Chapter 6

6

CALLUM

R ain lashed against the windows of Callum’s office, streaking the glass in uneven rivulets that distorted the view of the Dublin skyline. The storm outside mirrored the one brewing inside him, each drop a metronome to his simmering rage. He sat behind his massive oak desk, his dark gaze fixed on the document in his hand.

Padraig Byrne stood a few feet away, his usual calm demeanor marred by unease as he explained the details of the report.

“Councilman Bradford’s been sniffing around for months,” Padraig said, his voice steady despite the charged atmosphere filling the room. “But now, it’s more than just idle curiosity. He’s flagged several of the Fitzwilliam Foundation’s transactions for review.”

Callum’s growled low, the paper crinkling in his grip. “How close is he to making it a problem?”

Padraig hesitated, and that was answer enough.

“Too close,” Callum muttered, his voice low and dangerous. He tossed the report onto the desk, leaning back in his chair as he ran a hand through his dark hair. The bitter taste of his espresso lingered on his tongue, growing colder by the second, much like his mood.

“It’s not Isolde,” Padraig added quickly, sensing where Callum’s thoughts were heading. “She hasn’t said a word to anyone about the irregularities. If she had, we’d already know about it. This is all Bradford’s doing. He’s got a vendetta against the O’Neill organization, and he’s using the foundation as a way to come at us sideways.”

Callum’s eyes narrowed. “Why the sudden escalation?”

Padraig shrugged, his expression grim. “Could be personal, could be political. Either way, he’s got the resources to make things difficult. If he starts digging too deep?—”

“He won’t,” Callum interrupted, his tone icy. “I won’t let him.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the rhythmic patter of rain against the glass. Callum leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk as he stared down at the crumpled report.

The Fitzwilliam Foundation had been a calculated risk from the start, a legitimate front that allowed the O’Neill organization to funnel money discreetly while simultaneously bolstering its public image. But now that calculated risk was turning into a liability, thanks to Bradford’s meddling.

And Isolde.

Her name slipped into his thoughts unbidden, a thorn lodged deep in his side. She’d been a complication from the moment she’d stumbled into his world, her fire and defiance threatening to unravel the careful control he prided himself on.

“You’re thinking about her,” Padraig said, his tone somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

Callum shot him a sharp look. “What makes you think that?”

Padraig grinned, folding his arms across his chest. “Because you’ve got that look. The one you get when you’re trying to decide whether to kiss someone or kill them.”

Callum’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. “Maybe both.”

Padraig sighed, running a hand over his face. “You’re playing a dangerous game, boss. If Bradford digs deep enough to find the foundation’s connection to us, she’s going to get caught in the crossfire. You know that.”

“I know,” Callum said quietly, his voice laced with steel. “And I won’t let that happen.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“I have to be,” Callum replied, his eyes narrowing. “She’s already in this, whether she knows it or not. If Bradford comes for her, he’ll have to go through me first.”

Padraig raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. “And what if she finds out about the laundering? About what we’ve been using her foundation for?”

Callum leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the storm outside. “She won’t.”

Padraig’s silence spoke volumes, but Callum ignored it. He wasn’t about to explain himself—not to Padraig, not to anyone. Well, that wasn’t true. If the O’Neill asked, Callum wouldn’t lie to him, but using the Fitzwilliam Foundation to launder money had been Con’s idea in the first place. He liked that their money laundering had an altruistic outcome as well.

After a long moment, Padraig shifted, his tone turning pragmatic. “We need to figure out how to neutralize Bradford before he can do any more damage. I can dig into his connections, see if there’s leverage we can use.”

“Do it,” Callum said, his voice a low growl. “And make it quick. I won’t let him jeopardize everything we’ve built—or put Isolde in more danger.”

Padraig nodded, turning to leave, but paused at the door. “You’re protecting her like she’s one of ours. That’s… unexpected.”

Callum’s gaze flicked to him, his expression unreadable. “She is one of ours, Padraig. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

Padraig shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Whatever you say, but do take a look at that report.”

