Chapter 13

13

ISOLDE

T he steady ticking of the antique clock filled the mansion’s study, each measured second hammering into Isolde’s frayed nerves. She sat at an expansive mahogany desk, her laptop open before her, the dim light of the screen casting shadows over her tired features. The taste of stale coffee lingered bitter on her tongue, mingling with the acrid tang of the chaos that seemed to surround her.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, a desperate rhythm that mirrored the frantic pace of her thoughts. Callum had left her hours ago, slipping out of the room with a terse warning to stay put. She hadn’t tried to follow him—not after a failed attempt to leave the mansion earlier that morning. That debacle had ended with her being escorted back inside by one of Callum’s men, her frustration met with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a clipped order to "behave."

Behave. As if she were some errant child. The spanking he’d inflicted the night before hadn’t been that of an adult to a child. No. It had been filled with the sexual tension that seemed to be bubbling higher and higher and which she feared would spill over. The question she kept asking herself was whether that was a good thing or a bad thing?

Her jaw clenched at the memory, but the anger was short-lived, overshadowed by gnawing anxiety mixed with arousal that had driven her to open her laptop in the first place. If Callum refused to give her answers, she’d bloody well find them herself.

And then to find out he was some kind of mutant? It might have been more frightening if Siobhan hadn’t brought it up in more than one conversation over the years. Could it be that Siobhan had known of the existence of shifters? Callum had taken the time to explain to her this morning that for thousands of years, there had been two types of humanoid lifeforms inhabiting the earth.

Human such as her were not the only humanoids who evolved on earth. He had explained that there was another line that could shift between their purely human form and their animal form—in his case a black panther. They had hidden in plain sight and had evolved along a similar path. As humans they were indistinguishable from other humans, but as animals, they were larger and more powerful. Their animal forms also retained a human’s ability to reason and think, but most could not speak. It had sounded reasonable enough, and it was hard not to believe him given what she had seen with her own two eyes the night before.

That knowledge had led her to researching the O’Neill clan and syndicate, which had led her to examining her own family tree. That search had started as a shot in the dark—a basic dive into public records and old news archives, her attempts to piece together the tangled web of names and faces that had come to dominate her life. But the deeper she dug, the more her gut twisted. The connections she unearthed were fragile at first, easy to dismiss. A coincidence here, a tenuous link there. A remembered face or name from her childhood. But then the pieces began to fit together, and the picture they painted was more horrifying than anything she could have imagined.

Her breath caught as another link clicked into place, the truth sliding into focus like a blade pressed against her throat.

James Fitzwilliam, her father, had strong ties to the O’Neill Syndicate, and might have even been a part of the organization at one time.

She stared at the screen, her stomach churning as the words burned into her mind. A decades-old photograph showed her father standing beside a younger Con O’Neill, their expressions grim but united. The accompanying article was sparse on details, but it mentioned her father by name, describing him as an ‘advisor’ to the Syndicate’s financial dealings. The date on the article was from before she was born—before the Fitzwilliam Foundation had been established.

Her entire life of privilege, of wealth and respectability, was built on the same criminal empire she now found herself entangled with.

The room seemed to tilt around her, the walls pressing in as if to crush her with the importance of her discovery. Her hands trembled as she scrolled through more articles and more photos, each one a nail in the coffin of the world she thought she knew.

Callum’s name appeared frequently in the more recent articles, his reputation a mix of shadowy myth and brutal fact. But what struck her most was the mention of Councilman Bradford—Callum’s adversary, her father’s one-time political ally, and, as she now realized, a man with his own score to settle.

The crusade Bradford had waged against the O’Neill Syndicate wasn’t about justice or morality. It was revenge.

Her fingers stilled on the keyboard, the bitter taste in her mouth intensifying as she pieced together the threads. Decades ago, the Fitzwilliam family and the Bradfords had been close—business partners, political allies. But something had happened, something catastrophic enough to shatter that alliance and leave scars deep enough for revenge to fester for a generation.

Her father had worked for the O’Neill Syndicate. Bradford’s vendetta wasn’t just against Callum; it was against her family. Against her. She was a pawn to be used against not only the O’Neill Syndicate, but her father and the foundation itself.

The thought made her heart constrict, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. She pushed the laptop back, rising from the desk and pacing the length of the room. Her bare feet padded softly against the Persian rug, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if that could stave off the cold realization creeping over her.

