes it away. “You know you shouldn’t touch me anymore if Cillian is on his way. And the rest of you don’t need to worry. I’ll tell Cillian what happened.”

I’m a big believer in consent, and her words and actions are the withdrawal of it, so I step back a couple of inches to give her space. But her and I aren’t over. Not even close.

“I’m sorry, Iris,” Gwen says. “This was all to help me. I got shot, and they were just trying to help me figure out who did it. I didn’t mean for anyone else to get hurt.”

Iris answers but keeps her eyes on me. “Aye. This is a hard life for those who want to live it, but it’s the women who get hurt by association, even though they’re not allowed a role in it. It’s bullshit, but you can’t escape your family no matter how you try.”

I want to tell her I’d keep her safe, but how can I when she got shot during our very first meeting?

“Clear the room,” Uther instructs. “Patched members only.”

Gwen refuses, but Clutch simply puts her over his shoulder and carries her away while she slaps his back.

It takes twenty more minutes before Cillian Ó Ceallaigh arrives at the clubhouse. He’s dressed like one of those Wall Street bankers. Slick suit. Sharp hair. Expensive watch and shoes. He ignores King and walks straight toward Iris.

“Well, well, well, Iris.” The Irish accent is unmistakable. I’d heard he was born in Ireland to an Irish Republican Army sympathizer during the troubles, the family moved to America after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement.

“Thomas,” Iris gasps, and one of the men reaches for her. I feel an irrational need to cut the fucker’s hand off when it takes hold of hers. I wonder who he is to her.

Cillian gestures to another man. “Cormac’s going to take a look, yeah?” Then he turns and faces King and Clutch. “Uther Hills?” he asks.

I tune out what is happening between King and Ó Ceallaigh. Instead, I stand guard over Iris.

“Just a local anesthetic,” Cormac says as he pricks her skin without warning.

“Don’t put stuff in me without talking to me first,” Iris says, and I instinctively take a step nearer.

Cormac cleans the wound as Iris screws up her eyes and nose. Her hands curl into fists by her side. She’s persevering. Dealing.

Brave.

I hear pieces of the conversation. Cillian asking why his goddamn niece is being stitched up on our pool table.