Keenan (Dangerous Doms 1)

Malachy’s iron-gray hair is cut short, his jaw clean-shaven, his eyes as steely gray as his hair. Rumor has it his father’s father’s father hailed from Germany, and he’s suited for training The Clan because of his family’s Spartan rules and principles. It’s why he’s never married, he says. No woman would tolerate his regimen and monk-like existence. Though he rules with an iron fist and kept all of us in line with uncompromising discipline, Malachy is a second father to us all.

I sit behind my desk and loosen my tie.

“Pour us a drink, will you, Malachy?” Christ, I need one.

Malachy grins and goes to the sideboard I keep in my office, pouring a generous amount of Jameson in tumblers. I don’t speak again until the hot, fiery liquid hits my veins. I sigh. I needed that. I clear my throat and begin.

“This morning we had early council. Father Finn had news to relay.”

Malachy snorts. “Course he did,” he says. “Always the fly on the wall of the confessional, eh?”

“Aye,” I say with a smile. “That he is.”

I fill them in.

“You left the lass in your room?” Malachy asks curiously. “You trust her?”

I’m not sure how to answer the question. Do I? There’s something so winsome and wholesome about her, I can’t deny that a part of me wants to trust her. Do I think she spied on my family? I have to assume she did until we can prove otherwise, though I think it far more likely her father was the one to blame. So I don’t answer him. “I left her bound and under orders not to leave the room. My men are on guard, and mam’s on her way to help dress her.”

“Dress her?” Carson asks curiously.

“She came dressed in old, tattered clothing,” I say, shaking my head. I don’t tell them she’s a recluse, never having left her home. It sounds too odd, too preposterous.

And it’s something I want to keep to myself.

Like her.

A dark, almost perverted sense of ownership pervades me when I think of her locked up in my room. Innocent. Virginal. Fully dependent on me.

“How very interesting,” Malachy says, his eyes twinkling.

“What?” I ask. He looks as if he knows something.

“First pretty young thing we take into our custody since you’ve come of age and you’ve ditched the bitch who held you by the bollox, and the new girl’s privately held in your chambers, eh?”

I narrow my eyes at him but bite my tongue. He’s baiting me, and I know it.

Though I’m above him in rank now, memories die hard. I’ve been the recipient of more than one thorough discipline session at Malachy’s hands, and I still respect the man.

“Keep his history out of it, Malachy,” Carson says quietly. “Leave off. Keenan’s too dedicated to fidelity to’ve taken a woman when he was committed to another one, and you know it.”

I give Carson a quick, thankful glance.

“I’m not here to discuss the girl,” I say, changing the subject. “I’ve got others researching her father’s history, and still others fingerprinting what she had in her possession. Let’s hear what’s going on, and be quick about it. Carson, you first.” I ignore Malachy’s snicker.

Carson’s concentrating on the computer before him. “All’s well, captain,” he says. “Our investments in The Cask have tripled since last spring.” Cask Whiskey’s profitability’s increased by twenty percent, and we’re one of the first to invest heavily. “Our sources on the Isle of Man confirm the arrangement we’ve made for our dealing next month. Spain is strong, as well as our alliances.”

Alliances are code for paid hits. We don’t speak of them aloud unless in the vault-like interrogation room.

“Good,” I say. “I’d like it so the arms trade increases three-fold by this time next year.” I clear my throat. “And I’d like to see us eliminate alliances completely.”

Malachy raises a brow. “Lofty goals, Keenan.”

I turn to him. “We can do it. Anyway, it’s safer,” I tell him. “More reliable. And I have it on good authority there will be a stronger need for South African dealings in the coming years. If we’ve formed strong alliances and solidified our contacts, we’ll be set financially for the next decade.”

Malachy nods, accepting this.

Contracted hits are part and parcel for any organized crime group, but they aren’t necessary. Given how lucrative our arms dealings have been, we can eliminate the riskiest of our income streams.

“Word on the school, next,” I say, moving our meeting along at a breakneck speed. I want to get back to Caitlin. Christ, the woman affects me. I have to keep a close handle on my logic and reason. I can’t have her swaying me from my job.

Malachy grins. “Our boys are thriving,” he says. “Young Grady made star quarterback last term. Big, strapping lad. Lachlan’s done well, raising his marks.” Grady and Lachlan will graduate soon, steps away from formal induction into our brotherhood.