CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I”M DRIVING HOME; the night air is cool against my skin, and my mind is a tumultuous sea. The last remnants of Niamh”s taste linger on my lips, and unconsciously, my fingers trace them, seeking more of her, more of that sweet, intoxicating essence. The streets are nearly empty, lit by the occasional streetlamp.
Three women. Each one is so different.
Amira. Her mistake was a crack in the otherwise impeccable facade she presented to the world. But who among us is without fault? My hope by placing her on the driveway the other night was to let her cool down. I need to go check on her and see if she has, in fact, calmed down.
Then there”s Selene. Fierce doesn”t even begin to cover it. She”s a fortress with walls I”ve been trying to scale since the moment we met. Her resistance only fuels my desire, turning every encounter into a battle of wills I”m determined to win. There”s something about the chase, the constant push and pull, that”s exhilarating.
And Niamh. Sweet, delicate Niamh. Every moment with her is a tightrope walk between joy and despair. She”s fragile, not in body but in spirit, and I fear the world I inhabit will shatter her. She deserves so much more, and I”m caught between wanting to give her everything and fearing that I”ll be her undoing.
The ring of my cell phone cuts through my reverie like a knife. It”s one of my men. “Boss, we”ve got a problem. The shipment”s delayed.”
Right, the business. My life isn”t just consumed right now by my Brides; there”s the ever-present weight of my empire. Between juggling alliances and unearthing traitors, I’ve had to lean heavily on my crew. The O”Sullivan arms trade doesn”t run itself, after all.
“There”s more,” he hesitates, and in that pause, a cold shiver runs down my spine. I hear a murmur in the background, a voice that shouldn”t be there. A voice I know.
Wolf.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather groaning under my fingers. Wolf”s presence is never a harbinger of good news. He”s the shadow in my already dark world, a reminder that there are always bigger predators lurking, waiting.
The turn of my wheel toward the Dublin Docklands is a decisive one, pulling me away from any lingering thoughts of checking in on Amira. Priorities constantly shift in my line of work, and the call involving Wolf demands immediate attention. The road stretches before me, leading to a place that blends day-to-day commerce with the undercurrents of a world unseen by most.
The Dublin Docklands, with its bustling activity and scenic views, is a veneer of normalcy and tourism. It”s almost laughable how one of the country’s vital arteries, handling the lion”s share of Ireland”s imports and exports, doubles as a stage for criminal enterprises. Tourists flock here, oblivious to the underbelly, drawn by the promise of leisure and the charm of waterside eateries and sporting events. They wander, dine, and celebrate, all under the watchful gaze of cranes that toil in the distance.
I pull into a private space beside The Silent Prince Tavern, a pub that’s mastered the art of camouflage. Its exterior is a careful construction designed to appeal to tourists with its quaint charm and the allure of an old-world tavern. The sign swaying gently in the night breeze—a young prince, crowned and commanding silence with a finger pressed to his lips—is a fitting emblem for the secrets it guards.
Inside, the atmosphere is rich in Irish culture. The air is alive with the strum of folk music, a melody that”s both balm and a blade, cutting through my thoughts. Around me, tourists and locals laugh and chatter. Televisions flicker with the vibrant greens of the Croke Park football field.
Alan, the head bartender, catches my eye from across the room. He signals to one of the bartenders and begins to make his way over. His approach is a casual saunter. No one gives us a second glance as we move together toward the back of the pub, the world of drinks and banter falling away with each step.
The door to the back office closes with a soft click, sealing us away from the lively pulse of the pub.
The office gives way to a hidden world behind a false wall. The sound of hissing kegs filters through as the front continues its normal operation of serving drinks. Inside, the air is cooler, filled with the scent of wood, and a quiet tension seems to fill the room. Organized crates line the walls while a group of men stand huddled around a table in the center.
Without hesitation, I address the matter at hand, my voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. “Where”s Wolf?”
“He just left before you arrived,” Alan says with a frown, like my line of questioning shouldn’t matter.
One of my men steps forward, worry clear in his expression. “The ship was supposed to have our order, but it arrived empty. Clients are waiting, Diarmuid.”
I approach the table, poring over the logs laid out before me. Two possibilities unfold in my mind: either our contacts faced unexpected trouble, redirecting our cargo to one of two alternate ships, or our shipment has been intercepted and stolen or discovered. Neither scenario bodes well for us.
“Who”s on this?” I ask Alan.
His response, a single name, Fergal, does little to quell the churn of thoughts in my mind. “Is Fergal up to this?” I press.
Alan”s nod is firm. “He”s earned his stripes, Diarmuid. Been through the fire with us.”
“Where was the shipment coming from?” I ask.
“Russia.”
The thought of Russia tightens the coil of tension in my gut. International complications are the last thing we need.
As we agree to wait for word from Fergal, Alan pulls me aside, his voice low. “Should we get the others involved?” he whispers.
“The others?”I question.
“Yeah, you know, the others.” Alan raises both brows.
I know he’s referring to the Hand of Kings. The O’Sullivans have navigated treacherous waters before without needing the Hand of Kings’ help. “The O’Sullivans have been handling shit like this for centuries,” I assert firmly. “We just need to know what screw needs twisting. Get on that.” My voice leaves no room for argument.
