Page 3 of Ruthless Dream

I never made it to Fujimori’s the last time I was here. Back then, Aunt Macy took care of business. I would have done anything to come in here and walk around like Ian, acting like I deserved to be here.

Bide your time, son. That’s what my Uncle Cormac said when we left New York the first time.

It’s better this way, that I’m coming to Fujimori’s now versus then. I’ve paid my dues, clawed my way up in life. The O'Connells aren’t chasing after the New York Irish. We’ve made a name for ourselves in Dublin. We’ve fucked shit up for the Stuarts.

I’m not some kid acting like a man, desperate for validation. I’m Ciaran O'Connell, and people fucking know my name now.

“Ian.” Ren’s voice curls in the air again, a siren beckoning. “Did you bring a hot guy to our meeting?”

Hands in his pocket, Ian strides through the restaurant at ease. I straighten my cufflinks and follow, chin held high.

“Hello,” Ren says, leaning back into a booth.

She’s tucked in the back, right near the kitchen, which I can peer into thanks to a cutout in the wall. Abe, with a handful of dirty dishes, pushes through a swinging door, and the next second he’s yelling to another cook in Japanese.

The door doesn’t finish swinging before it pushes back and another woman appears.

She nods at Ian, barely glancing at me, but I categorize the details. Blonde, blue eyed, a blank face. This is the British triggerman who’s now dating Trevino.

“Did you dress up for me?” Ian asks her, nodding at the button-down she’s wearing.

“Nah, I’m meeting up with Tyler after this. He not mention anything,” Isolde Matheson replies.

Ren snorts, pulling a planner closer to her. She barely looks up, but there’s a smirk on her face as she listens in.

Ian’s face drops just the slightest, which has my brotherly instincts on high alert. Is she talking about Tyler Mulligan? And is this really happening? Ian is already joking around with Matheson and Callahan.

“Who’s the hot guy?” Ren nibbles on the end of a pencil. “You the brother?”

The back of my neck pricks. She’s not eyeing me because she likes what she sees. Even if she were, I’m not looking to make an enemy out of Roman Zimin, even if he removed himself from the family business. Ren’s after information.

“Cain Murray’s youngest.” Silky brown hair falls over her shoulders as she tilts her head, further inspecting. I don’t let myself clench my jaw. It’s just a fact—Cain is my father.

“You want something to eat?” Abe calls through the window.

Ren holds a hand up.

“You’ve already had dinner,” Abe tells her.

“Ice cream.”

My brows furrow together. She’s in her late twenties, but she could easily pass for a college student with her demand.

“Take a seat.” She motions to two chairs on the opposite side of the table. Ian drops easily, and instead of scooting into the booth bench beside her friend, Matheson pulls up another chair, slightly apart from the table but clearly in the loop.

I’m a beat behind, sitting down next to my brother.

Ren continues to stare, a small grin on her lips as she blinks up at me. Even sitting, we tower over the two females.

“Is this your agent?” Ren teases Ian.

“Entourage.”

Abe appears, clunking down two beer bottles in front of us before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Ren lifts a brow at my brother. “Abe likes you.”

Ian shrugs it off.