"Because I know what corruption costs. Watched good agents die while dirty ones got promoted." My father's face flashes through memory. "Some fights matter more than personal grudges."
He searches my expression for deception. "Your father. You said corrupt cops killed him."
"Chicago PD. Detective Morrison was feeding intel to the Torrino family." Old wounds open fresh. "Dad got close to exposing him. Morrison arranged an ambush during what should have been a routine arrest."
Understanding dawns in Eamon's eyes. "You know what it feels like. Family murdered by people sworn to protect."
"Yes." My voice drops. "That's why this matters."
Eamon moves to the window, moonlight highlighting the rigid line of his shoulders.
"Thomas Nolan," he says quietly. "The accountant I killed. There's something about that night you need to know."
My pulse jumps. "What?"
"Vincent Collins brought me files. Photos. Said Nolan was meeting federal handlers, planning to expose everything." He turns back. "When I broke into his house, found him working late... he asked if I was there about the missing money."
I wait, sensing deeper revelation.
"I didn't understand. Collins claimed Nolan was stealing, then turned informant when caught." Guilt weights every word. "Your guy tried explaining. Said Collins was the real thief, that he had proof. I thought he was lying to save his neck."
The truth hits like a physical blow. "Collins manipulated you."
"Into murdering an innocent man." Eamon meets my stare. "Just like Morrison manipulated his situation to kill your father."
The parallel strikes bone-deep. Both our fathers killed by corrupt authority figures using younger men as weapons.
"That's why you're helping," I realize. "Guilt."
"Partly." He steps closer. "But also because you're right. Some battles transcend personal shit."
The air between us thickens with more than professional cooperation. Shared trauma, mutual understanding, attraction despite betrayal and lies.
"Sorcha," he says, my name rough with want.
I should retreat. Maintain boundaries. Instead, I close the distance.
"This is stupid," I whisper.
"Probably." His hands cup my face. "Give a damn?"
I answer by kissing him, channeling weeks of rage and confusion and desperate need into the contact. He responds with matching hunger, crushing me against him like he can erase every lie between us.
His mouth burns down my throat, teeth scraping sensitive flesh. I arch into him, fingers shredding his shirt buttons. When fabric rips, we both reach for more skin.
"Here?" I gasp as he lifts me onto the table.
"Right fucking now," he growls, scattering evidence papers across the floor.
Documents about murder and corruption flutter down as he works my jeans open, calloused fingers burning through cotton. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him harder against me.
"I should fucking hate you," he says, thumb circling my clit through wet fabric.
"I know," I pant, freeing his cock from leather and denim.
He tears my panties away, positioning himself at my entrance. "Look at me when I take you."
I meet his blazing stare as he drives deep in one brutal thrust. We both cry out at the perfect friction, at how right this feels despite everything wrong about it.
