Page 4 of Unhinged

Oh, Cillian O’Rourke, you’re five minutes late. That will cost you.

I walk to the tiny booth in the back and quickly double-check all the exits. Behind me, an orange exit sign flashes, and I’ve already confirmed it leads to an alleyway.

“Sorry I’m late, lass,” O’Rourke says, but the expression on his face tells me he isn’t sorry at all. Spoiled prick. Cillian is one of the youngest of the McCarthy clan—a cousin or a brother, I can’t keep track. There are too damn many of them. His head is shaved, with Irish mob ink running down the side of his neck and across his shoulders. Even in a sweatshirt and jeans, he can’t hide his bulk.

His gaze skims over me, lingering. I wonder if I imagine that flicker in his eyes. Not business or courtesy, but something I can’t quite identify.

I’m lonely, though. And for one sliver of a moment—just enough to pull at my heartstrings but not long enough to embarrass me—I wish I were a more permanent fixture in the Irish Mafia. I’m told the McCarthy men are brutal, vicious, old-fashioned, and heavy-handed… but they’re loyal. Filthy rich. Protective. And sexy as sin.

But I’m not their type. I only work for them. I’m a hired contractor and not even paid that well because our deal is simple—they get my excellent forgery skills in exchange for their protection.

Some days, the ability to disappear isn’t the superpower it seems. Cillian never asked for more than my work, but I wantedmore.Power. Protection. Maybe something like devotion. But if any of them were interested in me, he would’ve made a move a long, long time ago.

“What do you need,lad?” I ask, flipping open the tiniest laptop known to man—barely bigger than a tablet.

With an eye roll at my mockery of his brogue, he shoves a piece of paper over, the details scratched down in ink. In the digital age, we’ve found that paper trails are sometimes easiest. I’ll literally burn it after I’m done. I take a look at the specs and nod.

“Doable. I can have this for you in twenty-four hours.”

Predictably, he frowns, his full lips pulling down at the edges as he leans forward, his eyes boring into mine.

“I don’thavetwenty-four hours, luv.”

I blow out a breath, roll my eyes, and shake my head. Ofcoursehe doesn’t, but it’s part of my bargaining power.

His expression’s pinched, his jaw tight. He hates having to ask, hates not being the one calling the shots. Ah, well, sucks to be him.

“Buy me a Guinness, and I can do it in four. You’ll have to find me a pizza too.”

It’s always the same. They never have time, never have patience. Everything I do for them needs to be done yesterday.

But they do keep up their end of our deal, so I keep mine. I’ve been under the protection of the McCarthy Clan since I betrayed the Kopolov Bratva and ran for my life.

I pull up a browser and begin working. He takes his leave after securing me a Guinness and a shitty excuse for a pizza, checking in every hour to see how it’s going. If he wasn’t one of the scariest assholes I’d ever met, which comes in handy for a girl like me, I wouldn’t want anything to do with the bastard. But being in the pocket of the Irish Mafia is my ticket to safety.

For now. I mean, a girl has aspirations.

I finally hand him over everything he needs to assume a different identity in South Africa, with a bit of unsolicited advice. “Try to tamp down youraccent, Cillian.” I shake my head. No amount of perfect documents will erase his telltale brogue. “Just… pretend you’re mute or develop a sudden vow of silence.”

He grunts and gives me the middle finger. How quaint. He’s practicing.

It’s two o’clock in the morning when I make it back to the little apartment. I pop my sleep meds because I want to fall asleep, face plant, and not wake up until I’ve slept forhours.

My eyes are bleary from lack of sleep, but I still find my way to the bathroom because even a nomad in hiding needs to have a solid skincare routine. It will take a few minutes for the meds to kick in. I clean, exfoliate, and moisturize, then slide off the wig and sigh with relief. It’s kind of like taking a bra off at the end of the day. Under the wig, my blonde hair sits in a messy bun. I tug it free and watch as it falls over my shoulders.

Sigh. That’s better.

I frown at my reflection when something catches the corner of my eye.

Wait a minute.

I may not have a permanent residence, but I have my rituals, and I never put my toothpastethere.What kind of a heathen makes the top face the sink? I look down at the tube and touch it with my fingertip as if expecting it to get up and move on its own.

Was I so distracted this morning that I started putting things in the wrong place?

I’m tired. Dammit, O’Rourke.

I go to open the bathroom door and freeze, my hand on the cold metal doorknob.

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