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

CHAPTER TEN

Any member of the order must be committed fully to the order. Personal goals must be cast aside. We live for the order. We live for the betterment of humanity.

THE RAIN FALLS in that persistent, unyielding way that only Irish weather can muster. Standing in the cemetery just outside of Dublin, my men cluster around me, their faces somber, their suits clinging to their bodies as the rain soaks everything. It”s a scene straight out of a cliché film, yet here we are, living it in real-time. Only in Ireland would we stand in the rain like this and not think it odd.

The service at St. Gertrude’s was a grand affair. Victor”s voice, steady and somber, had filled the church, recounting tales of a man whose life had been as complex as the family he left behind. The pews were packed with the O’Sullivan clan and our captains. Among the sea of mourners, I caught glimpses of the Hand of Kings members, their presence a stark reminder of the dual life my family led.

This gathering of secret societies, one hidden within the other, was a testament to the complicated legacy my uncle had woven around us all. And there, amid it all, was Aunt Alicia, her tears flowing with a practiced ease that bordered on theatrical. I knew her grief was expected. Andrew had never shown her kindness, ye, here she was, mourning him as though they”d been close.

Now, as we wait for his final arrival, I can”t help but think of my uncle”s last demand: a tour of Dublin before his burial.

A final power play from beyond the grave, I think bitterly. He always had to have the last word, even in death, ensuring we”d all be here, drenched and waiting, bound by duty and respect for tradition.

I”m pulled from my thoughts by the approach of one of my men, a newcomer whose name I”m still committing to memory. He rushes over, his apology for lateness nearly lost to the sound of the rain hitting the canopy of umbrellas above us.

”Everything came in just fine, Diarmuid,” he says, catching his breath. Rainwater drips from the brim of his hat.

”And who is receiving it tonight?” I ask, shifting my focus to the matters that never seem to pause, not even for death. It reminds me of a poem by W.B. Yeats: in death, he had demanded that all the clocks stop, but time stops for no man.

”O’Boyle’s on it,” he replies, oblivious to the immediate frown his answer draws from me.

”O’Boyle is on my shitlist,” I snap. ”Send him for collections. Have Hayes receive instead. We can”t afford slip-ups, not now.”

”Yes, sir,” he responds quickly, turning to relay the instructions.

As he walks away, I turn my gaze back to the cemetery gates, anticipating the arrival of the hearse, my thoughts wandering back to my uncle”s life and the intricate web of loyalty, betrayal, and power plays that define it. Even in death, he is still commanding us all. As we stand here, waiting to lay him to rest, I can”t help but wonder about the future of the O’Sullivan clan and the secrets we”re all bound to keep. Secrets I can’t let anyone find out about. My mind reels, thinking that maybe someone in this churchyard knows exactly what I have done.

The rain, relentless in its pursuit, turns the world into a blur of grays and greens by the time Victor arrives. His entrance is, as always, marked by an air of command. He is surrounded by his personal guard, a small group who are loyal to him to a fault and could take out most of us here.

Victor seems to move with deliberate slowness, or maybe it’s caution. The ground beneath our feet is slick with rain, glistening like a treacherous carpet under our footfalls. The slope that leads down to the O’Sullivan plot shouldn’t be used today, but we have no choice. Andrew has to be laid to rest.

I hope he never rests; I hope the demons are chasing him relentlessly through Hell like he deserves.I watch Victor navigate the slippery descent, and a part of me, dark and unforgiving, wishes to see him falter, to witness himfall and snap his fragile neck, yet the thought is fleeting, chased away by the deeper, more insidious desire that when Victor falls, it will be by my hand and not Mother Nature’s.

As Victor passes, the crowd parts, heads bowed in reverence or perhaps fear, whispering ”Father” with a mixture of respect and obligation. The title, one he wears as both a mantle and a shield, grates on me. It’s a reminder of the power he wields within our family, a power that has shaped our lives in ways both seen and unseen.

The moment is broken by the arrival of the hearse, a sleek, somber vehicle that seems to absorb the light around it. Following close behind is a limo, from which Aunt Alica and Wolf emerge. I step forward, Lorcan and Ronan at my side, to meet them. Aunt Alica’s face, usually so composed, betrays a hint of the turmoil beneath, her eyes red-rimmed behind the veil of mourning. Wolf appears stoic, and he offers me a nod of acknowledgment.

As a further insult, Andrew named me as one of his pallbearers. I’m not sure if he knew all along I would take him down, and this was a final slap, or if he truly trusted me enough that he wanted me to carry the weight of his death.

Either way, my men step back as the coffin slides out with ease from the hearse. I’m ready to get this done and over with. I walk to my position, and when we are all ready, I heave the coffin onto my shoulder, and I begin the march toward the grave with the other pallbearers.

