Chapter 5

5

ISOLDE

T he soft glow of recessed lights bathed Siobhan Harrington’s art gallery in a lovely, warm light, casting long shadows across the eclectic collection of paintings and sculptures. The scent of old books and leather lingered in the air, mingling with the faint tang of red wine. She and Siobhan had been friends since boarding school. Isolde sat on the edge of a plush armchair in Siobhan’s private office, her fingers tracing the cool rim of her wine glass as she tried to gather her thoughts.

“This isn’t like you,” Siobhan said, her voice smooth and measured as she reclined on the antique settee across from Isolde. Her auburn hair caught the light, framing her sharp, curious eyes. “You’re distracted. And not by work.”

Isolde forced a smile, lifting the glass to her lips and taking a small sip. The wine was bold, earthy, but it did little to steady the unease twisting in her stomach.

“It’s nothing,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Just… a long week.”

Siobhan raised an arched brow, setting her own glass down on the low table between them. “A long week doesn’t send you rushing here after hours with that look on your face. What’s going on, Isolde?”

Isolde hesitated, her thumb brushing over the rim of her glass. The memory of the bouquet she’d received that morning surfaced, unbidden. Sterling silver roses, their petals cool to the touch, had arrived at her office with a note tucked neatly inside:

Tell your shadow, Ted Walsh, to be on the lookout for Eoin Lynch. He’s taken an interest in your foundation. And in you.

–C

The message had sent her heart into a frenzy, not just because of the warning but because of who it had come from. Callum. The man who seemed to delight in unraveling her carefully constructed life, one deliberate move at a time.

“You can trust me, you know,” Siobhan said, leaning forward, her voice softer now. “Whoever he is, whatever this is, I won’t judge. Just tell me.”

Isolde’s head snapped up, her amber eyes meeting Siobhan’s. “What makes you think this is about a man?”

Siobhan’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Because you only get that look when someone’s under your skin. And judging by the frenetic energy radiating off you, he’s either infuriating, irresistible, or both.”

Heat crept up Isolde’s neck, and she set her glass down with a little more force than necessary. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure it is,” Siobhan replied, her tone dry but not unkind. “But you’re not here for platitudes. Talk to me, Isolde. What’s he done?”

Isolde exhaled, her fingers lacing together in her lap. “He’s… persistent. Intrusive. He’s made it clear he’s not going anywhere, and he’s tangled up in things I can’t even begin to unravel.”

“Dangerous things?” Siobhan pressed, her expression sharpening.

“I don’t know,” Isolde lied, hating how easily the words slipped out. She couldn’t tell Siobhan the truth—not about Callum’s connection to the O’Neill organization, not about the warning in his note, not about the way he made her feel, and certainly not about the way they’d met.

Siobhan studied her for a long moment; there was a certain gravitas in her gaze. “You’re leaving something out.” Isolde’s lips parted, a protest forming, but Siobhan held up a hand. “Don’t deny it. I’ve known you too long. Whoever this man is, he’s more than just an inconvenience. He’s gotten under your skin, and you don’t know how to handle it.”

Isolde’s throat tightened, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair. “I’m handling it,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended.

Siobhan’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she reached for her wine glass, taking a slow sip before setting it down again. “You know I’m here if you need anything. Advice, a distraction, a place to hide a body—whatever you need.”

A startled laugh escaped Isolde, breaking through the anxiety that had settled over her. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Siobhan smiled, but her gaze remained watchful. “Just be careful. Men like that are—persistent, intrusive—they don’t usually stop until they get what they want.”

Isolde’s chest tightened at the truth in those words. Callum didn’t strike her as a man who ever stopped.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch, the sound jarring in the quiet office. She fished it out, glancing at the screen.

A text from an unknown number.

Did you tell Walsh yet? Or do I need to handle Lynch myself? –C

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. The audacity of him, the nerve to intrude on her life so casually, so completely, set her nerves on edge. But beneath the anger was something she hated to admit—a flicker of anticipation, of thrill.

“Is everything all right?” Siobhan asked, her voice cutting through the haze.

Isolde forced a smile, slipping the phone back into her clutch. “Yes. Just a work thing.”

Siobhan didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. “If you say so.”

As they finished their wine and conversation drifted to lighter topics, Isolde couldn’t shake the importance of the message—the warning. Callum wasn’t just in her life—he was in her head. And no matter how much she tried to push him out, he always seemed to find a way back in.

When she left the gallery later that night, the cool Dublin air did little to calm her racing thoughts. Her driver pulled up to the curb, but before she climbed into the car, she glanced around the quiet street.

A shadow moved in the distance, disappearing around a corner before she could make out who—or what—it was.

Her pulse quickened.

She told herself it was nothing, just her imagination. But as the car pulled away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.

And if it wasn’t Callum, she couldn’t be sure who it was, but Lynch or someone working for him would certainly be in the running. And why did the idea of Callum watching her both thrill and comfort her? Why did she take—knowing who and what he was—comfort in believing he was watching over her? And why, if it wasn’t Callum, did she feel the icy fingers of dread running up and down her spine?

The low hum of city traffic surrounded her as Isolde stepped out of the car, the cool Dublin air wrapping around her. She adjusted her coat and glanced up at the Fitzwilliam Foundation’s headquarters, its tall glass facade gleaming faintly under the streetlights. Ted Walsh moved beside her, a quiet but resolute presence, his eyes scanning the area with the practiced vigilance of a former cop.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, trying to keep the irritation from her voice.

“Yes, I did,” Walsh replied curtly, his gaze not wavering. “Especially after the warning you got today. Callum Kavanagh doesn’t throw out names like Eoin Lynch for fun. If he says there’s a threat, I’m staying until you’re safely out of here.”

Isolde sighed, the tightness in her shoulders creeping higher. “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself. You don’t have to babysit me.”

