When Kings Rise : A Dark Irish Mafia Romance intensified by the presence of a cult. (The O'Sullivan

CHAPTER FIVE

The order will perform its duties to humanity, regardless of the laws of nations and average men. Kings are above all other men.

I CAN’T SETTLE myself. It’s an odd feeling for me. So, it sends a thrill through me that I must be on the lookout for a threat. And there is a threat. I’ve never been the mouse in a cat chase, always the cat instead, so the role intrigues me.

As I pull into the public garage, I see Lorcan’s and Ronan’s high-powered cars. They’re parked six cars apart, and I pull into a distant spot, ensuring we’ve all hidden our vehicles among the older models. We’d be far more noticeable if we parked side by side.

Stepping out of the fluorescent-lit garage, I look left and right before I start to walk.

A woman across the road walks her dog; she glances at me but quickly looks away while dipping her head. I don’t sense danger from her, but she appears to feel it from me. That is wise.

It’s a great instinct to have. We all have it; just most people fob it off as paranoia. I never ignore any gut feeling. I’ll kill on instinct, and it never fails me.

I’ve been bred to kill; it wasn’t exactly my first choice. But Victor saw a killer when I was a kid and made me into one. The training I received was some of the most intense and definitely not any kind of UN-sanctioned training in existence. What Victor made me do from a young age had turned me into the killing machine he needed, and I did it without question.

But I wanted more. I wanted to rule. I could be a King. But I couldn’t say no to Victor—no one could.

I enter the “Church.” A fitting name for the bar where I know my brothers await my arrival.

It’s not the only property in the building. It acts as a multipurpose structure. A gold plaque beside the elevator lists the businesses here and which floor they are on. A doctor’s office and hair salon are on the second floor. The first floor is occupied by a pet store, and the third floor is a tax agent. I’m going to none of them.

The key that I scoop out of my pocket presses into my palm as I hit the silver button on the elevator in the entry hall. Stepping in, I wait until the door closes before inserting my key into the elevator panel. The elevator shows the main floor, a few upper floors, and a basement level. The elevator goes two stories underground, one story farther than it is supposed to go. I turn the key fully, and the elevator starts to move.

We had modified the panel so that only our families’ keys will take us to the final level of the building.

The elevator doors open to reveal a white brick wall with a single door in the center. I pull my key out of the elevator panel and place it securely in my pocket before I produce another key that slots into the door in front of me. The door opens to a semi-lit underground bar. There is a main room and several more private areas branching off. This is the throbbing heart of the O’Sullivans’ enterprises. We were all sent into different ventures for the sake of the family, but everything comes back to the Church. Business deals, buying one-night companions, meeting political rivals—everything happens at the most exclusive bar in the country: The Church.

“Hello, Brother.” Lorcan greets me with a wide smile that I don’t return, but this doesn’t faze him. Lorcan is the face of our political empire, and smiling and appearing friendly is part of his job that he never shakes off. He’s almost animated in his greeting. It’s always good for a mafia enterprise to have people entrenched in whatever political party we need to control, and Lorcan has been molded to perfection for the role.

Behind the smile is a man as equally dangerous as I am. Lorcan leads the way to a back table that has been partitioned off for privacy.

Ronan is already seated at the table. I knew he would be here, but the sight of my younger brother sends my fingers curling into fists; I grin at him, remembering how it felt to slam them into his face. Ronan picks up his drink and raises it at me as I take my seat. The fight we had was deeper than the excuse we gave everyone.

We said it was over a woman, but we never squabble about women; we never have to. They are always there at our disposal.

No. It was over who would rule.

Whispers that Ronan would be the leader of the O’Sullivan family didn’t sit right with me as he is the youngest. The right passes first to Lorcan, who doesn’t mind as he may lead Ireland one day, then to Wolf, who, in my opinion, doesn’t deserve to lead a pack of wild dogs, nevermind people, and then to myself, who has been placed in a box by the Hand of the King, one that I want to get out of, but it’s not looking great for me.

Lorcan sits across from me, and the waiter arrives to take our orders. Lorcan orders vodka straight, and I opt for a coffee. Both brothers look at me curiously, but I don’t explain why I’m not drinking alcohol. I have a job after this, one that will require me to be clear-headed.

“Everything is looking great for us.” Ronan kicks off the meeting. He is responsible for gaining legal sources of income for the family, with part of it going to the “Hand of the Kings,” of course.

“My political party is a favorite right now, so I will make it into Dail Eireann and then on up.” Our drinks arrive, and Lorcan takes a sip with a smile. “To ruling,” he says, Ronan joins in with our brother”s positivity.

I don’t.

Both of my brothers look at me. Both with the same gray eyes, and dark hair, and dark suits. We are built similarly, but our rearing was all different.

Lorcan wasn’t around Ronan and me much growing up, as he spent most of his time in a prestigious boarding school being educated on how to rule Ireland one day. That day seems to be growing closer and closer.