Rain drips into my eyes, and it drips off the coffin into the neck of my shirt.

As we make our way down the steep, grass-covered hill, the world seems to tilt beneath my feet. The weight of the casket on my shoulder is too much to bear with the slippery surface beneath. My footing completely slips.

Panic flares within me, hot and immediate. The casket lurches, threatening to escape our grasp and turn this procession into a farce. My legs strain against the sudden imbalance, muscles screaming in protest. In that heartbeat of chaos, a memory crashes through the dam of my consciousness.

I”m back there again, on the cold, unforgiving ground. My uncle”s voice, a harsh, grating sound, bellows at me to rise. ”GET UP! DAMN YOU, GET UP!” he screams, each word a lash against my already battered body. Pain is my world, a relentless sea in which I”m drowning. The threat of unconsciousness looms, only to be shattered by the cruel cold of a bucket of icy water.

In the shadow of that memory stands Oisin Cormick. He, the hitman whose quiet voice once suggested mercy might be mine. But his words were always lost on my uncle, drowned out by the roar of his own rage. The beatings never ceased, each one a test of my resolve to remain on my feet, to not give in.

But here, on this hill, with the weight of my uncle”s casket threatening to drag us all down, something shifts within me. My foot turns sideways. My leg, the one still loyal, pushes against the earth with all the strength borne of years of enduring and overcoming. Muscles I didn”t know I could still summon bulge and flex, and miraculously, the casket steadies.

The moment passes in a blur of effort and adrenaline, allowing the other pallbearers to regain their footing. We continue our descent, a bit more wary, but intact. The irony of fighting so hard to prevent the man who taught me about pain from tumbling into disgrace isn”t lost on me. As much as part of me would have relished the fall, I can’t draw suspicion to myself. Everyone would wonder why I allowed it to happen.

And especially not today, with eyes watching. Always watching.

Someone among the gathered mourners knows the truth of what I did to my uncle.

As we finally reach the bottom of the hill, the cemetery gates loom before us, a threshold between the past and the present. For now, I focus on the steps ahead.

I don’t reset until we no longer bear the weight of the coffin and it’s lowered into the ground.

As we gather our family and Andrew’s friends around the grave, the world seems to hold its breath.

“Diarmuid,” Victor”s voice cuts through the patter of raindrops, his tone carrying an edge of command that bristles against my already frayed patience.

I turn to face him, schooling my features into a mask of neutrality. “Victor,” I reply, my voice steady despite the storm raging within. “A fitting day for a funeral, wouldn’t you say?”

His eyes, sharp and calculating, meet mine. “Indeed. The heavens themselves seem to mourn the passing of an O’Sullivan.”

I nod, turning away to hide the flash of anger that I know flitters across my face. This is neither the time nor the place for his rub, reminding me that he suspects I am the one who put Andrew in the ground and will one day return for him.

A few more prayers are said over the grave before we all start to leave and find shelter from the harsh rain.

The dim lighting of our usual spot casts shadows across the table where Lorcan, Ronan, and I sit, nursing our drinks in silence. We have all removed our suit jackets and ties. Our shirts are a bit damp, but the heat in the bar will soon warm us up, and the brandies will heat our blood. It”s a private corner we sit in at The Church bar, the usual spot we always meet. Today, it is our refuge from the chaos of our lives outside.

Movement close by has us all turning around. Wolf stumbles towards us, his gait uneven, a clear testament to how much he must have drunk already. I glance at Lorcan, and his features tighten.The two women trailing Wolf struggle to match his erratic pace, their expressions a mix of resignation and discomfort.

He opens his arms wide, and a smile that shows his teeth stretches across his face.

”Meet my escorts: $4000 and $3000,” he slurs as he gestures to the women.

Lorcan raises an eyebrow, his response dry. ”Clever names.”

Wolf”s grin widens, unfazed by the sarcasm. ”I’m being realistic. It doesn’t matter what I call them because all I will ever see is what they cost.”

Ronan leans forward, his tone laced with disbelief. ”I didn’t think a man in your line of work would need to pay for prostitutes.”

Wolf”s laughter is loud, drawing glances from nearby tables; a wave of my hand has them looking away. If they keep looking, I’ll have them removed from the premises. ”They are not for me, my beautiful cousins. They are yours. My wares. I brought them for you.”

”How generous.” Lorcan”s reply is as sharp as a knife.

Wolf”s expression shifts, the drunken facade slipping momentarily to reveal the cold businessman beneath. ”I’m not being generous. I am paying you.”

Ronan”s eyes narrow. ”This is a business transaction?”

I remain silent, observing the weight of the moment settling in. Wolf”s actions are a grim reminder of the world we inhabit, where everything has a price, and everyone is a commodity. The air between us feels charged, heavy with unspoken questions and the harsh realities of our choices, of my choices. If he knew I took his father’s life, what would he do?

