Chapter 5 - The Safehouse Confession
The penthouse sat atop a historic brownstone on Beacon Hill, guarded by high iron gates and Cormac’s most loyal veterans. The interior was modern, muted, and secure, far away from the shattered glass and cordite smoke of the high-rise.
In the master suite, Dr. Julian Rivera, the syndicate's trusted private surgeon, finished tying off the last suture on Quinn’s shoulder.
"Shallow wound," Dr. Rivera said, packing his surgical kit into a leather bag. "The pellets only clipped the deltoid muscle. No arterial damage. Keep it dry for forty-eight hours, Miss Sutherland. Take the antibiotics." He nodded respectfully toward Cormac and quietly exited the room, closing the heavy mahogany door behind him.
Quinn sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, wearing an oversized black cashmere sweater that Cormac had pulled from his wardrobe. The sweater swallowed her small frame, the wide neck resting loosely against her collarbone.
Cormac stood by the marble fireplace, pouring two fingers of aged Irish whiskey into a crystal tumbler. He walked over and handed it to her.
"Drink it," he said. "It helps with the shock."
Quinn took the glass, swirled the amber liquid, and took a small, measured sip. "I don't go into shock, Cormac."
"You took buckshot for me," Cormac said, sitting down in the leather armchair opposite the bed. His suit jacket was gone; his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing the faint scars of his own violent youth along his forearms. "Why?"
"You're the only Sheridan who isn't rotten to the core," Quinn said, looking into the amber depths of the glass. "When I took the job eight months ago, I intended to gather enough evidence to tear your company down brick by brick. I wanted to watch Silas's legacy burn to ash."
"What changed?"
"You did," she replied, lifting her eyes to meet his. "I watched you review the manifests. I watched you cut ties with human trafficking rings in New Jersey, losing millions of dollars in revenue just to keep those bastards off your docks. I watched you pay pensions to the widows of warehouse workers who died under your father's reign. You aren't Silas. You've spent two years trying to wash the blood off an empire you never asked to inherit."
Cormac looked down at his calloused hands. "Blood doesn't wash out easily, Quinn. You know that better than anyone."
"No," she whispered softly, her fingers tracing the edge of her collar. "It doesn't. But you can build something clean over the foundation."
Cormac stood up, moved closer, and knelt on one knee beside the edge of the bed so that his eyes were level with hers. The fierce, untouchable don was gone; in his place was a man weighed down by the sins of his bloodline. He gently raised his hand, his thumb hovering near the edge of her jaw. He didn't touch her—not without her consent.
"Who taught you to fight like that?" Cormac asked softly. "Who helped you survive?"
Quinn’s breath hitched slightly. "After I escaped Fall River, a retired Marine named Frank Keller took me in. He ran a private security firm in South Boston. He saw the scars on my back and told me that if I wanted to live in this city without fear, I had to become deadlier than the men who put them there. He taught me marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat, and forensic accounting. He died two years ago. That was when I applied for the posting at Sheridan Logistics."
"You spent eight months typing my emails and managing my coffee orders while planning a tactical takeover," Cormac murmured, a faint, wry smile touching his lips despite the gravity of the room.
"I am very good at multitasking," Quinn replied, the shadow of a smile flickering across her lips for the first time.
Cormac’s expression turned solemn. He slowly reached out, his warm, rough fingers gently brushing the side of her neck, just above the collar of the oversized sweater. Quinn leaned imperceptibly into the warmth of his touch, a soft shiver running down her spine.
"I am sorry for what my father did to you," Cormac said, his voice thick with raw emotion. "I can't undo the past. But I swear on my mother’s grave, Declan will pay for every single mark on your skin. And no one in this city will ever touch you again."
May you like
Quinn looked into his dark eyes, seeing no deceit, no corporate mask, only the terrifying, fierce loyalty of a man who would burn an entire city to protect her.
"We need to crack Declan's phone," Quinn whispered, her hand rising to cover his on her neck. "The Russian ship docks at midnight."