“I’ve made several deals on the black market for weapons, both in Ireland and the mainland of Britain,” I say. Our enterprise is untouchable.

Just like us.

Ronan nods, and he leans closer on the table. “What have you found out about Andrew?”

I sit back in my seat and grin. “If you had showed up to the meeting, you would know.”

Ronan glances at Lorcan before he speaks. “We arrived as soon as we could, but you, brother, were already gone. We will have a chance to speak at the annual Diners of Influence party.”

Another outing. Great.

“I know about the event. I’ve been commanded to go with my brides.”

Ronan smiles. “I’d like to get a good look at these brides of yours.”

I release my cup of coffee before the porcelain cracks under my tightening fingers. “I will take your eyes out if you do,” I say.

Ronan laughs, but there is no humor there.

“Now, no need for that. Ronan, you are going to get your chance soon.” Lorcan says, always the politician.

Ronan shrugs. “You may be next. Doesn’t it look better for your constituents if you are married? Aren’t you into your image? Bleached teeth. Kissing babies and shit.” Ronan doesn’t know when to stop. His mouth has a way of running away with itself.

“You mock me, but having someone in the family in the upper tiers of government will open up avenues for our family that we couldn’t even dream of ten years ago.” Lorcan fires back in his defense. He’s been brainwashed into thinking this is beneficial for just our family.

“You won’t be benefiting our family. You are a stooge for Victor,” I say.

Lorcan glares at me. The beast rises inside him. We all have it, but he controls it the best. He has to.“Our alliance with the Hands of Kings has given our family power like it hasn’t had since Interpol started getting on our asses.” Lorcan defends them.

I know I should stop, but I can’t. Having Ronan across from me giving me a smug smile that I want to wipe off his face has me continuing.

“I’m not seeing it. Everything we do is for them.” Bitterness I had thought was deeply buried, raises its head. It’s my next job that is bothering me more than anything I have been asked to do before. I’ve never questioned a kill, but this time is different.

“Careful, little brother. It isn’t wise to question my loyalty to me and mine.” Lorcan states.

“You seem to be paranoid, Diarmuid. Are you experiencing some disloyalty with your new swines?”

I rise, having listened to enough of Ronan’s shit. Lorcan places a hand on my arm. “Sit, Brother.” He glances around like someone might be watching.

I don’t sit because of that; I sit because I know hitting Ronan once wouldn’t satisfy me, and I’m not sure I’d stop.

Ronan grins like he has won.

“So, what was the news about Andrew?” Lorcan swings back to his earlier question.

“He was found dead three weeks ago, a woman’s body laid upon his shallow grave.”

I pick up my coffee and take a long sip. Shutting my brain down, not thinking about how I killed him, how nobody but the person who laid the body there knows. No one can ever know.

“Who was the woman?” Ronan asks.

I place the cup carefully back on the saucer. “They didn’t say. A page delivered the news.”

“Why?” Lorcan asks.

“Security reasons,” I answer and watch both my brothers.

Ronan grins like this is a game. “They thought the killer was in the room.” Bingo. He’s right.

I shrug. “They didn’t say.”

He tuts. “It’s clear as mud, Diarmuid. It’s served me well to have Andrew out of the way, so I won’t pine over him.”

“Careful, Brother, you sound like you might have had a hand in his death.” It’s my turn to smirk.

He grits his teeth and then relaxes. “I’m looking forward to seeing your brides.”

I don’t know my brides well, but they are my brides, and Ronan better not push me.

“Ronan, show some respect,” Lorcan states.

Any man who touches what is mine won’t live long enough to brag about it. I make that promise through narrowed eyes at Ronan. It’s a good thing that I am supposed to be meeting with my brides tonight. I need to let out some tension. I hope Niamh wears her church dress; it would be my pleasure to destroy it. After a bit more speculation about Andrew, I depart. I must do my job. Duty always calls.

I sit in my car, adjacent to the front door of the school. The graffiti on the wall next to me reads “Stey in Skool.” I touch the envelope in my lap, the envelope that contains the identity of the person I am supposed to kill.

I open it again and glance at the picture. It’s not a shady-looking teacher or the stern headmaster. I’m looking into the blue eyes of a young boy, Brien Cahill. He is eight. The son of Kane Cahill. Victor wants to hurt Kane, so Brien must die. That’s my order. I’ve never disobeyed an order, but Brien isn’t the guilty party here.

Why should sons pay for their father’s sins?

I stare at the picture, brain spinning. When I was Brien’s age, I made my first kill; Victor made me finish off one of his hits. I hesitated. Victor and Andrew punished me for this later when they found out I shivered and cried. I never hesitated again.

I place the image of the boy back in the envelope when movement along the sidewalk catches my eye. Brien meets two people, who I assume are his parents, and the three walk down the road together. I wait until the family is almost out of sight before I follow them all the way to the church. They enter, and I step onto holy ground only a moment later.

