"I'll remember that."
He studies my face for a long moment, searching for something. Then he places a twenty on the bar.
"For the whiskey I never got."
"I never poured you whiskey."
"No. But you will." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Sarah Murphy from Chicago. Welcome to Boston."
He walks out, leaving me alone behind the bar with shaking hands and a racing heart. I pour myself water, trying to process what just happened.
I came here to destroy Eamon Kavanagh. To gather evidence that will put him in prison for life. To get justice for Patricia Reeves and countless other victims.
But standing in the lingering heat of his presence, breathing air that still carries his scent, I face a terrifying truth.
The most dangerous thing about this assignment isn't that he might kill me.
It's that he might make me want him to.
CHAPTER
THREE
Blood still stainsmy knuckles when I push through Finnegan's door. The Murphy crew won't be moving drugs through our territory again—not after tonight's lesson in boundaries.
Every head turns when I enter. Respect earned through violence commands attention in ways money never could. The new bartender doesn't look up from wiping glasses, auburn hair catching light from the Guinness sign above her head.
Interesting.
"Evening, Mr. Kavanagh," Mickey calls from behind the bar.
I nod, eyes fixed on the woman beside him. She moves with purpose—no wasted motion, no nervous energy. Her body language screams competence wrapped in civilian clothes.
"Jameson. Neat." I lean against the scarred wood, studying her profile.
She reaches for the bottle without hesitation, pours two fingers with hands that don't shake. Most people get nervous around me. She seems bored.
"Eight dollars."
I drop a twenty, watching her add it to tips without the usual gratitude show. No batting eyelashes or leaning forward todisplay cleavage. Just quiet efficiency that raises every alarm in my head.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Sorcha." She meets my eyes directly. No fear, no flirtation. Just assessment.
Green eyes like broken glass—beautiful and dangerous. My cock responds before my brain catches up, blood rushing south despite every instinct warning me she's trouble.
"Irish," I observe.
"So is half of Boston." She returns to her work, dismissing me.
The challenge sends heat through my veins. Women don't dismiss Eamon Kavanagh. They submit, seduce, or run. This one does none of those things.
My phone buzzes with territory updates, but I ignore it. Watching her navigate the crowd provides better entertainment than business reports. She tracks every customer while appearing focused on drink orders—professional-level awareness disguised as bartender charm.
A drunk dock worker grabs her wrist. "How about some personal service, sweetheart?"
Her stance shifts subtly. Weight balanced, ready to strike. "Let go."
