Cillian had taken a beating a time or two. He’d always had a mouth on him, and sometimes it talked him into more trouble than it talked him out of—and that wasn’t even taking into consideration his upbringing and all that other shit. There was an ongoing threat of violence that existed in the background of all their lives from the time they were old enough to understand what their father really did to provide the lifestyle they enjoyed. For all that, he hadn’t understood why two strangers chose tonight of all nights to jump him.
Not until they’d let slip Ricky Halloran’s name.
The sins of the past keep coming back to bite us in the ass over and over again, like a snake that’s eating its own tail. We hate them for Devlin. They hate us for Ricky. And on and on it goes.
He concentrated on breathing while he took inventory of his injuries. He’d have a black eye for sure tomorrow—Mother would love that—and more bruises than he cared to count, but nothing seemed to be broken. Thank Christ for small mercies. Does James know his people are slipping his hold? Does Carrigan?
A worry for another day. He braced himself and sat up.
“You shouldn’t be moving.” Olivia, his unexpected avenging angel, hovered nearly close enough to touch, but made no move to help him other than checking over her shoulder, presumably to make sure the Halloran men hadn’t changed their minds and come back for round two.
“I’m fine.” Mostly fine. The alley was spinning a little in a way that sure as hell wasn’t natural. He touched the back of his head and winced when his hand came away bloody. “Shit.”
She sat back on her heels, the shotgun carefully pointed at the ground away from him. “Let’s get you into the bar.”
The order surprised him. She obviously didn’t like him that much, sex aside, but if she was the type of woman to charge into an alley to defend a man she barely knew, it stood to reason she’d want to make sure he didn’t lie back down and die in that same alley.
His pride reared up and took control of his mouth. “I’m okay.” It was only a few blocks back to the house. He should be able to make it there and convince one of the men to patch him up without telling anyone how bad he must look right now. They did this sort of thing all the time.
“You’re bleeding from your head and weaving even though you’re sitting down. You’re not okay.” She hesitated. “Look, I didn’t actually call the cops, and if those guys come back, it’ll mean trouble for both of us.”
That got him moving. It was one thing to put himself in danger. It was entirely another thing to bring her into it. She was an innocent bystander, and even in his line of business, innocent bystanders weren’t something to just mow down. Devlin was as innocent as they come, and that didn’t save him.
Fuck off.
He used the brick wall to struggle to his feet, and nearly toppled over when the asphalt beneath him tilted. Olivia was there, sliding beneath his arm and keeping him upright. Cillian took a deep breath and got a face full of lavender and vanilla. How the hell did she manage to smell so good after working a full shift in a pub? He took a step, having to lean on her more than he wanted to. “Maybe I’m not completely okay.”
“No, really?” She guided him inside, pausing to set the shotgun aside and lock the door behind her. “You don’t have the sense God gave a toddler.”
He wouldn’t know. He didn’t exactly spend a lot of time around kids since he’d stopped being one himself. He tried to picture a toddler and came up with a grubby little Tasmanian Devil. “I think you just insulted me.”
“Only a little.” She pulled out a chair. “Sit. I’ll grab a rag and see if we can clean you up.”
“Why are you doing this?”
She’d already turned away, but her shoulders tensed at his question. “Because if you bleed all over Benji’s floor, he’ll never let you through the door again.”
That wasn’t what he meant, and she had to know it, but she was already gone, disappearing into the back. He braced his elbows on the table and did his damnedest not to let the nausea that made his stomach lurch have control. She was right. The big bar owner would be pissed as hell if he showed up tomorrow to bloodstains on the wood floor. But there was more to it than that.
He waited until she reappeared with a few washcloths in her hand to say, “You didn’t have to help me.”
“I know.” She set the cloths on the table. “This isn’t going to be pleasant.” She gingerly touched his head, sifting her fingers through his hair as she searched for the wound. He could have helped her find it immediately, but the feeling of her touching him—even in such shitty circumstances—felt too good to cut short.
I’m a fucking creep. Enjoying her running her fingers through my hair when I’m bleeding and bruised all to hell. Classy.
She found the spot his head had met brick wall and felt around. “It’s a little gapey, so it might need stitches, but I should be able to get the bleeding stopped at least. Hold still.”
Easier said than done. But he kind of liked her taking care of him, so he obeyed while she folded up a washcloth and pressed it carefully against his wound. It hurt like a bitch, but Cillian managed to keep his curse internal. Barely.
