Page 12 of Ruthless Dream

“No thanks,” Trish says, not looking up.

Rina at least appears more sincere. “Sorry, I’m meeting my boyfriend.”

I try not to think about how I know for a fact that her pussy is groomed for any encounters she may have.

“Maybe someday next week,” I mumble. She smiles, drying off her hair, but the idea fades away, knowing it was never meant to be in the first place.

CHAPTER 3

Ciaran

The New York City skyline beckons to me as I exit the private plane, my feet back on solid ground after the international flight from Dublin.

“Holy shit!”

My uncle laughs beside me, slinging his arm around my shoulders. “Not too bad, huh? Can’t you just smell the American dream already?”

“You mean piss and garbage?” I laugh.

It’s not true, though. The sky is a beautiful blue, only marred by a few stringy clouds. I’ve got my sunglasses on; the day is warmer than I thought it would be.

I adjust the bag slung over my shoulder.

Uncle Cormac gave me one day’s notice before our flight left. He’s here meeting with business associates, looking to bolster our own profits back home. He doesn’t have to say anything for me to understand how big of a moment this is. The O'Connells in New York City.

Fuck me. We’re not playing around anymore. People know our name back in Dublin. They’re going to fucking know it here too.

“You couldn’t have looked nicer for them if you tried.” Uncle Cormac tilts my chin, inspecting the bruise along my face. My beard doesn’t do shit to cover it.

“It’s not my fault you told me about this trip after I got knocked out.”

“And why’d you get knocked out?” he asks, like always. O'Connells aren’t meant to be on their arses. But he laughs instead of giving me a hard time. “You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me to get you a fight at Leon’s.”

“You could really make that happen?” It feels good to move after the flight. I’ve never been a tourist before. I know we’re here for work, but fuck, I can’t pretend like I’m not excited to be here.

It’s my first time in the United States. Cormac’s been here before. It’s why I’ve heard all about Leon’s and the matches he puts on. If there’s one thing we O'Connells love to do, it’s show people how well we know how to throw—and occasionally take—a punch.

“Of course,” Uncle Cormac promises. “So long as you don’t get thrown on your arse again.”

I roll my eyes, but we’re both smiling. As we walk toward a row of waiting cars, we drop our arms, growing serious.

“I didn’t know he’d be here,” Cormac says under his breath.

“It’s fine,” I tell him.

Our group fans out. Six of us came to town, my uncle and I joined by his best friend and longtime business partner. And you can’t go far without an O’Connell cousin showing up.

We’re greeted by the Irish Mafia, an opening act of respect. I’d be touched if it weren’t for one man in particular who’s smiling like a maniac.

“Ciaran!” Cain Murray shouts, arms lifted in some supposed sense of triumph.

My da is exactly how every American thinks an Irishman should be. A charming leprechaun of a conman.

We share the same dark brown hair, but his eyes are hazel, unlike my brown orbs. It’s the first of many ways we diverge as individuals.

This man might be my father, but he’s certainly never stuck around long enough to teach me anything.

There’s nothing like a pathetic father to show you how to be a better man.