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

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

AS I GUIDE Isaac Waryn toward the main dining room, a sense of guilt tugs at the corners of my heart. I couldn”t help but feel a pang of regret for leaving Niamh behind. It was never my intention. In my mind, I assumed she would know she was welcome to join us. It seems I assumed too much.

Next time, I need to just tell her to come. The last thing I want is to create distance between us over a misunderstanding. I would hate for Niamh to think I had intentionally left her with Amira.

Walking beside the priest, a habit from countless similar events, prompts me to almost offer him my arm. But the memory of his clerical collar stops me mid-gesture. Sure enough, Father Waryn continues with his hands clasped behind his back, maintaining a respectful distance. I smile at a few people who are curiously looking our way. I know my dress is very fitting here. The rich blue ballgown is the exact same color as my eyes.

”I’d imagine that you feel embarrassed about what we just witnessed back there,” Isaac says while looking over the crowd also, and nodding at people whom I have no idea who they are.

He”s referring to the earlier incident—an uncomfortable moment that I wish could be erased from memory. ”You imagine correctly,” I admit, the words heavy with apology. ”I’m so sorry for her behavior, Father. She wasn’t raised right.”

Isaac glances at me. ”I may be a man of the cloth, but I wasn’t born in a monastery. New love is a strong emotion that can make us do all sorts of foolish things.”

His words catch me off guard, sparking a defensive reflex. ”I beg your pardon, Father, but they are not in love.” My tone is sharper than intended, a reaction to the assumption that doesn”t fit the reality. Amira is cruel and trying to grab attention. None of us know Diarmuid, so whatever any of us are feeling, it isn’t love.

Isaac”s next question halts me in my tracks. ”Then, if I may ask, what is the situation between you?”

”Father?” My voice betrays a flicker of confusion, mingled with apprehension.

Taking a moment, I let my gaze wander through the ornate hallway, appreciating the brief bit of privacy before we reach the bustling main dining room. The silence here is a stark contrast to the lively chatter that awaits us, and yet, my heart races with a nervous energy. The thought of engaging in conversation with a priest, above all people, makes me want to run.

”I’m afraid I don’t understand your question, Father,” I finally say, attempting to mask my discomfort with confusion. Isaac”s gaze meets mine.

”Or you are afraid to answer it,” he counters gently.

”Maybe,” I concede, the word barely a whisper. Admitting even this much feels like standing on the edge of a precipice, unsure of the fall.

Isaac”s tone softens. ”Whatever your relationship with that man, please let me give you a warning.” It’s not his tone or his body language that sends off all the alarm bells in my body; it’s his gaze. He’s afraid.

”He has a job. This job is important for his employers. It is a job that no one else can do quite as well or as…eagerly.” His choice of words sends a chill down my spine, bringing to mind the O’Sullivan mafia ties.

My mind races, trying to piece together Isaac”s cryptic message. Before I can form a response, he continues, ”There are bad people in this world, my child. The worst kind performs the worst sins imaginable, and they do it for pay. You see, there was this child—”

His revelation is abruptly cut off by the sound of footsteps. Someone emerges from the dining room, passing us with a glance before disappearing down the corridor.

“A child?” I’m clasping the priest”s arm.

He appears uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I’ve said too much.” The priest glances into the bustling dining room.

“You’ve said nothing.” I want to know what he is saying. “Did Diarmuid hurt a child?” Revulsion tightens my core.

The priest shakes his head, but something doesn’t feel right. “But he hurts people?” I prod quietly.

The priest doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. I see it in his gaze.

Oh god. My mind trips and races over his earlier words. “He has a job; this job is important to his employers.” If he’s part of the mafia and hurts people, does that make him a hitman?

The realization crashes into me with the force of thunder: Diarmuid is a hitman. My mind races, trying to reconcile the man I thought I knew with the stark reality Isaac”s words have painted.

As we approach the grand doors of the main dining room, Isaac”s gesture for silence—fingers pressed to his lips—halts any questions I might have had. The bustling energy of the room engulfs us. I find my seat beside Niamh, scanning the room for familiar faces. The absence of Amira and Diarmuid doesn’t surprise me.

”Where are they?” I whisper to Niamh, trying to sound casual.

”Diarmuid led Amira outside,” she replies, her tone indifferent.

I lean closer to Niamh, my voice low but urgent. ”Don”t go off alone with Diarmuid. Stay beside me for the rest of the night, all right?” The protective instinct in me flares to life, a fierce need to protect her from the man we are both promised to.

I watch as Diarmuid and Amira enter the dining hall. Both of them are a bit disheveled looking. Disgust makes my stomach turn.

He deserves Amira. I can”t bring myself to eat, my appetite stolen by the revelation of Diarmuid”s true nature. My gaze fixates on him, a silent accusation. Disgust bubbles within me.

A part of me knows I should act pleasant; after all, I was groomed for him. My parents” warnings echo in my mind, foretelling dire consequences if I fail to secure my place by his side. Yet, at this moment, their threats feel distant.

My resolve hardens, a defiant flame burning away any lingering doubts. I refuse to bind my fate to a killer”s.

After pushing my food around my plate and listening to distant babble and Amira’s loud giggles, I excuse myself from the table.

“I need to use the ladies’ room,” I say as I stand. I don’t look at Diarmuid or Amira but focus on Niamh. She rises straight away. “Me, too.”

Niamh follows me upstairs, where there are no guests. I know there is a bathroom up here that we used before when we were requested to go to gatherings with Diarmuid.

It”s our little haven, a brief respite from the calculated smiles and watchful eyes. As we close the door behind us, the clamor of the party below fades to a distant murmur, and I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the conversation ahead.

”I found out something about Diarmuid,” I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. The weight of the secret presses against my chest. “He’s a hitman.” Saying it out loud causes my stomach to tighten.

