Page 13 of His Obsession

“Wouldn’t I?” he asked, holding her gaze. “I know Kavanaugh and the O’Neill Syndicate by reputation. If Lynch is after you, Kavanaugh can keep you safe. The second I don’t believe I can say the same, I’ll deliver you to him personally.”

“You’d just hand me over to a gangster?”

“No, but if I thought he could keep you safe when I couldn’t, I would. I’m not saying the O’Neill Syndicate are members of Scouting Ireland, but they do have a certain code of honor that sets them above the rest…”

“Like what?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“They don’t deal in drugs, and anyone who wants to deal in their territory needs to be ready to deal with the cops and the O’Neills. They take no pleasure in killing. They don’t involve innocents or amateurs if they can avoid it. They won’ttolerate arms smuggling if they believe the arms are destined to be used against the aforementioned innocents or amateurs.” Walsh ended his litany with a shrug. “I’m not saying they aren’t gangsters, but they do have a code they live by. Trust me when I say, Eoin Lynch is no amateur and certainly no innocent. But do you mind my asking why Kavanaugh thinks Lynch might be a threat to you?”

She didn’t respond, instead turned back to focus on the task at hand. The monotony of numbers and contracts helped to steady her nerves, the routine grounding her in the face of so many unknowns.

The sharp crash of something breaking shattered the silence.

Isolde’s head snapped up, her heart leaping into her throat. The sound had come from the storage room down the hall.

Walsh was already moving, his hand on the holstered gun at his side. “Stay here,” he ordered, his voice low but firm.

“Walsh—” she started, but he silenced her with a sharp look before disappearing into the hallway, his soft-soled footsteps almost silent on the floor.

The seconds stretched unbearably as Isolde sat frozen at her desk, her ears straining for any sound. Her mind raced with Callum’s warning about Lynch’s men, the memory of his note now seeming far more ominous than before.

A muffled curse broke the suspense, followed by a familiar voice.

“For God’s sake, Walsh, put the gun down! It’s me!”

Isolde exhaled shakily as the stiffness rolled from her shoulders. She stood and hurried into the hallway, where she found Walsh standing in the storage room doorway, his gun lowered but his expression still sharp.

Inside, Malcolm Conway—her foundation’s financial advisor—was sprawled on the floor, surrounded by scattered papersand an overturned crate. He looked up sheepishly, adjusting his glasses. “Sorry about that. I tripped over the damn crate.”

Walsh glared at him, his grip still firm on his weapon. “You scared the hell out of us.”

Malcolm pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his trousers. “Didn’t realize I needed clearance to drop off financial reports.”

“What are you doing here this late?” Isolde asked, stepping into the room. “And what were you doing in the closet?”

Malcolm held up a thick folder, his face flushed. “I was going over the accounts and found something that didn’t sit right. Thought you’d want to see it sooner rather than later. I stepped in here to see if last year’s files had been moved down to archives.”

Isolde frowned, taking the folder from him. She opened it, scanning the pages inside. Her stomach sank as she saw the numbers.

“Malcolm, what is this?” she asked, her voice tight.

“Discrepancies,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Funds moving into accounts they shouldn’t be. It started shortly before we received that large donation from O’Neill’s organization and has picked up in the short time since.”

Her breath caught, her fingers tightening on the folder. “Are you saying they’re connected?”

“I don’t know yet,” Malcolm said quickly, glancing at Walsh. “But the timing is suspicious.”

Isolde stared at the numbers, her pulse pounding in her ears. The irregularities weren’t minor—they were significant, enough to raise questions about where the money was going and why.

“Does anyone else know about this?” she asked, her voice low.

“Not yet,” Malcolm replied. “I was coming straight to you.”

“Good,” Walsh said firmly, stepping closer. “Keep it that way. No one else sees these until we figure out what we’re dealing with.”

Isolde nodded, her mind racing. The donation had been a lifeline for the foundation, but now it felt like a noose tightening around her neck. Callum’s warning about Lynch suddenly took on new significance. Had the donation been bait? A way to draw her—and the foundation—into something far darker than she’d realized?

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out with trembling hands. A new message lit up the screen.

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