”They killed my fucking father!” Wolf’s sudden outburst slices through the murmur of the bar like a gunshot, silencing conversations mid-sentence. His pain, raw and unfiltered, hangs heavily in the air, a stark contrast to the drunken haze that had clouded his actions moments before.

Reacting swiftly, I snap my fingers to catch the attention of a nearby waitress. When she approaches, I give her a pointed look and a quick, discreet nod toward the women accompanying Wolf. ”Take them to the main part of the bar,” I instruct quietly, ”and close the door behind you.” She nods, understanding, and guides them away with practiced ease, leaving us in a bubble of sudden privacy.

As the door shuts with a soft click, Lorcan guides Wolf to a vacant seat at our table.

”Perhaps she should bring some coffee and water in, yes?” Lorcan suggests eyeing Wolf with a mix of concern and caution.

Wolf”s reaction is immediate, a mix of anger and defiance. ”Fuck, no! We are drinking tonight.”

The weight of the moment is suffocating as I wait to see what Wolf will do. His gaze lands on me, and the drunkenness seems to dissolve. Around us, the bar slowly returns to its usual buzz, the patrons resuming their conversations, their laughter a distant echo against the backdrop.

Wolf finally looks away from me. “I’m drinking; I don’t give a fuck what you are doing.”

Ronan attempts to intervene. ”I don’t think there is room in you for more alcohol,” he says.

But Wolf is beyond reasoning, his grief morphing into a bitter resolve. ”No, no, no. It’s never enough. It won’t be enough. Not until the son of a bitch that killed my father is dead. Not just dead. Mutilated. Did you hear what they did to him, Ronan? Did you hear?”

I nod, my expression somber. ”We heard, Wolf. I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, the words slipping out in a tone that suggests empathy. Inside, I”m amused, finding a dark humor in the situation. The irony of apologizing for a deed I did isn’t lost on me.

Wolf”s reaction is swift, his pain translating into anger. ”I don’t want to hear another fucking person say that to me. Look, we made a deal, right? With those cult motherfuckers?”

Lorcan glances around nervously. ”Wolf, keep your voice down,” he hisses, the tension in his voice betraying his concern for our secrecy.

I lean back casually. ”The door is closed, Lorcan. This room is soundproof.” My reassurance is meant to ease the tension but also to assert control over the situation. Wolf needs to calm down.

Wolf snaps at Lorcan, ”Yeah, shut the fuck up, Lorcan.” His dismissiveness sparks a snort of amusement from Ronan.

Wolf continues. ”We made a deal with those cult motherfuckers that we would do what they say as long as they help us with our shit. Well, we need help. We need every secret asshole they have to get in on this.”

I exchange a glance with Lorcan, unable to resist a jab. ”Did you hear that, Lorcan? Secret assholes.” My words are laced with sarcasm, a light jab in the otherwise tense atmosphere.

Lorcan, unamused, fires back dryly. ”I don’t play for that team.”

Wolf”s eyes, burning with a mix of grief and determination, lock onto each of us in turn. ”I’m serious, guys. Look, we are family. The four of us in this room. Fuck Victor. Fuck the Kings. Fuck all of them. We need to take care of our own. Whatever we need to do to get to the guy who did this, we will do it.”

Ronan”s voice is steady, and his decision is immediate. ”I’m in.”

Lorcan”s shock is palpable. ”What?”

Ronan doesn”t falter. ”I know that you are nervous about your upcoming election, dear brother, but Wolf is right. An O’Sullivan has been maimed and murdered. If we don’t make an example of the person who did this, it can happen to any of us. I’ll do most of the dirty work, but can you pull some strings if I need it?”

Lorcan, after a moment”s hesitation, nods. ”Yeah. I can do that.”

All eyes turn to me, the final piece of this precarious puzzle. The weight of their stares is a tangible thing, pressing down with the gravity of the situation laid bare before us. Wolf”s sex trade, Ronan”s legal enterprises, Lorcan”s government ties—each plays a critical role in the fabric of our syndicate. But I’m the assassin who will be expected to kill the person who took Andrew’s life. Funny how this is all coming full circle, and being part of this circle gives me full control.

”I’m in,” I say, my voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil churning within.

As we sit in the dim light of our secluded meeting place, a pact is forged. The waitress arrives at our table with fresh brandy for everyone. I hadn’t even noticed anyone ordering the drinks. But Lorcan sits beside the small buzzer that goes directly to the bar. He must have been the one.

He doesn’t appear happy but raises his glass. When the door closes, we all do the same. “To justice,” he declares.

“To killing the motherfucker who killed my father,” Wolf chimes in.

We all click glasses, and I have no idea how I’m going to pull this off.