"This is Killian's. It has his fingerprints and even some blood splatter. It was fired recently, so GSR will be on his hands. He's sloppy. It wasn't hard to get. This needs to be used to kill the guards at the museum."
I watch silently, listening to talk about the plan from start to finish. I’ve already decided I’m not shedding blood on this fucking expedition. The death of the security guards will be on Donovan. I'm here to be the muscle and get my cut of the profits. Beyond that, I wouldn't be surprised if this whole sorry-ass bunch tries to double cross me. Little do they know I’m making sure my ass is covered. If they try to sell me out, they’ve got a big surprise waiting for all of them. I won't hesitate to play his game. Hell, I invented the fucking game.
"Are there any specific paintings you’re wanting, then?" I ask once she gets to the end of her little speech. This woman is as crafty as her husband. In my book, there’s nothing more dangerous than a conniving woman. I've seen enough slighted women who want to take over their old man’s business. That description fits Orla O’Leary perfectly. She wants to be in charge and is willing to do anything to make it happen.
"What about them?" she looks at me with a bored expression as if she had already told us what do to with them. "The paintings will be left for Donnie."
Gross. Donnie? This shit is old. There’s no way she has any type of feelings for Donovan. I get the feeling she would kill him herself once he outweighs his usefulness.
"We'll take the paintings that we're being paid to take, but one will get destroyed," Donovan says, doing finger quotes around destroyed—like we’re all stupid. "It will mysteriously get dropped or left behind as we get away. The others will go missing."
"You two seem to have planned it all out," I respond, glancing between the two. I'm not sure why I'm here. I know it needs to be done, but this isn't a family to fuck around with. This could go sideways with the smallest of oversights.
"We do," Donovan says, reaching for Orla's hand. She smiles at him. Maybe she’s trying to appear sweet, but to me she just reads as cold as ice.
"What happens when Ryan O'Leary asks why Killian, who you have a fucking hard-on to nail, hasn't even been to the museum? Better yet, how will someone so high up on the chain of command not be seen elsewhere when he's supposed to be in LA? It's thousands of miles away."
"Don't you worry about that," Orla says with a grin. "It's already being handled." She sounds bored. The woman is definitely cold. The nephews look more like bodyguards, ready to blow our brains out. They have their arms crossed. They no doubt hold their guns as hard as they hold their tiny dicks. Christ, I have underwear older than these two.
My gaze moves once again to Orla. I can see the evil I have in my own blood winking back at me. She's ruthless, and Donovan, the lowly caddie, thinks she's in love with him. It’s laughable. Her plastic surgery and straight teeth do nothing to hide the black of her heart. I see it in the mirror every single day reflecting back at me. There's no way she can conceal her true nature from me. We’re cut from the same cloth.
I take a drink of my beer and nod. "I have a feeling I never want to be on your bad side."
The only response I get is a smile, and instead of setting me at ease, I just grow more suspicious.
“Okay, let’s get this fucking show on the road. The money we used to grease the security at the museum is only going to go so far,” I snap, ready to get up and get this over with. I want this damn shit done and over. I’m going to park my ass at the club, claim the woman I’ve had my eyes on, and turn the reins of my club over to the VP. Then, I’m getting the hell out of dodge.
I’m thinking Rio. A man could get nice and lost in Rio…
CHAPTER 12
KILLIAN
It’s just a little past midnight. Tomorrow is the heist, and this sense of foreboding I have just keeps growing. I can’t ignore or push it away. Sadly, I can’t put my finger on what it is, either. If I had an idea of what the problem could be, I’d be fixing it now before anything happens. My head is on the chopping block for this even though the old man stepped in to change things.
Sitting at my desk, I take a sip of my coffee. I grimace as the bitter taste coats my tongue. It tastes off. I used the same imported pods that Sierra normally uses. I drink it black, but this is even more bitter than normal. Sierra has been on a health kick and if she’s changed it to decaf, I may really show her my anger. I take another drink. The taste is still there, but not quite as bad. Maybe it’s just me. I haven’t slept and I’m keyed-up as hell over all of this.