Walsh didn’t even look at her. “Humor me.”

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t argue further. Deep down, she knew Walsh was right. Callum’s warning about Lynch’s interest in her wasn’t something to dismiss lightly, and she wasn’t na?ve enough to think she was untouchable. Besides she was witness to a murder… that couldn’t be a good thing. Why, oh why, had she gone to look for that guest list?

They stepped inside the building, the familiar warmth of the lobby easing some of her unease. The security guard nodded at them as they passed, and the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

“Just another hour or two,” Isolde said as the elevator began its ascent. “Then I’m calling it a night.”

“Take all the time you need,” Walsh replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t press further. The elevator doors opened to the foundation’s main offices, the space eerily quiet after hours. The faint hum of the building’s climate control system was the only sound as they walked down the corridor to her office.

Isolde slipped out of her coat and draped it over a chair before settling behind her desk. Walsh positioned himself near the door, his arms crossed, his sharp gaze scanning the room.

“I’m not used to being shadowed like this,” she muttered, flipping through the stack of documents she’d left earlier in the day.

“Get used to it,” Walsh replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I suppose if I don’t cooperate, you’ll report it to my father.”

“I’m not sure how effective your da would be up against Lynch. I’d be more inclined to report it to Kavanaugh.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“Wouldn’t I?” he asked, holding her gaze. “I know Kavanaugh and the O’Neill Syndicate by reputation. If Lynch is after you, Kavanaugh can keep you safe. The second I don’t believe I can say the same, I’ll deliver you to him personally.”

“You’d just hand me over to a gangster?”

“No, but if I thought he could keep you safe when I couldn’t, I would. I’m not saying the O’Neill Syndicate are members of Scouting Ireland, but they do have a certain code of honor that sets them above the rest…”

“Like what?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“They don’t deal in drugs, and anyone who wants to deal in their territory needs to be ready to deal with the cops and the O’Neills. They take no pleasure in killing. They don’t involve innocents or amateurs if they can avoid it. They won’t tolerate arms smuggling if they believe the arms are destined to be used against the aforementioned innocents or amateurs.” Walsh ended his litany with a shrug. “I’m not saying they aren’t gangsters, but they do have a code they live by. Trust me when I say, Eoin Lynch is no amateur and certainly no innocent. But do you mind my asking why Kavanaugh thinks Lynch might be a threat to you?”

She didn’t respond, instead turned back to focus on the task at hand. The monotony of numbers and contracts helped to steady her nerves, the routine grounding her in the face of so many unknowns.

The sharp crash of something breaking shattered the silence.

Isolde’s head snapped up, her heart leaping into her throat. The sound had come from the storage room down the hall.

Walsh was already moving, his hand on the holstered gun at his side. “Stay here,” he ordered, his voice low but firm.

“Walsh—” she started, but he silenced her with a sharp look before disappearing into the hallway, his soft-soled footsteps almost silent on the floor.

The seconds stretched unbearably as Isolde sat frozen at her desk, her ears straining for any sound. Her mind raced with Callum’s warning about Lynch’s men, the memory of his note now seeming far more ominous than before.

A muffled curse broke the suspense, followed by a familiar voice.

“For God’s sake, Walsh, put the gun down! It’s me!”

Isolde exhaled shakily as the stiffness rolled from her shoulders. She stood and hurried into the hallway, where she found Walsh standing in the storage room doorway, his gun lowered but his expression still sharp.

Inside, Malcolm Conway—her foundation’s financial advisor—was sprawled on the floor, surrounded by scattered papers and an overturned crate. He looked up sheepishly, adjusting his glasses. “Sorry about that. I tripped over the damn crate.”

Walsh glared at him, his grip still firm on his weapon. “You scared the hell out of us.”

Malcolm pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his trousers. “Didn’t realize I needed clearance to drop off financial reports.”

“What are you doing here this late?” Isolde asked, stepping into the room. “And what were you doing in the closet?”

Malcolm held up a thick folder, his face flushed. “I was going over the accounts and found something that didn’t sit right. Thought you’d want to see it sooner rather than later. I stepped in here to see if last year’s files had been moved down to archives.”

Isolde frowned, taking the folder from him. She opened it, scanning the pages inside. Her stomach sank as she saw the numbers.

“Malcolm, what is this?” she asked, her voice tight.

“Discrepancies,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Funds moving into accounts they shouldn’t be. It started shortly before we received that large donation from O’Neill’s organization and has picked up in the short time since.”

Her breath caught, her fingers tightening on the folder. “Are you saying they’re connected?”

“I don’t know yet,” Malcolm said quickly, glancing at Walsh. “But the timing is suspicious.”

Isolde stared at the numbers, her pulse pounding in her ears. The irregularities weren’t minor—they were significant, enough to raise questions about where the money was going and why.

“Does anyone else know about this?” she asked, her voice low.

“Not yet,” Malcolm replied. “I was coming straight to you.”

“Good,” Walsh said firmly, stepping closer. “Keep it that way. No one else sees these until we figure out what we’re dealing with.”

Isolde nodded, her mind racing. The donation had been a lifeline for the foundation, but now it felt like a noose tightening around her neck. Callum’s warning about Lynch suddenly took on new significance. Had the donation been bait? A way to draw her—and the foundation—into something far darker than she’d realized?

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out with trembling hands. A new message lit up the screen.

I told you to be careful. You’re not playing their game, Isolde. You’re playing mine. –C

The air seemed to leave the room, her vision narrowing as she stared at the message.

“Is everything all right?” Walsh asked, his voice cutting through the fog of her thoughts.

Isolde slipped the phone back into her pocket, her expression carefully neutral. “Yes,” she lied, turning back to the folder in her hands. “Everything’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.

Not by a long shot.