CHAPTER
ONE
CHAPTER
TWO
The whiskeyglass 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.
