PART ONE

For of all the hard things to bear and grin,

The hardest is knowing you’re taken in.

–Phoebe Cary

CHAPTER ONE

Quincy, Massachusetts 2017

Eleanor Watts had worked for the Maloney family for three years when it became clear to her that she might not leave the job alive. Bridget Maloney, the overindulged daughter she’d been hired to protect, had proved unmanageable the older she became, and tonight she was spinning out of control.

The uncomfortable banter among the men at the formal dining table ended with one abrupt comment from Bridget. Eleanor wiped her mouth with a crisp linen napkin, calmly replacing it on her lap, and glanced at her charge. Bridget glared at her stepfather, her cheeks flushing red, eyes hard. Eleanor readied, knowing the look meant trouble.

The only sound in the room for the next minute was the tick-tock of a mantle clock. The men, except for Sean, stared at their plates. Eleanor conducted a visual pat down of the eight people seated there and determined four had concealed handguns under their jackets. Five, including her. She fixed her gaze on her plate and considered her next move, then decided to do nothing. Not yet.

She glanced at her watch. They were thirty minutes into dinner, and their hosts, Sean Ryan and his wife, Fiona O’Flaherty Maloney, had yet to say why they had requested Bridget and her to attend. She sat alert and mentally formulated several escape scenarios. The room’s main exit was behind her. She could flip the long mahogany table and shield herself from half the guests. The man in the tailored suit seated to her left would require a more personal effort. Then there was Bridget. She hoped her charge would willingly follow. Regardless, it was her job to protect her even if it was from her own family.

“What did you just say to me?” Sean asked, finally acknowledging his stepdaughter.

“You heard me.” Bridget held his eyes, she lifted her steak knife.

“Oh, I heard you, Princess, and I don’t like how you’re talking to me.” Sean glanced at the woman at the other end of the table. Fiona gave a tight smile, looking from him to her daughter.

“I couldn’t care less.” Bridget tossed her knife and fork on the fine china plate. “Stop with the innuendo about me and tell us why we’re here, or Eleanor and I are leaving.”

He scoffed. “All right, you little ingrate. I thought we’d let your mother eat in peace before I tell her what you’ve done, but we can have it out now. When I took over the family porcelain export business from your dearly departed father, Caleb, God rest his soul, I promised your mam I’d protect our lucrative dealings.” He drew out the words dearly departed and settled his gaze on the man seated to his left. “Isn’t that right, Thom?”

Thomas Walsh, the crime family’s clan chief, grunted in agreement.

Eleanor cut a piece of lamb, her mind racing. What the hell had Bridget done? She wasn’t aware of any new indiscretions. There had been a few new fights at Northeastern University bars, but no fallouts she hadn’t already smoothed over. Was this about Bridget’s ex-girlfriend? No. She had found the woman’s cat in Bridget’s lockup and returned it. No harm done. The ex-girlfriend was none the wiser. Besides, the incident had nothing to do with the family’s business. She ate, avoiding eye contact.

“I vowed no one would ever trouble another O’Flaherty or Maloney as long as I lived,” Sean continued, his voice gaining a threatening edge. “Or siphon business from the family without Paddy, here, taking care of the problem.” He patted the shoulder of the squat, muscular man sitting to his right. The man straightened in his chair.

Eleanor quickly glanced at the O’Flahertys’ newest reaper. Patrick Sullivan had taken over the head hitman position, but she had never met him before. He stayed behind the scenes, using several button men to carry out his orders. She burned his image in her mind, needing to remember his face. Then she sensed her charge move. The young woman clenched a knife in a tight fist. Eleanor laid her hand on Bridget’s wrist.

“Don’t you dare call my father by his first name. It’s ‘Mr. Maloney, God rest his soul’ to you, tu es un répugnant morceau de déchet.” Bridget’s voice was unemotional, but Eleanor knew her charge only spoke French when she was losing control.

Sean mimicked her comment with gibberish in a comical French accent, making the other men at the table laugh, and Bridget stared menacingly at each one until the room fell silent again. Then she returned her attention to her stepdad. “You’re an imbecile, and no one believes you make a difference in our business. They’re right. You don’t. My great-grandfather immigrated from Ireland and built this business a hundred years ago. Where have you taken O’Flaherty Porcelain in the last fifteen years? We still cast the same tiles, hide the same drugs, and send them to the same tired suppliers because you aren’t smart enough to do anything different.” She turned her glare to Fiona. “For fuck’s sake, Mother, why you let this idiot run things for you is beyond me.”

“Brie, what the hell’s wrong with you?” Bridget’s younger brother, Liam, gestured in frustration. Over time, Eleanor had watched the freckle-faced ginger change from a teenager who idolized his big sister to a young man who was increasingly disillusioned with her. He looked at Fiona. “Ma, do something. We can’t even have a normal meal when she comes home.”