All her life, she’d believed in the illusion of the Fitzwilliam family’s integrity. Their wealth, their influence, their carefully curated reputation—it had all been a lie. A lie built on blood money and criminal alliances. And now, here she was, drawn to a man who represented everything her family had tried to hide, and everything she’d been taught to despise.

Her attraction to Callum wasn’t just about him—it was about the world he represented. A world that, apparently, had always been her birthright.

The door creaked open behind her, and Isolde spun around, her pulse spiking. Callum stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame, his dark eyes narrowing as they swept over her. He was still wearing the same tailored shirt and slacks from earlier, though his sleeves were rolled up, exposing the corded strength of his forearms.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low and edged with suspicion.

Isolde hesitated, her gaze darting to the laptop on the desk. She hadn’t heard him come in, hadn’t even realized how much time had passed. The antique clock chimed softly in the background, marking the hour like a ticking bomb.

“Research,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Callum’s eyes flicked to the laptop, then back to her. “What kind of research?”

She folded her arms across her chest, lifting her chin defiantly. “The kind you won’t tell me about.”

His jaw tightened, and he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a deliberate click. “Isolde,” he said warningly, “don’t test me.”

Her temper flared, rising to meet the storm brewing in his gaze. “Why not? You’ve done nothing but test me since the moment we met. You want me to trust you, Callum? Then stop lying to me. Stop hiding things from me.”

“I’m not hiding things,” he said, though the apprehension in his voice betrayed him.

Isolde gave an unladylike snort as she took a step closer, her frustration boiling over. “Then why does every answer you give me feel like half the truth? Why do I have to dig through old archives to find out that my father worked for the O’Neill Syndicate?”

Callum froze, his expression darkening in an instant. The silence that followed was laden with unspoken truths and dangerous possibilities.

“What did you find?” he asked, his voice quiet but lethal.

She gestured toward the laptop, her movements sharp and angry. “Everything. The articles, the photos—proof that my father was involved with your organization before I was even born. Proof that Bradford’s crusade against you isn’t about justice; it’s about revenge.”

Callum’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze cutting like a blade. He took another step toward her, his presence filling the room. “You shouldn’t have been looking into this.”

“Why not?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Because it’s dangerous? Because it might make me realize that my entire life has been a lie?”

“Because it puts another target on your back,” he snapped, his tone sharp enough to slice through her anger. “The more you know, the more dangerous this becomes—for both of us.”

She shook her head, her throat tightening. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask for you to pull me into your world.”

“No,” he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. “You stumbled into it all by yourself. I’m the one who keeps trying to keep you safe. Do you not get that there’s no going back? You can’t unknow what you already know.”

The finality in his words sent a chill down her spine, but it wasn’t fear that made her breath hitch. It was the raw intensity in his eyes, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to this storm. Just when she thought she might have gotten to him, Callum’s lips tightened, and he spun on his heel and headed out the door, throwing over his shoulder, “Stay in the house and do as you’re told.”

She could hear the sound of him barking orders to his men but couldn’t make out the words.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she muttered as she turned back to her laptop.

CALLUM

The cool weight of the gun in Callum’s pocket offered little solace as he pushed through the heavy oak doors of the exclusive private club at the end of a long day. His jaw was set, his eyes dark as storm clouds as he strode past the concierge’s desk without sparing the man a glance.

“Sir, you can’t—” the young man stammered, stepping out from behind the desk to intercept him.

Callum didn’t slow, his presence alone enough to make the air feel charged. His voice was calm, but laced with steel. “Don’t waste your breath.”

Behind him, Callum caught sight of the concierge glancing nervously toward the security stationed near the entrance. Before the guards there could move, another voice cut through the room.

“Let him in.”

James Fitzwilliam sat near the center of the lavish lounge, his hand raised to silence the approaching guards. He leaned back in his chair, his polished demeanor unruffled despite Callum’s forceful entrance. With a slight nod, he dismissed the staff, his cold gaze fixed on Callum as he approached.

“Persistent as ever, Kavanagh,” Fitzwilliam said, his voice calm and measured. “I assume you’re not here for a drink.”

