"Everything," I reply. "Surveillance teams. Financial documentation. Communication intercepts. Full family operation."
Sorcha looks around the table, her green eyes finally landing on mine. "A month ago, I planned to arrest all of you. Now you're my only hope for justice."
"Not criminals," Cillian corrects. "Family. Which now includes you."
The declaration hangs in the air. Sorcha Quinn, federal agent, accepted into the Kavanagh organization. Life's strange fucking turns.
"Operational planning starts now," I say, though what I really want is to get her alone. "Surveillance schedules. Evidence collection. Communication protocols."
We spend the next hour developing strategy, and I catch myself watching Sorcha more than focusing on the plans. The way she thinks through problems. How she challenges our assumptions. The competence that's sexy as hell.
"Friday's meeting with Byrne," Sorcha says as we finish. "I'll wear recording equipment. Document everything."
"Backup surveillance," I add, already planning how to keep her safe.
"Legal documentation," Orla continues. "Proper evidence handling for prosecution."
"And extraction plans," Cillian concludes. "If everything fails, we get you out alive."
Sorcha stands, checking her weapon with practiced ease. The sight of her armed and dangerous does things to me. "Five days to take down federal corruption and criminal cooperation."
"Five days to prove family loyalty goes beyond blood," I correct.
As everyone prepares to leave, Sorcha approaches me. This close, I can smell her shampoo, see the flecks of gold in her green eyes.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For watching my back today."
"Partners protect each other," I reply, my voice rougher than intended. "Family rule."
She nods, and I see understanding in her eyes. Federal agent or not, she's under Kavanagh protection now. My protection.
"Eamon." Her voice drops, becomes something more intimate. "What happens after? When this is over?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility and danger. I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.
"We figure it out as we go," I say, my fingers brushing hers. "Together."
Her pupils dilate, and I know she feels this thing between us too. Whatever the hell it is.
The next five days will determine everything. Justice versus corruption. Family versus institutional betrayal. And whether a federal agent and an Irish mob enforcer can find something real in the middle of all this chaos.
Time to find out what we're both made of.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
I adjustthe tiny recording device hidden in my earring, my fingers brushing against my neck. Eamon's eyes track the movement from across the car, his gaze lingering on the pulse point at my throat.
"Stop fidgeting," he says, voice rough. "You look nervous."
"I am nervous." I check my appearance in the visor mirror. The black dress hugs every curve, designer but not flashy. Professional enough for a criminal consultant, sexy enough to distract. "Moran's going to see right through this."
"No, he won't." Eamon reaches over, his fingers grazing mine as he flips the visor up. "You're going to walk in there and own that room. You're Sarah Mitchell, and you're the best money launderer on the East Coast."
The heat from his touch spreads up my arm. Three weeks of this dangerous partnership, and I still react to him like a teenager with her first crush. Even now, heading into enemy territory, my body responds to his proximity.
"Sarah Mitchell doesn't exist," I whisper.