Niamh’s reaction is immediate. She covers her mouth with her hand and turns away. “The day he took me to church, he stopped at a post box and had me get an envelope out of it. When I gave it to him, he said it was from Victor, and the name on it was the person he was commanded to kill.”

Oh God.Revulsion pours through me, but along with it comes fear. It’s true. He’s a hitman and for Victor.

”What are we going to do?” she asks, her voice tinged with a vulnerability I”ve rarely heard from her. The question hangs in the air. I have no idea. It’s not like we can walk away from Diarmuid.

“Is that why you were digging into Andrew’s death?” It made such sense. Niamh didn’t seem like the snooping type. Her shaken state when she arrived at my apartment, her desperation to find out more was now adding up.

Before she can answer me, the door swings open. Amira saunters in, her laughter cutting through the tension like a knife. ”Oh, shoot. I thought that I would be the only one up here,” she says, a smirk playing on her lips.

”Coming up to pick the grass blades out of your ass?” I retort, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. It”s a petty jab, but I”m not in the mood for her games.

”Oh wow, slut shaming, are we?” Amira fires back, her tone mocking. It”s clear she”s not the least bit bothered by my comment.

”I don’t care about you having an active sex life, but don’t you think we should be making a good impression at an event like this?” I counter.

”Check the dew on the marble outside. My ass made a great impression,” she quips, unfazed.

”Whatever. You can have him, Amira. We would much rather just be dropped so we can go on with our lives,” I say finally.

As Amira laughs off my words, I turn to Niamh, seeing my own resolve reflected in her eyes.

Amira”s laughter fills the space between the sterile walls of the bathroom, her amusement making me tighten my fists. ”You really are morons,” she says, her voice laced with disdain.

“You don’t understand…” Niamh says, her face is unnaturally pale even under the makeup I had applied not long ago.

Amira cuts her off. ”I understand. What? Do you think that if Diarmuid rejects you,you just get to go on with your merry lives?”

”Well, I know that I would have to figure out a Plan B, but basically, yeah,” Niamh says.

”Why couldn’t we?” I challenge.

Amira”s response is a mix of arrogance and pity. ”Oh my God, I should just let you go. I would win him, and you guys can figure it out yourselves. Luckily for you, I am already winning, so I don’t mind being nice.” Her words drip with condescension. I want to tell Niamh to forget it. We don’t need to listen to Amira’s words. She’s just on a high from having Diarmuid.

”Once you become a Bride, you belong to them. Even if you get rejected, you still belong to them. Understand?” Amira”s tone shifts, the gravity of her statement hanging heavily in the air.

Niamh”s confusion mirrors my own. ”What do you mean?” she asks, her voice small.

The implications of Amira”s words are chilling. The idea of being forever bound, with no true escape, is a cage I hadn”t envisioned. I had naively assumed that rejection would be a release, a chance to reclaim my life and start anew. I knew I’d have to face my parents” wrath, but never being free of this world sends a cold dread that settles in my stomach.

This is a fate I can”t accept. My mind races, desperate for a solution, a way out.

As Amira stands before us, a smirk playing on her lips, I realize that our understanding of the situation has been na?ve at best. How does Amira know all this, and we don’t?

Amira”s words cut through the air, each one landing with the weight of a verdict. ”Diarmuid is a Duke, right? He is supposed to become a King?”

”In the mafia?” Niamh asks, before glancing at me.

Amira”s laugh is humorless, sharp. ”No, dumbass. In the Hand of Kings. You really have no idea what you have gotten yourself into. They are like the Illuminati, but they never fell. Hundreds of years of building power, and you are a Bride of a future King. If you fail, no other King or Duke is going to want you, so you get passed to the Marquesses, then the Earls, and so on. Fail enough times, and Wolf will get you.”

”Who”s Wolf?” The question escapes my lips before I can stop it, a reflection of my growing horror. Each word that leaves Amira’s mouth keeps getting worse and worse.

Amira”s answer sends a shiver down my spine. ”Diarmuid’s cousin. He operates the O’Sullivan sex trade.”

The room spins as the gravity of our situation becomes painfully clear. Niamh and I exchange a look of shock, our shared fear unspoken but palpable. The world we thought we knew, the dangers we believed we understood, pale in comparison to the nightmare Amira unveils.

She has got to be lying. But why would she?

”You can try to run, but you won’t get far. Your passport will magically stop working. Your family will be stalked. Your money will disappear.” Amira”s voice is cold, matter-of-fact.

”Face it, ladies. Your options are on Diarmuid’s arm or someone’s whore.” The finality in Amira”s statement is a death knell. She doesn’t seem to care how we are taking this as she turns to the mirror and fixes her hair. She smiles at herself.

Panic wells up within me, a tide of desperation and fear threatening to drown my resolve. The thought of being passed down the hierarchy of power like a pawn in a sick game is unbearable. And Wolf... the mere mention of his name and his vile trade sends a wave of nausea crashing over me.

Beside me, Niamh”s eyes are wide with the realization of what Amira is saying. The revelation of the Hand of Kings, of the real power and darkness behind Diarmuid”s position, casts a shadow over any hope of escape.

It can’t be like this.Amira spins and gives us one final look. “Best of luck.” She leaves the bathroom, and I can’t seem to find my footing.

Something ignites in me, a spark of defiance. The fear is overwhelming, yes, but the thought of succumbing without a fight is intolerable. I glance at Niamh, seeing my own determination mirrored in her eyes. No matter how dire the situation, we can”t let fear dictate our fate.

”We”ll find a way,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. ”We have to.” With every fiber of my being, I vow to fight, to seek a sliver of hope in this darkness—for Niamh, for myself, for our very souls.