Page 51 of Lucky Strike

Guns? Shipments? Of what?Okay, calm down. There has to be a rational reason for what I heard. I’m an overthinker. It’s my true crime obsession again, right? Feeding my anxiety? Ma would have a good laugh if I told her about this, not that I ever would. I say a little prayer, splash water on my face, and get back into bed.

The sky is getting brighter, now a dreamy blend of lavender andpink. I stare at it for a moment and then close my eyes, my breathing slow and deep as the meds kick in again. I’m so tired, and this bed is so comfortable. Like a cocoon.

“Bria?” Conlan knocks at the door, startling me. “I know you’re awake.” I sit up so fast I get lightheaded. He knocks again. “Can I come in?”

It’s tempting to lie and pretend I’m sleeping, but he sounds determined. Yawning, I swing my legs to the side of the bed and wrap myself in the comforter. “Okay.”

He opens the door, and both Shelby and Bacon rush in, despite his attempt to shut it quickly. I swear Bacon gives me the side eye. I give him one right back.

Conlan paces back and forth for a moment before stopping abruptly, his brows furrowed. “Were you in the kitchen just now?”

Welp, no point in fibbing.“Yeah. I needed more TheraFlu.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Did you hear anything?”

Shelby plops down beside the bed, nosing my ankles until I pet her. “What d’you mean?”

He rubs his hands over his face. “I don’t have time for this. If you heard something, I need to know.”

“The Bratva,” I blurt. My heart skips. “And guns.”

His eyes close, and he tilts his head back with a loud sigh. The bruises on his face look worse than they did last night. “Great.”

“What’s going on? Are you in trouble?”

After a moment, he pushes away from the wall and squats in front of me. “Listen. You cannot repeat anything you heard, okay? You can’t repeat anything you hear in this house, period.”

“I know that.” I nod slowly. “I signed an NDA, remember?”

“Anyone can sign an NDA. I need you to promise me.”

“I won’t repeat anything, to anyone. Ever. I promise.” I tighten the blanket around my body, unsettled by the way this conversation’s going.

He stares at me for a long time, frowning as whatever he’s mentally warring with plays out.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I urge. “You cantrustme. You’ve always been able to trust me.”

Conlan takes a deep breath and pushes it out like he’s preparinghimself for something physically difficult. “My family’s always done well for themselves. You know that.” I nod, already under the spell of his gaze, his words. “Dad took over our shipping company before I was even born, and when the time comes, I’ll take it over from him. Mom owns three wineries now, and she uses our company to distribute her wine all over the country. The world. It all runs like a well-oiled machine, bringing in profits my grandparents never would’ve imagined.”

“I know.” I squint at him, a little confused by the info dump. I’ve learned most of this over the years through Maeve, or just by hanging around.

“But you don’t know everything,” he says slowly, but it’s what he doesn’t say that feels ominous.

“What else is there?” I whisper, clenching my blanket so tightly that my fingers are going tingly.

“Things that, until now, would be too dangerous for you to know.”

I wish I could say I was surprised, but I’m not. Deep down, I’ve always known there was something different about the Kellys. The bodyguards, the business trips, the unexplainable level of wealth. I often got the impression that Conlan’s parents were speaking in code, strange conversations across the dinner table where they said one thing but obviously meant another. I have countless memories of Owen Kelly closing the door to his office at the Winchester house to huddle up with his inner circle. He’d leave at all hours—I knew because Maeve and I stayed up ‘til all hours. (So did Conlan and I, but that’s another story.) When you’re a kid, you believe what you’re told.

Now Conlan’s the one with secrets and bodyguards and an inner circle of his own. He’s the one having covert meetings and conversations, coming home from business trips with bruises. The pieces are falling into place in ways I’m not sure I like.

His eyes haven’t left mine, the same eyes I fell in love with. I reach for his hand, wrapping my fingers tentatively around his.

“Do you know what the Saoirse Syndicate is?” he asks.

My breath catches. Everyone around here knows what that is. There are documentaries and books about the syndicate’s ruthlessness during the seventies and eighties, how they funded the IRA and ran all sorts of rackets thereafter. From what I heard, they went head-to-head with theBoston Italians back in the day, finally settling into an uneasy truce. “The Irish mob?” Conlan must feel my hand go limp, because now he’s the one holding on, his large, warm hands covering mine. “Are you—involved with them?”

“I am them, Bria. My family’s one of the original five.”

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