The door clicked shut, leaving Callum alone with the storm raging both inside and out. He reached for the espresso, but the bitterness on his tongue had nothing to do with the cooling liquid.

It had everything to do with the fact that Isolde Fitzwilliam was becoming more than just a liability.

She was becoming an obsession.

And obsessions, as Callum well knew, were dangerous things.

The rain continued to hammer against the windows of Callum’s office, the storm matching the violent energy swirling inside him. He stood near his desk, his dark eyes scanning the latest report Padraig had left for him. The paper trembled slightly in his hands, a testament to the rage simmering beneath his calm exterior.

Her name was there, nestled in the dense paragraphs of intelligence like a venomous snake poised to strike: Deirdre Lynch.

The cooling espresso on his desk was forgotten as Callum’s grip tightened on the report. The corners of the paper crinkled, but his gaze remained fixed on the damning connection between Deirdre and Bradford.

“Feeding him information,” he murmured under his breath, his tone low and dangerous. He wondered if her husband knew.

His ex-lover’s name tasted bitter on his tongue, dredging up memories he’d spent years burying. Deirdre Lynch—once a complication he’d foolishly indulged, now married to Eoin Lynch, his rival. And, if this report was accurate, a key player in Bradford’s growing campaign against the O’Neill organization.

Callum tossed the report onto the desk, pacing to the window. The storm outside blurred the city lights, the water cascading down the glass like the chaos that threatened to spill over in his world.

He closed his eyes, and the past clawed its way back into his mind.

It had been a summer night, the kind Dublin rarely offered. Warm, with a soft breeze carrying the scents of the River Liffey and faint traces of jasmine from the garden. Callum had stood in the parlor of the O’Neill estate, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks as Deirdre paced the room, her stilettos clicking against the polished floors.

“You don’t mean this,” she’d said, her voice sharp, trembling with barely restrained fury. “You can’t mean this.”

“I do,” Callum had replied, his tone cold and unyielding. “It’s over, Deirdre.”

She’d stopped mid-step, turning to face him with a fire in her emerald eyes that had once captivated him. Now, that fire only fueled his resolve.

“You think you can just walk away?” she spat, her voice rising. “After everything I let you do to me?”

“It was all consensual, and I have a written contract to prove it,” he said coldly.

“I don’t give a damn about your written contract. Is that it? Because I said I didn’t want to do that anymore? How can you do this to me, to us?”

“There is no us,” he said evenly. “Not anymore.”

Her laugh was bitter, cutting through the air like a blade. “Because I value myself too much? Because I want more than just stolen nights and half-truths?”

“Because you don’t know how to stop,” he snapped, his temper flaring. “You don’t know when enough is enough, Deirdre. You push, and you manipulate, and you—” He broke off, exhaling sharply, reining himself in. “This has to end.”

Her face twisted with anger, but there was something darker beneath it—something calculating. “You think you’re untouchable, Callum Kavanagh. I’ll tell them what you did to me…”

“And I have your written agreement that it was consensual and witnesses who will attest that you enjoyed yourself immensely and who heard you say so again and again.”

“Bastard. No one walks away from me without paying the price. You’ll regret this.”

Her threat lingered in the room long after she stormed out, her perfume—a mix of roses and something sharper—hanging in the air like a warning.

Callum opened his eyes, his fists clenched at his sides. He should have seen this coming. Deirdre had always been tenacious, always looking for a way to get even. Marrying Eoin Lynch had been her first move in the game she’d declared that night, and now she was leveraging her position to strike at him in the shadows.

The fact that she was working with Bradford—feeding him information about the Fitzwilliam Foundation and, by extension, the O’Neill organization—wasn’t just a betrayal. It was a declaration of war. Callum wondered if Eoin knew she’d declared a war he couldn’t win.

Callum turned back to his desk, his movements sharp and deliberate. He picked up the report again, scanning the details. Deirdre’s involvement complicated everything. It wasn’t just about Bradford’s vendetta or Lynch’s territorial games anymore. It was personal.