“Normal meal? Jesus Christ, Liam. You’re so dense.” She burst into derisive laughter. “Dear old stepdad is trying to make a lesson out of me because I’m becoming something he’s not. Successful.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Liam shouted and leaped to his feet, knocking over an ornate silver candelabra and sending its burning candles flying. Bridget burst into taunting laughter.

Sean pointed at Bridget and shouted, “Shut your mouth, you little—”

“That’s enough.” Fiona slammed her hands on the table and stood. She righted the candle holder and lit two snuffed-out candles with a burning one.

The energy in the room shifted. Liam dropped onto his seat, and Sean and his men squirmed uncomfortably in their chairs. Eleanor scanned them and confirmed their hands were all above the table. She watched the corners of Fiona’s mouth lift slightly. The matriarch glanced at her daughter and then fixed her green eyes on her husband. “Temper, temper, Bridget.” Fiona gently picked up her fork and knife from her plate. “I am not a fan of veiled threats, Sean. Please plainly tell Bridget why we are all together this evening.”

“I was getting to it, a stór. I didn’t want to ruin a delicious meal with the unpleasantness. But if you want to do this now…”

Fiona gestured with the back of her hand. “By all means, don’t spare us.”

Eleanor’s stomach tightened at her words. She had been in Fiona O’Flaherty Maloney’s presence enough to know a storm brewed behind those controlled words and placid looks, but she didn’t know if the woman’s anger was for her husband or daughter.

Sean cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “I recently found out that your industrious daughter has more than classes in motion at her fancy university.” He took a large bite of colcannon, mashing it loudly.

Bridget turned her scathing glare from her stepdad to the young man beside Thomas, the clan chief’s son, Johnny. Eleanor had seen him a few times at her charge’s condo. Johnny lowered his head.

Eleanor quickly parsed Sean’s comment. Bridget must have ensnared Johnny into some enterprise of her own, probably selling drugs. It was a serious enough infraction to force them all to the table. Her mind raced to recall when she had seen Johnny at Bridget’s condo. Parties mostly. She couldn’t recall Bridget and Johnny ever being alone without her on guard, but she wasn’t with her charge twenty-four seven.

“To the point, Sean,” Fiona said, the slight smile from before had vanished.

Sean swallowed and chased the potatoes with a gulp of wine. “Seems she decided to open a new market on campus. But like most things, she’s not any good at it. Picked an equal bonehead for a partner.” His boss’s comment prompted Thomas to slap Johnny on the back of the head. His son’s head dropped lower like a wounded dog, and Sean laughed. “We don’t know how they got their hands on any product, and Johnny isn’t talking.”

Fiona cut into her lamb chop. “Is this true, Bridget?”

“No, as usual, the idiot doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Why would I sell drugs on my campus? That’s lame.” Bridget clenched her knife again. “But what if I am selling? Who says I’m beholden to that gobshite’s rules?”

“If it were true, it would be unfortunate, disloyal,” Fiona answered, calmly. “Putting our reputation at risk is betraying the business and the family. As would drawing attention to us in any way.”

“Isn’t ruining the business disloyal, Mother?” Bridget lifted her knife, her wild eyes locked on her stepdad.

Sean’s face had turned bright red. More outbursts from Bridget, and he might order Patrick to teach her some respect right then and there. Eleanor steeled her nerves and readied her hands. She chose an escape plan. The table flip. She could strike Patrick in the temple before he could get his gun out of that tight-fitting suit jacket.

“Well, I believe Bridget was probably just supplying some recreational drugs to her friends, don’t you, a stór?” Fiona’s voice was calm and soothing, but Eleanor sensed anger in the woman’s body. “My daughter is an intelligent young lady. She knows being such a well-known student that any attempts to sell drugs would expose our family to even more scrutiny.” She shifted her attention to Bridget. “You wouldn’t get caught providing drugs to your friends again, would you, darling?”

Bridget frowned. “For God’s sake, you even have to tell him what to think. When the hell is this charade going to end, Mother?”

Sean pointed his fork at Bridget and shouted, “Your mam’s not telling me what to think. She’s trying to soften the blow I’m about to give you, you little shit. This operation has manufactured and exported high-end, hard-paste porcelain tiles to Ireland for fifty years without interruption. That’s kept a whole lot of people in a good amount of money. Don’t think just because you’re family you’re more important than the bottom line.”

“Yeah, Brie. Show some damn respect,” Liam jeered.

Sean’s eyes flashed to Liam and back to Bridget. “That’s right. You need to show this family some respect. You keep up your bullshit, and you’ll find this sweet little life you have come to an abrupt stop. That’s not a veiled threat.” He grinned at Liam and his men.