Callum didn’t respond immediately. He sank into the chair across from Fitzwilliam, the leather creaking under his weight. A crystal tumbler of scotch sat untouched on the table between them, its amber depths catching the light like a warning.

“You don’t return my calls, Fitzwilliam. Thought I’d make things easier for you,” Callum said, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

Fitzwilliam exhaled slowly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Because there’s nothing left to discuss. Isolde should never have been dragged into this.”

Callum’s lips twitched in a humorless smile. “And yet here we are.”

The silence stretched between them with unvoiced accusations. Finally, Fitzwilliam picked up the tumbler, swirling the scotch idly but not drinking it.

“I left the O’Neill Syndicate for a reason, Callum,” he said, his voice quieter now, laced with something almost resembling regret. “To protect Isolde. To give her a chance at a life that wasn’t soaked in blood and lies. And you—” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve undone all of that.”

Callum leaned back, his hand drumming once against the armrest before going still. “I didn’t undo anything. The Syndicate’s enemies—your enemies—did that. You think hiding her behind a foundation and a name would keep her safe forever? It was only a matter of time.”

Fitzwilliam’s jaw tightened, his grip on the glass firm. “Don’t lecture me, boy. You don’t know what it cost me to get out. What it cost all of us.”

“Then enlighten me,” Callum said, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Because right now, all I see is a man willing to sacrifice his daughter’s safety to keep his own hands clean.”

Fitzwilliam’s face darkened, his hand slamming the tumbler onto the table hard enough to make the liquid ripple. “You think I don’t know what I’ve done? You think I don’t wake up every day with the guilt of her mother’s death on my shoulders?”

Callum stilled, his eyes narrowing. “Her mother?”

Fitzwilliam sat back, rubbing a hand over his face—he looked older, the cracks in his polished exterior showing. “Eoin Lynch ordered the hit that killed her. It wasn’t supposed to be her, but me. She got in the way.”

The revelation hit Callum like a physical blow, his mind racing as he tried to process the implications. Isolde’s mother—a victim of the same game he was now trying to protect her from.

“And you think keeping this from her will make her safer?” Callum said, his voice cold and cutting. “You’ve lied to Isolde her entire life, and now you want me to believe you have her best interests at heart?”

Fitzwilliam’s gaze hardened. “I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want her burdened with it. And I certainly didn’t want her dragged back into that world because of you.”

Callum leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees as he locked eyes with the older man. “She’s already in it, Fitzwilliam. Bradford’s not just sniffing around to make a name for himself. He’s working with Lynch. She saw a hit the night of the gala. My men cleaned it up so it wouldn’t fall back on you, but my guess is the shooter knows she’s a witness. I’m not even sure at this point if Lynch or Bradford can stop him.”

The words landed like a bomb between them, as the room crackled with electricity. Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened slightly before narrowing, his fingers curling into fists.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Sure enough,” Callum said, his tone grim. “Bradford wants more than just the Syndicate. He’s after your Foundation, too. He’s using Lynch to get both, and Isolde’s the leverage he needs.”

Fitzwilliam exhaled sharply, his face paling. “God help us.”

“You’re damn right we’ll need help,” Callum snapped. “Because Bradford and Lynch won’t stop until they’ve taken everything—and left nothing but bodies in their wake.”

Fitzwilliam didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the untouched scotch as if the answers he sought might be found in its depths. Finally, he looked up, his expression grim.

“If you’re right,” he said slowly, “then we don’t just have enemies to fight. We have alliances to reconsider.”

Callum stood, his movements sharp and deliberate. “Then reconsider quickly. Because if you think I’ll let either of them lay a finger on Isolde, you’re dead wrong.”

As Callum turned to leave, Fitzwilliam’s voice stopped him cold.

“You care about her,” the older man said, his tone laced with something unreadable. “More than you want to admit.”

Callum didn’t turn around. His voice was quiet, but firm, as he replied. “Care doesn’t matter. Protection does.”

With that, he strode out of the club, the cool weight of the gun in his pocket feeling heavier than ever. Outside, the rain began to fall in steady sheets, the dark sky reflecting the storm brewing within Callum. As he climbed into the SUV, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The screen lit up with a message that made his blood run cold:

“They’ve got her. Move fast.”

Callum’s grip tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching as he gunned the engine. The game had just shifted, and the stakes were higher than ever.

Isolde’s life depended on him. And he never lost.