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Behind me, I hear Liam clear his throat. Then he moves farther away from me, settling himself beneath the sheets at the opposite edge of the bed.

“Goodnight.” His voice is gruff, almost like speaking is a strain for him, and I close my eyes in guilty relief.

We say nothing more, but I’m certain that we both take hours to fall asleep, with an acre of mattress between us that neither of us crosses.

Chapter 13

Liam

We don’t talk about it.

For the next couple days, Brioni barely meets my eye. We only see each other in the mornings, when she scurries into the kitchen to grab a protein bar before work. She’s always fresh from the shower, her cheeks scrubbed pink. And when I hand her her coffee with oat milk to go, they go even pinker.

She’s embarrassed, but she shouldn’t be. And of all things, I shouldn’t feel pride at what’s making her uncomfortable. But fuck me, hearing her moan my name made me overjoyed, pleased with myself in a way I haven’t felt in years.

I want to tell her not to worry about it, that it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. Brioni Rose Timmons called out my name. While playing with her pussy. My cock twitches whenever I think about it. And it’s pretty much all I can think about.

“You didn’t hear a thing I just said, did you?” Brady asks.

I clear my throat, and my brother shakes his head at me. The two of us are sitting in the pub’s back room. As much as Brady likes our sleek skyscraper office, this is our family’s true headquarters. Unassuming but potent. Long wooden table and chairs, all of them well-used. Family photos on the walls, along with our Irish flag behind Da’s seat at the head of the table.

The leader’s chair is empty. For now. Me and Brady sit in our usual seats, even though it’s just the two of us. I gesture to the tablet in his hands.

“Run me through it again,” I command.

“Our mole problem,” he says, with an impatience I don’t like. “Intel’s still getting leaked, and it’s bad enough that we have to suspect everyone in the organization.”

He hands me the list of names, which he’s color-coded into orange, yellow and white. There’s so much orange I feel blinded, and I scroll down just to give my eyes a break. In the white, unhighlighted section is every member of our family. Plus Cora. Brady’s listed his wife’s name above Finn’s. Something our younger brother would not be happy about. But I have no problem with the fact that Brady’s cleared her. Cora’s proven her loyalty.

I scroll up to the names in yellow. There are only three.

“James is yellow?” I ask, surprised. James is dedicated. And he’s close with the family. When I need a job that requires four unquestionable men, I choose myself, Brady, Finn, and James. But Brady spreads his hands.

“We have to suspect everyone,” he repeats. Easy for him to say. He’s not in charge of these men. He can’t value their loyalty the way I do.

“Clear James,” I order. Then I point to the other two names in yellow. “Gus and Peter too.”

Brady grimaces. But he takes the tablet from me and does as I say. If I didn’t trust Gus, I wouldn’t have put him in charge of Brioni’s safety. And if I didn’t trust Peter, I wouldn’t have put him in charge of the new recruits. But I don’t have to explain any of this to my brother.

“What about the recruits?” I ask Brady. I don’t know their names as well as I should, but I don’t think I saw any of them in the too-large orange section. Brady shakes his head.

“They don’t have access to the information that’s been leaked,” he says, and I narrow my eyes at him.

“Add the recruits, and put them in red. New men are not to be trusted. They’re unproven.” Plus, it’s easier to suspect someone I don’t have a history with.

That chunk of orange isn’t just a list of names. They’re people who have worked for our family for years, if not decades. And loyalty goes both ways. I can’t expect men’s devotion if I treat them all as potential enemies. Da would understand, but Brady can’t.

As he enters the recruits’ names, I drum my fingers on the table.

“And there’s nothing from the confessionals?” I ask.

A few weeks ago, we had reason to suspect that Seven, that fucking North Sider, had the confessionals bugged throughout the entire city—a clever way to receive intel. So naturally, we replaced them. Brand-new mahogany O’Sullivan donations for every Catholic church in Chicago and its suburbs.

Which we then bugged ourselves.

Some of our South Side priests are in the know, but most aren’t. We could still pull all the recordings remotely. That is, until the bugs themselves went dark. Within twenty-four hours of installation, we’d lost contact with every device we’d planted in Seven’s territory.

The bastard knows how to play the game. Even if he thinks the rules don’t apply to him. A rich boy to his core, he considers himself above any code. The rest of us treat women, children, and civilians as off-limits. He doesn’t.