As I step back into the lively atmosphere of the bar, the familiar sights and sounds wrap around me like a cloak. In another life, or perhaps just a different chapter of my own, I would have melted into this scene with ease. The counter, the clink of glasses, the hum of conversation—a backdrop against which I”d play out the night”s possibilities. The apartments above, silent witnesses to countless nights where I’ve brought women to fuck. Yet, tonight, that doesn’t interest me.
Maybe I am starting to feel something for one of my Brides. With that thought, I find myself at the counter, not to find a woman to fuck, but to seek the simple comfort of whiskey. The bartender places a white napkin in front of me before placing a freshly poured whiskey on top of it. The amber liquid holds a promise of temporary respite, a fleeting escape.
As I lift the glass, the presence of another at my elbow pulls me back to the present. Wolf. His appearance is both unexpected and not. He apparently didn’t go too far.
“Why are you here?” I ask and bring the drink to my lips. I take a sip.
“I’m an O’Sullivan, too. There is no reason why I can’t be here. It’s part of my family”s history.”
I drink half the glass before turning to Wolf.
“Bullshit,” I call out. I wasn”t born yesterday.
“Fine.” Wolf shrugs. “I was looking for you. I’m going stir crazy since our meeting with Victor.” Wolf speaks too loudly but I don’t get to scold him as he turns to the bartender and raises two fingers, beckoning him forward.
“You have to sit tight,” I say and finish my drink. Staying here with Wolf isn’t something I want to do.
“Get me a whiskey,” Wolf orders the bartender, who looks at me. I shake my head letting him know I don’t want any more.
“How is Amira?” Wolf asks.
The mention of Amira, said so casually from Wolf”s lips, ignites a fury within me that”s hard to contain. “Why the hell are you interested in her?” My question is a demand.
“Relax, Diarmuid. I”ve just got something for her.” His words, meant to diffuse, only fan the flames. The notion that Amira might need something from him, that there”s a connection there I”m unaware of, is intolerable. “Anything she needs can go through me,” I assert, a line drawn in the sand.
“I’m afraid that this isn’t something that can simply be handed over, Diarmuid,” He picks up his drink and takes a swallow.
Who the fuck does he think he is? I take a step toward him, thinking I could break him like I broke his father. Would he scream and plead as loud as his father? I”m sure Wolf would cry and offer up anything or anyone just to save his skin. My hands reach out and grab Wolf by the collar of his jacket. His brows shoot up as if he’s surprised that I’m pissed.
Alan appears on the far side of Wolf, and he is the only thing that prevents me from hurting Wolf. A nod from me has Alan stepping back. I can control myself. I release Wolf, but he doesn’t appear to be relieved that I didn’t hurt him. His eyes tighten in anger.
“You are always protected, watched over.” A bitterness enters Wolf’s voice as he watches Alan walk away, and when Wolf turns back to me, he gives a laugh. “Of course, I can’t touch Diarmuid O’Sullivan. Not in his own place.”
Is he fucking mocking me?
“Lorcan is protected by his political circle. Ronan is protected by the thugs he can hire through his business contacts.” Angry words roll from his tongue before he comes to the punchline.
“It’s obvious Victor is planning to cut me out of my inheritance.”
I find myself momentarily at a loss for words. The O”Sullivan family, my family, is indeed a well-oiled machine, each cog turning in unison even amidst the turmoil of our patriarch”s decline. Victor”s silence on the matter of succession has left us in a state of suspended anticipation, each of us awaiting his signal to align ourselves accordingly.
The right to choose our leader, once held firmly within our grasp, was relinquished the moment we entwined our fate with the Hand of Kings. A decision that, while expanding our reach and solidifying our power, also bound us to their will, making the succession a matter of their interest as much as ours.
Wolf, as a leader, is a thought I can barely entertain. His temper and his darkness make him unsuitable for a role that demands not just strength but restraint. Our world, as unforgiving as it is, requires a leader who can navigate its shadows without being consumed by them. Wolf’s love for breaking things wouldn’t bode well for him.
“My father was going to give me everything. I was going to take over.”
This is a complete surprise to me. I know I should say I’m sorry, but the words would sound as empty as they are.
“Do you remember where you were that night, the night Andrew disappeared?”
The bartender arrives back, and I’m so grateful for the distraction. “I’ll have another.” I turn to Wolf, but his drink is still full.
“I was probably in the pub, managing my affairs,” I respond with a nonchalance I don”t quite feel. The question, pointed as it is, dredges up memories better left undisturbed.
“This man was your uncle,” he presses, an edge of accusation in his tone. “I know exactly where I was and what I was doing that night. Why can”t you remember?”
“I”m a busy man,” I counter, the defense sounding feeble even to my own ears.
“We were all at the Church for drinks. Lorcan and Ronan were in town, everyone was there... except you.” Wolf has never sounded so sure about anything in his life.
The world around us grows silent, and I know I better get my head straight, quickly.
“If I wasn”t there, then I would have been at The Silent Prince,” I offer and reach for my drink.
He nods, a gesture heavy with unspoken implications. “Lorcan called Alan that night. Alan said you weren”t at the pub, either.”
The silence that follows is charged, a tangible thing that stretches between us, laden with questions and accusations unvoiced. I look into Wolf”s eyes, seeing not just my cousin but the memories of a shared past. Wolf knows me, perhaps better than anyone—my preferences, my weaknesses, my secrets, well, not all my secrets. A formidable ally, indeed, but in another life, perhaps an even more formidable foe.
Wolf nods, like he got an answer, before he reaches across and picks up my drink.
He drinks the entire glass in one swallow and walks away.