Page 37

Paulo chuckled. A low, familiar sound that made her flush with unwanted memories; his laugh in bed, right before doing something that left her quaking, desperate, completely undone.

“That’s exactly what it is,” he admitted with a short nod. Then his hand pressed lightly to her back, steady, guiding her toward the glowing table. “You need to make a decision on how to move forward.”

She frowned up at him. “I do?”

“Yes.” His tone was iron. “I kept you out of everything before. And now you think I used you as bait.”

“You did use me as bait!” she fired back, blue eyes blazing.

His jaw tightened, guilt flickering across his features. “Yeah,” he admitted gruffly. “And that’s exactly why you’re in control now.” He pointed at the lit map spread across the table. “Here’s the house. And these—” he indicated three red markers “—are the confirmed sightings of your father.”

Her breath caught. “What?” She leaned over the map, staring at the points. Each one sat just a few blocks away except for one, which was directly across the street.

“He was that close?”

“Yeah,” Paulo said grimly. “We think he was waiting for you to step outside, hoping to grab you.”

Her blood ran cold. “Why didn’t you…?”

“Why didn’t we grab him then?” Paulo finished when she faltered. His tone was sharp, clipped. “We tried. But your father has this sixth sense about being hunted. Every time my people got close, he slipped away. He drove off before we could get close enough. And when we tried to follow, he disappeared into crowded streets. I wasn’t going to risk innocent lives just to catch him.”

Madelaine’s throat tightened. That was… decent of him. A flicker of respect slipped past her anger, and she tore her gaze away from his, forcing her eyes back down to the glowing map.

“We know he’s stayed in hotels here and here,” Paulo said, stabbing his finger at two points on the other side of the city. “But he checks in under false names. We can’t anticipate his next alias.”

“What are the names?” she asked, curiosity breaking through her fury.

Paulo tapped on a monitor, scrolling. “Here he used Mack O’Byrne.” His finger slid to the second marker. “This one, Douglass Hyde.” Another swipe, another grim shake of his head. “And here, he called himself Arthur O’Leary.”

Mick leaned closer, bracing his thick arms on the table. “They’re nonsense names. No rhyme or reason. Nothing we can fit into a pattern.”

“They’re not nonsense,” Madelaine countered, before she thought better of it. “They’re historical Irish names. Sort of, anyway.” She pointed at the first mark. “Mack O’Byrne is Fiach MacHugh O’Byrne, a chieftain who led Irish resistance against the British centuries ago.” She shifted to the second. “Douglass Hyde was Ireland’s first president, back in the nineteen-thirties.” And the third. “Arthur O’Leary, actually his name is Art Ó Laoghaire, was a poet. But what he’s remembered for is refusing to sell his horse to some pompous British officer.”

Silence.

Both men were staring at her. Mick’s eyebrows nearly touched his hairline. Paulo’s eyes had gone sharp, dangerous.

“How do you know all that?” Paulo asked at last, his voice low, tight.

Madelaine lifted her chin, trying not to squirm under the weight of his stare. “My father never wanted me around. He regularly announced that children should be seen and not heard. So, I hid in the library whenever I was home. I read. A lot,” she emphasized with a heavy sigh. “History fascinated me.” Her voice softened on the last words, then trailed off as she caught the flare of anger in Paulo’s eyes.

Anger… for her?

No. That was ridiculous. He’d used her. She was bait. Nothing more. And the heat she’d felt in his arms, the tender connection in his bed, that had only been… a distraction.

Her jaw set. She folded her arms across her chest, the motion as much defense as defiance. “What else do you need from me?” she demanded.

Paulo’s voice cut across the room, low but commanding. “Ideas. Give me something that might lure him out again.”

Madelaine stayed bent over the table for a long moment, chewing on her lower lip. Then she straightened, one hand absently tugging a strand of hair behind her ear while the other tapped her fingertip against her chin. She eyed the map, then looked up at the monitors, then back down again as if the streets of Detroit themselves might spell out the answer.

Paulo watched her closely, his arms folded over his chest, trying to decipher her thoughts. He could practically see the gears turning behind those blue eyes.

And then, just like that, her expression changed. Her eyes lit up, amusement sparking there. “What about if we…,” she looked around, obviously nervous about her suggestion, but at the look of patience in Paulo’s eyes, she continued, “…hold his funeral.”

There was a long, heavy silence as everyone tried to process her suggestion. Finally, Mick was the first to speak. “His what?”

The more she thought about it, the better it sounded. Nodding, she started pacing, her thoughts whirling with the idea. “Yeah,” she said, nodding and continuing to tap her chin. “A big, rousing wake at an Irish pub,” she continued, her grin widening as the idea solidified in her mind. “Make sure there’s lots of good whiskey, rowdy music, the works. And we invite all of his old business partners and the international gangsters, anyone who ever owed him a favor.” She pivoted, now speaking directly to Mick. “Your people can get messages out, right? Spread it through underground channels? Make it sound like his funeral will be the best place to be? That way, everyone will come to pay their respects and tell stories about their long-lost bodach mòr.”