“You don’t have to stay. I’ll call someone.” Though who, he didn’t know. Both his father and Aiden would rip him a new one for letting those Halloran idiots get the drop on him—and then turn around and start plotting revenge. He wasn’t interested in aggravating the issue. Things were already tense enough between the almost-war and then Carrigan defecting to their side. He wasn’t going to be the one to light the match that made the whole thing explode. I am going to have to give Carrigan a heads-up, though. She needs to know James is losing his hold on some of his men.
“You know, for someone who was trying to get into my pants a few hours ago, you’re sure ready to see the back of me.”
“It’s a seriously superior backside.”
She surprised him by laughing and, holy shit, what a laugh. It was honeyed whiskey, and enough to have him thinking about things best done in private, the slide of skin against skin, his mouth on her. Her being so close didn’t help, either. It didn’t matter that he was covered in his own blood and had just had his ass handed to him. She smelled like heaven and looked like his favorite kind of temptation with those cutoff shorts over fishnets and a T-shirt of a band he’d never heard of.
Olivia bent down to look into his eyes. “You probably have a concussion, though I can’t blame your lame jokes on that.”
“Ouch. Here I am, trying to lighten the mood, and you’re mercilessly cutting me down.”
“I believe that was the men in the alley that I just saved you from.” She hesitated, conflict written all over her face. Finally she used her free hand to sweep her hair off one shoulder. “What was that all about? I thought it was a shakedown, but it wasn’t, was it? It was personal.”
Even though he knew better, he found himself telling her the truth. It wouldn’t endear him to her any, but it wasn’t like he could make her opinion of him worse. “How familiar are you with Boston’s underbelly?”
“Familiar enough.” She shrugged. “O’Malley. Sheridan. Halloran. All chomping for a piece of the same bone, just like it is in every major city.”
His curiosity almost got the best of him—what did she know about the crime scenes in other cities? He’d figured she’d have at least basic knowledge since she worked for Benji and he liked to keep his employees aware of any trouble that might come their way as a result of his being one of the main pubs the O’Malleys frequented, but there were some serious shadows in her eyes. He’d get into that later.
But she’d asked him a question, and he’d already decided to answer it honestly. “Well, it’s not as crazy as it was a year ago. The O’Malleys and the Sheridans are tight now. I wouldn’t say they actively work together, but they’re not eyeing each other’s backs and caressing their knives at the moment.”
“I see.” She leaned up to check the bandage, giving him an eyeful of her chest. He wasn’t a saint enough to ignore that, so he looked his fill. Olivia was built slim, but from the outline of her T-shirt, her breasts were perfectly shaped. Should have explored them at length when I had the chance.
He clenched his teeth against the physical reaction trying to perk up. She was playing goddamn nursemaid right now. She wouldn’t appreciate him popping wood in the middle of that.
Worse, she might stop touching him if he did.
To distract himself, he kept talking. “Technically the Hallorans and the rest of everyone are at peace, but there are some undertones that are hard to ignore. Plus, when shit goes sideways, it’s hard to let that kind of thing go, even if the people up top demand it.” Like Devlin. He didn’t blame those assholes for wanting some revenge after Ricky died, though he knew for a fact it was an unsanctioned hit. Carrigan might be dead to the family, but she would never turn on them like that. And if she wouldn’t, James wouldn’t. From all accounts, that sadistic bastard Ricky was well liked by the men under him—most likely because James had kept him reined in as much as possible so they hadn’t seen the destruction he was truly capable of—so it stood to reason that someone would come along at some point and decide to take their price out of enemy hide.
Except the O’Malleys weren’t the ones who killed Ricky Halloran.
No, that was from an outside threat—Dmitri Romanov. He’d turned James’s right-hand man and ordered the Hallorans’ deaths. The guy had been only half-successful and, if anyone had asked Cillian which Halloran was less likely to send all the Boston families into a goddamn death spiral, it was James. So thank God for small favors.
“I can see that.” She switched out the washcloth and added a dry towel over the top. “They say jump and expect everyone to jump and be happy about it.”
Yeah, she’d definitely had interactions with a similar scenario. But who? She sure as hell wasn’t associated with any of the three families in Boston. Part of his training for taking over for Bartholomew had been reading files on every major player under the Sheridans, the Hallorans, and even the MacNamaras, for all that they were extinct thanks to Callie’s dad. There were extensive dossiers on anyone with more than a passing connection with any of the families. Even if she was using a different name, he would have recognized her from her picture. She wasn’t there. He was sure of it. “You sound like you know a thing or two about it.”
“Not in Boston.” She took his hand and used it to replace hers on the towel. “How are you feeling?”