Bridget growled and drew back her hand holding the knife. Eleanor scrambled to her feet, grabbed Bridget’s hand, and pulled it down. She felt the knife’s edge slice through her palm.

“Now you’re reining her in?” Sean directed his rage at Eleanor. “Where the hell were you when these two shitheads conspired to start their little enterprise? Or were they cutting you in?”

“Leave her out of this,” Bridget yelled, still warning him with the knife. “She doesn’t know everything I do.” She looked at Eleanor, who was wrapping her hand with the linen napkin, red seeping through. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Elle.” She scooted back and stood. “I can bandage it.”

Sean tutted in frustration. “It’s a good thing we have Liam to train up, a stór.” He shot a look of disdain at Bridget. “Even with that fancy education, she’ll never be able to run the business. And we know she’s never marrying a man who will.” He burst into laughter and the others joined in.

Eleanor pressed the napkin harder into her throbbing wound, reading the table. The men shared the joke among themselves, except for Johnny. He continued to look terror-stricken. Fiona remained silent, an ironic smile on her face, and Bridget glared at her brother. The shift in Liam’s attitude toward his sister had brought him closer to Sean, unfortunately placing him on what Eleanor called Bridget’s cold-foods list. Because revenge is best served… Eleanor caught Fiona nodding slightly at Bridget.

“Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here,” Bridget said, touching Eleanor’s shoulder.

Eleanor followed her charge through a great archway. The Maloneys’ dining room opened onto an expansive foyer with a black porcelain tile floor. The walls were bare, covered only in gray damask wallpaper. Six-foot weeping figs on stone pedestals flanked both sides of the entry’s three archways. With nothing else to absorb noise, their footsteps across the foyer echoed in the cathedral ceiling.

Bridget led them down a narrow hallway, opening the last door, and pointing to a chair. “Sit over there. God, I hate that man. He needs to watch himself. What a fucking asshat. Can you believe he threatened me?”

“Seemed a poor move.” Eleanor lifted the napkin and inspected the cut.

“That’s an understatement. It’ll put his ass in a grave. Trust me.”

Eleanor watched Bridget gather gauze, tape, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol from a cabinet above a washing machine. Her thoughts raced. Any fallout with the Maloneys was a problem. Fiona meant it when she said selling outside the family was a betrayal. She couldn’t see the mother hurting her child, though. On the other hand, the situation with the volatile Sean was unstable. He made it clear he thought little of Bridget. But would he be stupid enough to harm her? Then there was Johnny Walsh. The kid had sealed his fate by narcing on Bridget. Now she’d have to protect him from Bridget’s retribution. Most importantly, she needed to figure out how the immensely irritating Irish princess had sold drugs without her knowledge.

“Let me see your hand.” Bridget tossed the bloody napkin in a sink. She spread open the cut, and Eleanor winced. “That’s not bad.” Eleanor shrugged, and Bridget pulled her to the sink. “This’ll hurt more.” She poured rubbing alcohol enthusiastically over the wound.

“Jesus.” Eleanor clenched her teeth against the sting.

“I said I was sorry.” Bridget covered the wound with gauze and led Eleanor back to the chair. “You’re mad at me. I can tell. When you get all quiet like this, you’re angry.”

“Yeah, a little. If Sean was telling the truth, you’ve been lying to me. How am I going to protect you if you aren’t honest? You want me to trust you, right? So why keep me in the dark?”

Bridget finished taping Eleanor’s hand and leaned against the counter. “Of course I do. You mean more to me than those people in there.” She glared at the door. “I’m protecting you. The less you know, the better.”

“Oh, no. That’s not how this works. I’m the professional. I protect you.”

“Here.” Bridget offered a bowl of Dum-Dums pops, but Eleanor shook her head. “Come on, have one. It’s tradition. If you have a wound patched up, you get a sucker. Like going to the dentist when you’re a kid…except it’s candy and not a cheap toy.”

Eleanor sighed, dug through the lollipops, and grabbed a root-beer-flavored one. “Thanks.” She stood and before she could react, Bridget embraced her.

“Your contract’s only for one more year. I can’t bear the thought of losing you,” Bridget whispered in her ear.

Eleanor swallowed her discomfort and returned the hug. “I’m not going anywhere. Trust me.”

Bridget stepped back with sad eyes. “I do, but I don’t want to talk any more tonight.”

“That’s fine. We can talk tomorrow. I’ll call for the car.” She escorted Bridget outside, and the Irish princess hung onto her arm, batting her eyes. Eleanor chose to keep her close but knew that behind those big, blue eyes was a self-centered, dangerous young woman. To her, Bridget O’Flaherty Maloney was just a job, but it was one that had proved more difficult than she could ever have imagined.