Inked Destiny

“College fund?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll look good driving a soccer mom van.”

“You mean the coach’s wheels, doubling as the team equipment vehicle.”

He got on 101, heading out of the city. She experienced a brush of fear, wondering where Eamon’s territory ended, her gaze flicking to the rearview mirror and pulse skittering when she could almost believe she saw Liam about to materialize there.

“How far are we going?” she asked.

“Foster City.”

Not too far then.

She caught Greg staring at her, as if he’d picked up on her fear. Saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel like he was arguing with himself. Finally he said, “Anton did me favor years back, a life-changing one. I owe him. Otherwise he wouldn’t be staying with me.”

“I owe him a favor too.” Truth, but not the purpose of this visit.

Twenty-four

Home sweet home, Cathal thought. It’d been that when he was growing up, despite where the money came from, despite the presence of his father’s mobbed-up soldiers and his mother’s fixation with society and her place in it.

He couldn’t shake the family loyalty, couldn’t shake the lessons learned here. Scratch the surface and he could be what his father and uncle were, a stone-cold killer. He’d almost become that very thing in the presence of the Harlequin Rapist.

He parked across from his parents’ house rather than having the gate opened so he could pull around back. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen his mother or father enter or exit through the front door, though given his father’s security, the chance of being attacked here was slim. He doubted the neighbors had as much of a handle on their own schedules and routines as the Dunne personnel did.

Paranoia? Deterrent? Or necessity? Because he didn’t know the details of his father’s business, he couldn’t be certain which it was.

“Hold,” Heath said, getting out as down the street a car door opened and a woman emerged, long, curling black hair shielding her face.

A glint of sunlight drew Cathal’s attention to the ring she wore, the red flare of it as unnatural today as it had been at Saoirse. She twisted it on her thumb, hiding it in a fist as she turned toward him, steps faltering at seeing Heath approaching with rapid, smoothly menacing strides.

Her chin lifted in defiant courage and surprise hit Cathal at how much she resembled Brianna from a distance. Remaining in the car became impossible.

He got out and jogged forward, unsure what Heath was capable of if he determined the woman was a threat. He was there seconds after Heath intercepted her.

Jesus. Up close and personal it was more than something as tame as a resemblance. With her blue eyes and thick, black lashes, she could pass for a female version of Brian, the cousin who’d died less than a year ago in a car wreck, not a twin, but a sister one of his uncle’s affairs had resulted in.

Christ. What was she doing here?

There was only one possible reason. She’d come to find out where her father was.

Did Denis even know she existed?

Heath grabbed her wrist. She tensed, shooting a look at Cathal, fear and defiance combined in blue eyes that were far too familiar.

“Let her go,” he ordered.

“It would be best if I see the ring first.”

Magic. It didn’t even surprise him.

“Do you mind?” he asked this stranger who was probably his cousin.

She remained stiff but turned her wrist in Heath’s grip, opening her fingers to reveal the ring.

Heath’s eyebrows went up. He released her. “An interesting artifact,” he said and walked away after having apparently decided there was nothing to worry about.

Fuck, if only that were true. “I’m Cathal.”

“I know. My name is Mirela.”

“Denis is out of the country.”

“I’d still like to meet your father.”

That answered Cathal’s question about whether or not Denis knew about her. If his uncle did, then his father would.

Shit. This was bad timing given everything Brianna had gone through in the last year. Then again, when would the time ever be good?

Brianna could do the math. She’d know her father cheated on her mother.

Cathal glanced toward the house. His arrival had been noted. One of his father’s bodyguards now stood in front of the door to usher him in.

“Your mother left about an hour ago.” Meaning there’d be no witnesses.

Did Mirela know his mother preferred to remain blissfully ignorant of anything that might dirty her world or impinge on her enjoyment of it?

It was probably safe to take Mirela inside. Probably. No guarantee.

“You sure you want to do this?”

“I know what he is. I know what they are. My mother told me.”

There was a slight accent, Eastern European maybe. The careful way she spoke nearly masked it.

A nod said he believed her. It was far too easy to imagine his father and uncle away from the United States, where there were plenty of beautiful women willing to consort with men seen in the company of powerful, dangerous, known criminals.

“Let’s go then,” he said.

They wouldn’t take his father by surprise. Mirela’s car would have been noted. Whoever was monitoring the security feed had probably written her off as a cop stationed outside the house. But the minute they got a good look at her, they’d have summoned the boss.

“You vouching for her?” the guard asked when they reached him.

Fuck.

“That is unnecessary,” she said, holding her arms out in an invitation to be patted down for weapons.

Not a thing to bluff about here despite their being in plain sight.

The bodyguard was thorough and totally professional. A search outside, then just inside the front door a wand looking for listening devices, and still a misunderstood move or too quick gesture would land anyone, even him, on the floor in a heartbeat.

“He’s in the sitting area attached to the formal living room,” the guard said, motioning for Cathal to lead while he covered the rear.

The position meant Cathal couldn’t witness Mirela’s expression as they traveled through his mother’s domain, a testament to taste and what could be done when a top-of-the-line interior decorator was not limited by budget. Then again, maybe she’d look around her and compare this house with its limited history to places in Europe.

The sitting room was done in whites and browns and beiges, the furniture a luxurious cluster positioned in the center of a room whose sole purpose, other than to impress, was to take in the view of the bay through windows that stretched the twelve feet from floor to ceiling, the strips of wall necessary to support them always making him think of an ancient Roman coliseum. Like the rest of this part of the house, the smell of flowers