The church is deserted at this hour, and I take a seat at the back. I watch as the parents kneel to pray. I assume the man is Kane. His belly rolls out over his trousers; he’s obviously well fed. The strain on his shirt buttons is unappealing to the eye, but his wife still looks up at him with love in her eyes. Love can be blind. In this case, you would be better off having no sight.

The boy runs a fire engine toy along the top of the pew. I could follow them home and wait until the boy’s mother starts dinner. While Brien is playing in the yard, I could snatch him, and make him disappear. Kane wouldn’t be fit enough to catch me with all that extra cushion.

That’s what I could do. Instead, I watch as a priest walks to the family with a bucket and a mop. Brien tucks his toy in his backpack and takes the bucket without question. The priest smiles fondly at the boy and rubs his hair before speaking to Brien’s parents.

Of course. Nothing looks better on a college application than a lifetime of volunteer work. This boy has a planned future.

One that I am supposed to take away.

I rise from my seat and walk up the center aisle. The priest glances my way and smiles. When I reach him, he holds out his hand. “Welcome. You are new to our church? I’m Isaac Waryn.”

I don’t take the priest”s outstretched hand. The boy is far enough away not to hear as he mops the mosaic floor of the church.

“We need to talk.” I glance at Brien’s parents.

I look at Kane, who has paled. “You are Diarmuid O’Sullivan.”

I nod. “Yes, I am, Kane.”

I don’t turn to the priest as I speak to him but keep my gaze fixed on Kane in case he decides to run.

“Father, close the main doors.” The priest doesn’t act, but Brien’s father nods while he swallows. “Do as he says.”

The priest doesn’t look happy but closes the main church doors. I take a seat behind the couple, and they turn to look at me.

“What is this about?” The wife asks.

“A hit has been placed on Brien’s head,” I say.

The mother’s wild eyes seek her son out as the priest returns.

But I’m focused on Kane. “Why would that be?” I ask him. I know why, but I want to hear it from his miserable lips.

“A gambling debt, I can assume,” he says.

The wife starts to rise, appalled at her husband.

“Sit down,” I warn her. She slowly does, but not before checking to make sure her son is still there.

The priest stands and watches me, not with fear but disgust.

“I’m the hitman,” I say, so they understand the gravity of the situation.

“You will not harm that boy in the house of God.” Isaac, the priest, grips his rosary beads like they would save the boy. If I wanted Brien dead, he would be dead.

“I won’t, Father, that’s why I’m sitting here telling you this.”

I glance at Kane. “I don’t think a son should pay for his father’s incompetence,” I say through gritted teeth. Every father figure I had never showed a shred of goodness.

Maybe this is why I got this job. To save someone from a future like mine.

“Brien needs to be sent to relatives in the United States,” I say, and the mother covers her mouth, tears pouring onto her hand. Her husband reaches out to comfort her, but she moves away and glares at him.

Good.

“You will have a closed-casket funeral,” I inform the priest who sits across from us like the weight of my words are resting on his frail shoulders.

I will try, and hide it the best I can from the authorities. I know this is a huge risk, but I won’t take the life of a child. I can’t say no to Victor, so this is the only way. I have my own people with the police, but Victor doesn’t let anyone know all of the members of the Hand of Kings. One of the authorities could be one of Victor’s men, another risk I’ll have to take.

“Your sister lives in Texas,” The father says.

The wife glares at him again but looks at me. “Can’t you renegotiate? We have money,” she says and then pauses. “You spent it all, didn’t you?” The accusation causes her husband’s face to darken.

“This is no place to air our dirty laundry.”

Her hand connects with her husband’s face. “You brought this down on your son”s head.”

“This is the only way it can be,” I say.

The priest nods. “I can organize a closed casket. He glances at Brien, who is oblivious to how his life is about to change.

I never have sympathy in these matters, but the mother’s devastation is bringing out my softer side. I want to offer her comfort, but I don’t have much to give.

“You must wait at least a year before following your son to the United States.” The mother’s sobs grow, but she nods.

The priest looks upon them with shock and sympathy, but he is also scared, and I need to lean into their fear so they do exactly what I say.

“If you don’t do as I say, someone else will come to kill Brien, and trust me, they will do it.”

I rise from my seat and stare down at Kane. “Walk me to the door,” I tell him.

He’s afraid, his tail between his legs as he numbly walks toward the main doors. Once we reach the small porch, I stop and look at the man who has done this to his son.

My fist connects with his face. His nose cracks under the weight of the punch, and he cries out, but I cover his mouth with my hand.

“Swallow that fucking pain, you piece of shit. If I hear of you gambling one more cent, I’ll come and kill you myself.” Blood from his nose soaks my hand. “I won’t make it quick. Trust me.” His eyes widen, and I release him, leaving the church.

I am so tired of parents who don’t think about their kids.