The sound of his office door opening broke his focus, and Padraig stepped inside, his expression guarded. “You did read it then.”

“I read it,” Callum said flatly, tossing the report back onto the desk. “How long has she been in contact with Bradford?”

Padraig hesitated. “A few months, at least. She’s been careful, using intermediaries to pass information. But the timing aligns with when Bradford started scrutinizing the foundation.”

Callum’s mind raced. “And Lynch?”

“Hard to say how much he knows,” Padraig admitted. “But he’s not the type to let her act independently. If she’s feeding information to Bradford, he’s benefiting from it.”

Callum exhaled sharply, his anger barely contained. “She must know about our arrangement with the foundation. She’s using that information as leverage. Using Isolde as a pawn.”

Padraig tilted his head slightly, studying Callum. “And that bothers you more than it should.”

Callum’s eyes snapped to Padraig’s, his glare enough to silence any further commentary. “It bothers me because it compromises the operation. Nothing more.”

“Of course,” Padraig said, though his tone suggested he didn’t believe it. “So, what’s the play?”

Callum leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. “We neutralize Bradford. Quietly. Dig up everything we can on his weaknesses—finances, affairs, skeletons in his closet. Use it to shut him down before he can go public with anything.”

“And Deirdre?”

The name sent another wave of heat through Callum’s veins, but his voice remained steady. “She made her choice when she married Lynch and sided with Bradford. If she gets in my way, I’ll deal with her.”

Padraig nodded, though his expression remained cautious. “And Isolde? What happens if she starts digging into the foundation’s accounts and connects the dots?”

Callum’s gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a growl. “She won’t.”

“And if she does?”

Callum’s lips curved into a cold smile. “Then I’ll remind her whose game she’s playing, bring her into the fold, and neutralize her.”

“In other words, you’ll abduct her, spirit her off to Galway, turn her, and take her to mate.”

Callum chuckled. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“I think she’s becoming a bit of an obsession for you.”

“Again, you make it sound like a bad thing.”

Padraig shook his head and chuckled before taking his leave.

The storm outside intensified, the wind howling against the windows as if echoing the storm brewing inside him. Callum straightened, his mind already mapping out the steps he’d need to take.

Deirdre might have thought she could outmaneuver him, but she’d forgotten one crucial thing.

No one played the game better than he did, especially with the O’Neill’s backing. And no one crossed him without consequences.

Later that evening, the rain continued to batter the windows with relentless fury, each drop a staccato drumbeat against the glass that mirrored the chaos in Callum’s mind. He stood in his office, leaning heavily on the edges of the massive oak desk, his fingers curling around its worn edges. The wood creaked under the pressure, as if it, too, could sense the storm brewing inside him.

The report Padraig had delivered lay open before him, its contents a brutal reality check. Deirdre Lynch’s betrayal wasn’t surprising, but it complicated everything. Her alliance with Councilman Bradford, his boss’ dangerous rival and Deidre’s husband, Eoin Lynch, and her willingness to use the Fitzwilliam Foundation as leverage—it was a powder keg waiting to explode.

And Isolde was right in the center of it.

His jaw muscles clenched as he ground his teeth. Every instinct told him to focus solely on protecting the O’Neill organization. Con’s empire was his life’s work, a legacy he’d fought to secure and expand, and it was his responsibility to safeguard it at all costs.

But then there was her.

Her fire. Her defiance. The way she looked at him with those amber eyes that held equal measures of challenge and vulnerability. Isolde Fitzwilliam had become more than a complication, more than a liability. She’d become a choice he didn’t want to make.

Protecting Isolde meant putting her closer to the line of fire, tying her more firmly to him and his world. Yet if he left her vulnerable, if he didn’t keep her under his control, Lynch or Bradford—or both—would use her as a pawn.

He wasn’t about to let that happen.

The door creaked open, and Padraig stepped inside, his sharp eyes taking in Callum’s tense posture. “You back again?” snarled Callum.

