Page 126 of Stolen Hearts

Burying my mother entailed me, the priest at St. Michael’s, which I guess she still went to often enough for him to know she was dead, and the lawyer who needed me to settle her affairs.

That was it, and the entire thing took less than fifteen minutes.

The service today, for Mary Foley, Owen Foley’s mother, is of a much larger scale. Like Dominic Farrell, Owen’s a big player in the Kildare empire. And his mother was a battle-axe just about everyone in the organization knew, feared, and respected. Which is why the crowd at today’s service ismassiveas it spills out of St. Patrick’s Cathedral onto 5th Avenue.

I’m mulling over Dominic’s offer just now to employ me in his ranks, when a dark shape slips from my peripheral vision to the center of my focus.

I stiffen as my eyes lock onto the man in black with a sharp jaw and venomously piercing green eyes as he stands right in front of me. His gaze seems to flay me open as he casually slips a metal case from his jacket pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and deftly lights it with a gleaming Zippo.

“Do you know who I am?” He murmurs in an Irish accent.

My father was a brawler for the Kildares. My mother did some secretarial work for Declan Kildare himself. I grew up in this world, before the Rangers.

Yeah, I damn well know who Cillian Kildare is.

“Yes sir, Mr. Kildare,” I say firmly, bowing my head in respect.

People fear Cillian, who sits above even Declan as the king of the Kildare empire. And if the rumors are to be believed, they have every right to.

We’ve never met, but as I eye him right back, it’s not fear that I feel.

It’s respect.

“You’ve recently parted ways with the Army. Do I have that correct?”

I nod. “You do, sir.”

But it’s clear from the glint in his eyes that he already knew unequivocally that he was right.

“In that case, I have a job for you.”

My brows knit. “Thank you, Mr. Kildare. But Mr. Farrell—”

“Dom is a good man. But he wants you to be a trigger man, yes?”

I nod.

“But that’s not what you want.”

My mouth thins. “It’s what I’m good at.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

My shoulder lifts. “It’s what I am, Mr. Kildare.”

“But you’re not a killer.”

Yes I am.

I clear my throat. “I’m not sure you know my history—”

“I know it clearly, actually,” he growls quietly, dragging slowly on his cigarette. His piercing green eyes haven’t once blinked or looked away from stabbing through me the entire time we’ve been speaking so far.

“But I know killers, believe me,” he continues, taking another slow drag of his smoke. “There are killers who are good at what they do. And there are killers who do what they do because it’s in their blood. Like a compulsion. A disease. Anaddiction.”

I swallow as he smiles grimly.

“You are not the latter of those two,” Cillian murmurs. “You just happen to have skills. But I think we both know it’s not all you want from this world, is it?”

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