Take It On The Run

Chapter 31

POV: Sloan

"Well, I'll be damned," Reed muttered once I'd finished filling in the gaps.

"Are you even an accountant?" Avery asked my father. He'd clearly given this a lot of thought.

Dad winked mischievously. "In a manner of speakin'."

I wondered then how I ever believed him to be this demure southern father figure. The impishness and street smarts he exuded were impossible to cultivate in the suburbs. But I hadn't known any better as a kid.

"I'll take that as a no," came Sumner's dry retort.

Avery stared at my father incredulously. "I'm actually impressed. You did a damn good job of making it look legitimate on paper."

Dad grinned. "That's because Terry Dawson is a real American accountant. While I inhabit his identity from time to time, tis not me true name."

"Apparently, our surname is Gallagher," I elucidated. It was a fun fact, but I'd never think of myself as anyone other than Sloan Dawson.

"Gallagher...now where have I heard that name before?" Avery mused, stroking his chin. I caught a hint of his colorful tattoos when his sleeve slid up his forearm. His onyx eyes abruptly widened. "Do you mean to tell me that you're related to the Cillian Gallagher?"

"Aye." My father nodded. The look that passed between the two of them made my hackles rise. After the plane ride, I knew a little about the man but clearly I'd missed the highlights reel or something.

Sumner's brows lifted. "Care to share with the class, professor? Who's Cillian Gallagher?"

Avery replied, "Notorious Irish gangster who ran the West End Gang for a time. He even made it into the American news circuit over a series of execution-style killings. They were never able to pin it on him though. The papers stopped reporting on him altogether after some journalists and their editors turned up dead in New York City."

That reminded me of something. "Why didn't the goons who came after me and Mom sound Irish?"

I suspected dredging up my father's past was beginning to make him weary because he sighed heavily. "Think of The Collectors as the mob. Generations of immigrants with deep ties to their homeland runnin' major cities across America and elsewhere. Your granda was more ambitious than the average mafia boss though. He funded the relocation of countless soldiers and their families with the express purpose of buildin' an army across the world."

Avery's hand landed on my thigh as I shuddered. "And why did you come back to Ireland? Isn't that the first place he'd search for you?"

Dad gave me a meaningful look. "I knew he'd think I stayed in America to look after you. Knew that if I inserted myself into your life in any way he'd find the both of us. A widower and his spittin' image of a daughter aren't hard to find." His gaze darted to the floor then. "I know that because I used to be the one doin' the huntin'."

Deacon ran a hand through his unruly midnight curls before redirecting the conversation. "So The Collectors want to indoctrinate Sloan by forcing her to murder someone in cold blood. What else should we expect?"

My father gave me a sad smile then. We'd been discussing exactly that when the guys had arrived, although I hadn't learned anything new yet.

He didn't mince words as he answered, "Sloan is betrothed."

I jolted at that information. "What the fuck do you mean I'm betrothed? Like some voiceless Jane Austin character with a fat dowry?"

"You sold your daughter off like chattel?" Reed demanded, features hardening.