Page 51 of Iron Blade

That was an incredible surprise. Blink had more access to classified information than I did. Where I was a pawn doing my part, he was a knight, with a far reach and a deep influence.

The moment he saw me run out of the gallery with Eoghan hard at my heels, he would have looked deeper into him. He was a thorough man, and if there was something to find about Eoghan, he would have found it. I had no doubt about that.

I wanted to see Eoghan again. I wasn’t sure when that would happen. He said he’d come after the gallery showing, but who the fuck knew when that would be? Would he meet me right after? Or would he meet me in the middle of the night? Or would he text at 2AM for a booty call after the kiss we had shared that morning? I wasn't sure.

Strangely enough, I didn’t think that would be what happened. Would a man who talked about Shakespeare and Greek mythology be so crass as to ask for a booty call? Maybe. He was a handsome, rich and powerful man in New York City. That was almost always a sign of a playboy.

But not Eoghan. I knew that somewhere deep in my gut. He was devoted.

I went back to work after my conversation with Blink. I had to start showing more paintings because that was my real job. Not the gallery itself, per se. But the selling. Jerry Vasali’s artwork was funding clandestine operations to fend off the global circulation of humans, guns and drugs. Our agents went in where INTERPOL, and alphabet agencies couldn’t. Untouchable organizations were brought down because of us.

In a world where the criminals have titles, power, and the full backing of an army of lawyers, standing up to them was dangerous. Not just for the person doing the standing, but for their families and loved ones.

That’s why Paradigm was created. It's why we were always under deep cover. People like me, who had no one left to live for, were their most valuable assets.

“This one is a painting about loss,” I said, looking at the gray and black canvas in front of me.

It wasn’t extraordinary. Nothing like the sketches that Eoghan had tossed out in the middle of his restless night. But I had to act like it was.

All I could think about were those black eyes, and how they saw me.

Eoghan had drawn me as a curly-haired maiden, with flowers and branches from the bowers bending down to lay themselves for my comfort in a wooded land. I had never seen, or thought of myself, as the woman in these paintings. I had never thought it was possible.

But there I was in page after page of sketches, as the Goddess, Muse and Queen in every depiction. Had he done all of that while I slept on his couch?

I felt a tingle in my stomach, a fluttering near my core, as I remembered that morning kiss. A kiss that I had started. A kiss he had accepted, until I ended it with pleas to get to work. I had begged to leave because I was scared.

More than anything, I knew that to do more than kiss - to fuck - would change the world as I knew it.

He was a devoted lover. I could tell.

He was the kind of man who made women beg for his attention. One hit wouldn't be enough. That was what really frightened me.

“Look at the strokes of aggressive white, on black. The contrast is a sign of…” I let my voice drone on about bullshit that I didn’t believe. Dilettantes. That’s what Eoghan called them. How right he was.

I needed them to open their wallets so that I could get a ten percent cut of what these idiots spent. To do that, I had to make them feel smart. I needed them to feel like they were getting a great deal on a million-dollar piece of fucking drivel.

Then, of course, I still had my own bills to pay. Fighting crime isn’t a particularly lucrative business. But at least I wasn’t taking out anymore loans.

That was the job, wasn’t it?

“If Miss Kekoa is selling it, then I’m buying!” An Irish voice rang clear from the back of the room. I turned away from the mediocre bit of modern art in front of me and stared out into the crowd.

I blushed, already knowing who it was, but couldn’t help but ask, “Who was that?”

“Miss Kekoa sold me a painting at a great discount.” The Irish voice continued from a distance. I couldn’t find him though. “I had it looked at and appraised. I could have made a small fortune if I chose to sell it!”

The crowd parted, and there he was. Eoghan fucking Green.

A red, angry line split the top of his cheekbone, jagged, and unclean. Like he had been in a knife fight.

“If she’s selling it, I’m buying. Here-” He brought the brochure up to his eyeline, as he scrawled something in pencil along the pages. “You!” He pointed the brochure at one of my black-clad colleagues, who was taking bids for the silent auction. “Here are my bids. I’m taking the lot, at the stated price.”

There was a gasp from the audience, and I rolled my eyes.

Just from him saying he was bidding at the starting price meant that there would be one person in the group who would try to out-bid him. They knew how much he was willing to pay, and they could beat him on the chopping block. It was a dirty ploy, but Eoghan was the kind of man other men wished they could beat. They wouldn’t. But maybe they could spend a little more money, and look a little bit richer because they got a piece of art that the infamous Mafia Prince couldn’t have.

In a single move, he had sold the entire collection for me.

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