Like he wanted to get to know her better. He’d already wanted her—how could he not?—but now he wanted to do more than roll around naked with her. He wanted to actually sit down and have a conversation. It was tempting to play up his injuries to keep her here and touching him, but that would definitely put him in creep territory. “Nasty headache and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, but I’ll live to see another day.”
“You’re probably concussed.” She frowned. “But I’m hardly a doctor.”
“You seem to know your way around head wounds.” Which was another puzzle piece to add to the mystery that was Olivia. When he’d met her, he thought she was a beautiful woman with an attitude—and she was—but the more time he spent with her, the more he realized she was like the ocean—full of mysteries.
And just as likely to get him in over his head.
She shrugged. “I’ve seen a few in my day.” Concern lit her dark eyes. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
Damn, he couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity if he’d tried. But that was his old self talking. The man who’d go to great lengths to charm a woman into bed, who’d never met a challenge concerning the opposite sex that he wasn’t willing to step up to the line with. He knew Olivia wanted him, even if she had something holding her back from going there again. A year ago that would have been like waving a red flag in front of a bull.
Now? Now he was tired and hurt, and there was a sick part of him convinced that having the shit beat out of him was nothing more than he deserved. Devlin had gotten a bullet from the Hallorans. Cillian had only gotten roughed up. If he could go back to that night…
But there was no changing history. There was no magic spell or time machine that would allow him to take his brother’s place. There was only Cillian now, trying to do his damnedest to take it one day at a time and not let the vastness of the future overwhelm him.
*
Olivia hesitated, torn between wanting to kick Cillian’s ass to the curb and wanting to make sure he was okay. He didn’t look okay. Sure, she’d seen worse during the brief time she and Sergei lived together, but worse was a relative thing. And the look that had just come into his eyes made her shiver. It was the expression of the man staring death in the face and refusing to back down. “Cillian?”
He blinked at her, seeming to come back to himself. “Sorry, what did you say?”
Yeah, he was definitely concussed if he was spacing out in the middle of a conversation. What had he even been doing in the alley to begin with? He’d walked out the front door hours ago. Why was he still hanging around? Shouldn’t he have some kind of protection detail with him? Dmitri never went anywhere without his goons. She bit her lip, looking around as if the answer would jump into being from the walls.
No such luck.
“Is there somewhere you can go?” She couldn’t bring him home. Hadley loved people too much and, even though she was supposed to be sleeping, if she woke up and saw him, she’d be all over him in a hot second. And if Sergei saw her with another man, let alone an O’Malley…
She shuddered. No, she couldn’t take him home.
If Olivia was smart, she’d wash her hands of this whole business and send him on his way. Except you’ll never forgive yourself if you see on the news tomorrow he was found dead on the sidewalk. There had to be a better option.
He’d gotten paler in the last few minutes. “This might sound childish, but I can’t go home looking like this. I’m not willing to start a war over a few bruises.”
He was suffering from a hell of a lot more than a few bruises. If he walked through the door looking like that…Yeah, she could see how it would send an already tense situation over the edge. Damn it. “Is there someone you can call? I can stitch you up, but it won’t be pretty.”
And everything about Cillian was pretty. Well, pretty was too feminine a word. But he was perfectly put together from his hipster hair to his tattoos to his expensive clothes. Though he didn’t look particularly put together at the moment. His shirt was torn and had blood spattered over it, and his hair was totally screwed up. For the first time since they’d met, he looked almost…human. Approachable. She busied herself with folding another towel and making sure the bloody one wasn’t leaving a stain on the table.
Finally, he said, “I think my phone fell out of my pocket in the alley.”
She knew there had to be someone he could call. Ignoring the strange disappointment at the thought of sending him off with someone else, she straightened. “Give me a second.”
“Wait.” When she paused, he started to stand. “You can’t go out there alone. What if those idiots come back? I’ll go.”
“You can’t even stand.” She gently pushed him back into the chair, slightly alarmed at how easy it was. Yeah, it was definitely time to call in reinforcements. “If I’m not back in two minutes, feel free to swoop in and save me.”
It wouldn’t be necessary. She could take care of herself. She’d been doing it since she was a child.
Olivia grabbed the shotgun and opened the back door cautiously. It was entirely likely that the Halloran men were long gone, but Cillian was right—no point in taking chances.
But the alley was empty.
She found his phone easily and hurried back into the bar, relocking the door behind her. Cillian was exactly where she left him, and he relaxed when she walked back into the room. “No trouble?”