“Well, I do have other things to do than to watch you swoon over your obsession.”

“She’s not my obsession,” he snapped.

“Oh sure, she isn’t,” laughed Padraig.

“Knock it off and tell me why you are here,” Callum replied flatly, not looking up.

Padraig approached cautiously, a man who recognized the magnitude of the approaching storm. “I’ve run a deeper trace on Bradford’s connections. He’s building his case on three angles: political posturing, public outcry over supposed charity fraud, and some whispers about wanting a private revenge for an O’Neill-connected death in his family. He’s not bluffing. If we don’t stop him soon, he’ll make it all public.”

Callum straightened, his dark eyes locking onto Padraig with predatory intensity. “We can’t let it go that far.”

“We won’t,” Padraig assured him. “But Deirdre’s involvement adds a wild card. She’s not just feeding Bradford information—she’s amplifying it. If she makes this personal, there’s no telling how far she’ll go.”

Callum’s lips curved into a cold, humorless smile. “She always did enjoy stirring the pot. She’ll do anything to settle old scores.”

Padraig tilted his head. “The real question is, what are you going to do about the Fitzwilliam girl? She’s the key to Bradford’s leverage. She might not know it yet, but she’s sitting on a ticking bomb.”

Callum crossed his arms, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the desk as he considered Padraig’s words. “She’s under my protection.”

Padraig raised an eyebrow. “And the organization? You’re not seriously considering prioritizing her over Con’s empire, are you?”

Callum’s glare was icy. “I’m considering the fact that protecting her might be the best way to protect the organization. If we lose her—and the foundation—we hand Bradford and Lynch exactly what they need to dismantle everything we’ve built here in Dublin.”

Padraig hesitated, then nodded. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“One I don’t intend to lose,” Callum said simply, his voice a low growl.

The rain outside intensified, the rhythmic pounding against the windows like war drums. Callum moved to the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the storm-lit city. He could see the faint glow of the Fitzwilliam Foundation’s building in the distance, a beacon in the night that felt more fragile than ever.

He could feel the gravity of the decision pressing down on him. If he focused solely on the O’Neill organization, Isolde might become collateral damage. But if he poured too many resources into protecting her, he risked leaving Con’s empire vulnerable.

Unless…

His mind sharpened, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. Protecting Isolde and protecting the organization weren’t mutually exclusive. In fact, if he played it right, securing her might be the most effective way to secure everything else.

He turned back to Padraig, his voice calm but firm. “Double the surveillance on Isolde. I want her watched at all times—at home, at the foundation, everywhere. Lynch won’t get near her without me knowing.”

Padraig nodded. “And Bradford?”

Callum’s smile was dark, his eyes gleaming with purpose. “We’ll deal with him. Quietly. I want every bit of leverage we can find on him, and I want it fast.”

As Padraig turned to leave, Callum added, “One more thing.”

Padraig paused, glancing back.

“If Deirdre makes another move, I want to know about it immediately,” Callum said, his voice laced with steel. “She’s already crossed too many lines.”

Padraig hesitated, then nodded. “Understood.”

When the door clicked shut, Callum returned to his desk, his hands resting on its solid surface. The tightness in his chest hadn’t eased, but his resolve had solidified.

The coming storm would force his hand, but he wasn’t about to let it destroy everything he’d worked for—or take Isolde from him.

His phone buzzed, the sound cutting through the quiet. He picked it up and saw the message:

I know what you’re doing. You can’t protect her forever, Callum. Eoin doesn’t play by your rules. –D

Callum’s grip tightened on the phone, his fury igniting once more.

“I don’t play by yours or theirs, either,” he muttered to himself, his voice a promise as much as a threat.

The storm outside raged on, but Callum’s mind was already racing ahead. The battle lines were drawn, and he knew one thing for certain.

He would protect Isolde Fitzwilliam. Not just because she was the key to the organization. Not just because she was a pawn in Lynch’s game.

But because she was his. His mate. His fated mate.