Page 45 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

Gabrielle studied her again before speaking carefully. “You look disappointed,” she said lightly.

Maeve’s expression never changed. “I look tired.”

“Mm.” The response carried enough understanding to irritate me instantly.

Maeve pushed away from the doorway. “I think I’ll just go now. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You weren’t interrupting,” I said immediately.

Her eyes met mine then. Briefly. Something unreadable settled behind them before she looked away again.

“Come in. Have a drink with us,” Gabrielle said. There was a moment of silence as she poured the glass of liquor and handed it to Maeve.

“She’s younger than I expected,” Gabrielle said calmly.

My attention returned to the conversation a second too late. “Maeve?”

“I doubt we could be discussing anyone else.”

Across the room, Maeve’s expression didn’t change, but her fingers tightened slightly around the glass. Gabrielle leaned back against the couch with effortless composure. While she looked like she belonged in places like this, Maeve was the complete opposite.

Maeve looked nothing like her. I shouldn’t have compared them, and the fact that I had irritated me immediately. “She’s still adjusting,” I said.

Gabrielle’s gaze flicked toward Maeve briefly before returning to me. “Is that what you call it?”

Maeve moved away from the window and set her untouched drink on the counter. “I’m going upstairs.”

Neither of us stopped her, but my eyes followed her departure.

“Interesting,” Gabrielle said softly.

I looked back at her. “Careful.”

Her smile deepened. “That sounded personal.”

“It wasn’t.” It was a lie, but I didn’t look away from her this time. “Now it’s time to tell me why you’re here.”

“Why do you think, silly? To help you.”

My expression didn’t change. “That’s not an answer I can trust.”

She gave a small nod, like I was the one being difficult. “You don’t have many people to trust. Word is moving underground. Anton’s network isn’t quiet anymore. It’s expanding through channels most people don’t even know exist. I’ve tracked pieces of it. I came to offer what I know.”

I let that sit for a moment. “And your price?”

“For you, my dear? Nothing.” That should’ve been a relief. It wasn’t.

My eyes narrowed. “Nothing is free. Name your price.”

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t even pretend to think. She just stepped closer to me, like the question didn’t apply to her. “There’s no price,” she repeated.

My voice stayed even. “You don’t walk into my space with information like that and call it charity.”

Her mouth tilted faintly. “You think everything is leverage.”

“It is.”

She stopped close enough that we were almost touching.