“None.” She wished she could chalk his concern up to self-preservation, but he seemed genuinely worried about her. It was…strange. She passed over the phone. “Call your people in.”
“You’re awfully sure I have people to call in.”
“You’re an O’Malley, aren’t you?” The question came out harsh—harsher than she intended. It was as much to remind herself as anything else. O’Malley, Halloran, Romanov—it didn’t matter. They were all the same. Dangerous and selfish and willing to do horrible things in the name of some higher cause that usually boiled down to power and money. She’d left that life behind, and she wasn’t about to let it sink its claws back into her again.
Not even for this man who she was starting to see wasn’t completely like she’d expected.
You’ve known him a grand total of a few hours. You don’t know a damn thing about him. He could be even worse than Dmitri.
He shifted, leaning against the table as he paged through his phone with one hand. “You sound like you’re holding a grudge. Did someone in my family hurt you?” The question came out deceptively simple, but there was tension in his shoulders.
Would it matter if they did? She managed to keep that thought internal, but she couldn’t let him think that she’d been wronged by one of his. It just wasn’t right. “No, nothing like that. I just know the type.” Men like Dmitri. Men like Sergei.
She palmed her phone, cringing when she saw the time. There was no chance she’d make the last train now. I’m going to owe Mrs. Richards in the worst way for this one. “One second.”
“Sure.”
Mrs. Richards answered on the first ring. “Olivia, dear, is everything okay?”
The worry in the woman’s voice made her feel even worse. But then a horrible thought struck. Maybe I’m wrong about why Sergei is sniffing around. Maybe he was just waiting for me to leave the apartment to take Hadley. She gripped the phone tighter. “Have you had any trouble?”
“No, of course not. Hadley wasn’t too keen on bedtime, but a few times through Goodnight Moon was enough to change her mind.”
Her breath left her in a whoosh, and she fought dizziness. Everything was okay. She was overreacting. Again. She cleared her throat, and tried to bring some calm back into her voice. “Good. I had a problem come up at work, so I’m running late.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing. I’m holding down the fort just fine. Do what you need to do.”
Thank God for Mrs. Richards. She didn’t know what she’d do if she had to leave Hadley with anyone else. No one in the world seemed as capable and able to deal with whatever complications arose without it ruffling her feathers. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. Now, go take care of what you need to take care of. We’ll be here and waiting for you when you’re done.”
Olivia hung up, feeling slightly better. Whatever else came of tonight, her daughter was safe. That was all that mattered. She turned back to find Cillian watching her with an unreadable expression on his face. “Problem?”
“It’s really none of your business.” But she relented almost immediately. He’d bled all over her, and told her about the men who attacked him. The least she could do was answer a question or two. “It’s my daughter. I had to let the person watching her know that I was going to be late.” And make sure Sergei hadn’t done anything shady in the meantime.
He blinked. “You have a daughter.”
It wasn’t quite a question, but she answered it anyway. “Yeah. She’s fourteen months.” This will send him running for sure. In her experience, the best way to turn away a man interested in hooking up was to mention that she had a kid. She didn’t particularly like using Hadley as a barrier between her and those idiots, but it was a foolproof method.
“Cool.” Just that. Nothing else.
Guess he can’t hightail it out of here when he can’t actually walk. Way to go, Olivia. She checked the towel he had pressed against the back of his head. It wasn’t quite soaked through. At least the bleeding was slowing down. “Call your people, please.”
He pressed a button and handed her the phone. “Tell them what they need to know.”
The last thing she wanted was to become more involved, but she couldn’t exactly hand the phone back when a gruff female voice answered. “What do you want?”
“Uh, I have Cillian O’Malley here with a head wound. He needs someone to come get him.”
“Where the hell is here? I’m not a mind reader, girl. Speak up!”
Wow. She was tempted to hang up, but that would create more problems than it would solve. “Jameson’s on Charles.”
A pause. “Hold tight. I’ll be there in a few.” The woman hung up.
Olivia set the phone back onto the table. “Nice lady.”
“Hardly. Doc Jones is as mean as a honey badger and twice as protective.” He shot her a look. “I think you’ll like her.”
What did that say about the way he saw her if he thought she’d get along with that snarly woman? She moved around the bar to fill a glass of water for both of them. It shouldn’t matter that he apparently thought she was mean. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She worked hard to be as unapproachable as possible while she worked. It didn’t affect her tips. People tended to like their bartenders one of two ways—mean as a snake or flirty as all get-out. The former had always come more naturally to Olivia.
So why did knowing that persona worked on Cillian bother her so much?