Page 44 of Líadan's Code

Men like Seán crave the best people for the job, but the problem with that is that you’re not always the smartest person in the room then.

Chapter Ten

Jordan

“You’re a very dangerous man,” Seán sighs, checking his watch. “I have an appointment now in the club, but I want to know who of the family believes that they should be named heir. I also want to know if there are any rumblings in the following areas from the organization’s rivals. There are always people out to take what doesn’t belong to them.”

He rattles off a few places that I know are related to different rivals. He gave me a rundown the day after I moved into Líadan and Brendan’s home in a video call, so with all the information that I have, there’s a disturbing overview of the criminal underbelly of the United States living in my brain.

It makes me worry about if he’ll ever be able to let me go back to my normal life, because all of this knowledge is fucking dangerous.

Someone knocks on the door to remind him of his meeting, making him huff as he navigates his body out of the hard chair. I’m not enjoying it any more than he is, but the groans and curses remind me that he’s still older than I am.

Finally getting upright, he rubs his back for a moment before straightening his spine and moving to the door as if nothing happened.

Seán O’Brien’s daughter isn’t the only one who’s excellent at wearing masks. Opening the door, he disappears into the hallway, leaving me to my thoughts. A part of me wishes I could see Layla or Lennon again, because I’ve managed to get myself into some deep shit. I don’t even know if I could walk away from everything if I can possibly help Líadan.

Fuck. There’s so much to work through. Would she even want me to stick around? Sure, there’s a pull to each other, and I’m not sure how I feel exactly about Brendan, but that’s not something I should be thinking about in the back of Seán’s club.

Blowing out a breath, I force my mind back toward my work, deciding that I need to loop them both into my inner thoughts to keep issues from forming.

They both can read me too well to hide anything.

Getting lost in my work, I’m startled when the door slams, and Layla is standing wide eyed with a bleeding hand. There’s no one inside of the room with us. I was so engrossed in my own little world, I didn’t notice who brought her in, but I would bet my life that it was Seán.

Motherfucker.

“Uncle Jordan,” she breathes, walking forward.

My heart is pounding as I rise, unable to believe she’s in front of me. “What the hell are you doing here?!” I roar.

It’s unfair of me, but I’m irrationally pissed off right now. She should be on the road, safe with the guys. Sure they’ll probably regularly attempt to kill each other, but it’s better than being anywhere near Chicago.

I pull her roughly into my arms, because I can still be mad and hug her dammit.

Taking a shuddering breath, I struggle to think through my feelings at rapid speed. I don’t know when I’ll see her again, and I don’t need her last memories of me to be that I’m a raging dick.

“How are you here?” I rasp. “I think you just broke me, Layla.” Her lips twitch as she looks up at me. There’s mirth and mischief in her eyes, and I can tell this story is going to be more fun for her to tell, than for me to hear.

“Most importantly, who does that blood belong to?”

“An handsy asshole who I believe is bleeding out on the main floor of the club,” she says, holding the bloody hand away from us. “Let me wash my hands and I’ll tell you. Hold on.”

Letting her go, I watch as she walks over to the sink to wash up, and I slow my heartbeat. She’s safe. For now.

Drying her hands, she continues her bossy diatribe as if I didn’t specifically want her to stay away from all of this.

“Sit, and tell me everything. Don't start and stop to make me insane. I don’t know how long you’ll be allowed to talk to me,” I insist, grabbing the chair that Seán was sitting in as she lowers herself into the other one.

Layla quickly explains how she worried when I disappeared, and called both Lennon and the label in an attempt to find out what happened. I was going to go on assignment taking care of an out of control female artist, so she didn’t immediately worry, until she realized that I had gone no contact for too long.

As she talks to me, she absently rubs her fingers over the darkening fingerprints on her arm, making me growl.

“Hush, Uncle. I’m completely fine. It’s just a little sore is all,” she says, waving away my concern. God, why are all the women in my life absolute brats?

“Anyway,” she continues, “the label ended up getting a ransom note from Seán insisting that I call him. When I did, he insisted I meet him.”

“Woah,” I grunt. “I’m sure you’re skipping a lot, Layla. I need more than this. What the hell is wrong with your arm and where is Tyler?”

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