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

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE WORLD OUTSIDE the car window blurs into a palette of greens and grays as I navigate the now familiar road toward Amira”s house. My attempts to reach her have been met with silence, her deliberate avoidance echoing louder than any words she might have hurled my way. It frustrates me, angers me, even. My life is busy enough as it is and chasing after Amira”s dramatics is a complication I can ill afford.

Wolf knows—or at least, I think he does. That revelation alone carries the weight of a looming confrontation, a debt between us that”s yet to be settled. Part of me had expected him to come at me guns blazing, quite literally, given the chance. But this version of Wolf, one that”s cold, calculating, and ominously patient, is unfamiliar. It”s unsettling, not knowing what to expect from him now. This isn”t the man I once understood, and that unpredictability adds an edge to my already frayed nerves.

As I turn into the driveway, the extensive stretch of it reminds me of Amira’s family’s involvement with the Hands of the Kings. Out of the three Brides, Amira”s family undoubtedly boasts the most expansive property, a fact that traces back to a time when her father, John Reardon, had ambitions aligned with those of the O’Sullivans. He was supposed to initiate the same gun trade I find myself entrenched in now. However, fate had a cruel twist in store when John, in assembling his crew, unwittingly welcomed an undercover Interpol agent into their midst.

The fallout was nearly catastrophic, threatening not just the O’Sullivans but the Hand of Kings itself. In the aftermath, Michael Reardon, the eldest son, became collateral, a hostage in a game of power and retaliation. Andrew O’Sullivan, driven by a thirst for vengeance against John, saw no solution other than death. But Victor, ever the strategist, saw potential where others saw only ruin. Thus, the Reardons were thrust into our world via a transaction of blood for loyalty, but they never received the same standing as my brothers and me.

My hand tightens on the steering wheel, the car’s steady hum a contrast to the storm brewing within me.

I park in front of the house; the familiar is now a grim marker of what awaits. The front door, slightly ajar, sends a shiver down my spine. With a cautious push, I open it wider and draw my gun, the weight of it in my hand a cold comfort.

The first thing that hits me is the state of the foyer. It”s a mess, a shadow of its former glory. This house, with its sprawling estate close to the shore, was designed to breathe in the fresh sea air, to stand as a testament to the Reardon’s wealth and taste. Now, it”s suffocating under a layer of neglect. The air is stale, thick with the scent of decay.

As I move silently through the darkened corridors, a sliver of light from the kitchen beckons. What I find there stops me in my tracks. The kitchen is in ruins. Empty bottles clutter the countertops and floor, a silent testimony to despair or madness. The sink overflows, water spilling over the broken tiles, seeping into the grout like open wounds. The destruction is complete, a cabinet door hanging off its hinges like a final, desperate cry.

With my gun leading the way, I navigate the chaos toward Amira”s room. The door is off its hinges, the window wide open, curtains fluttering like ghostly sentinels. The disarray speaks of a hasty departure, or worse. “What the hell happened here?” I whisper to myself, though I”m not sure I want the answer.

A noise from the depths of the house catches my attention. I move towards it, gun ready, my heart racing. Then, he steps into the dim light—John Reardon. But he’s not the man I remember. This John is a shell, his suit hanging loosely on his frame, his shirt stained and crumpled as though he”s been wearing it for days.

For a moment, we just stare at each other. The standoff is surreal, a moment frozen in time amidst the wreckage of a life once lived here. This man before me, once powerful and feared, is now just another casualty of the life we”ve chosen. The realization doesn”t bring me any comfort. If anything, it”s a stark reminder of how easily everything can come crashing down.

“Where”s Amira?” The demand slices through the tense air, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. John, looking every bit the defeated man, meets my gaze with a mix of resignation and defiance.

“I don”t know,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just got home a few hours ago.”

“And where have you been?”

He doesn”t answer, but he doesn”t have to. Rumors have a way of traveling fast in our circles, and I”ve heard enough to put the pieces together. “So, while you were out fucking, something happened to my Bride?” I can”t keep the edge of accusation from my voice; my patience wearing thin.

He doesn’t hold my eye now, and I don’t know if it’s his first time really looking around him, but a sense of shame washes across his face. I don’t give a fuck. I want to know where Amira is.

I cock my gun for extra emphasis. “Where is Amira?”

John’s hands spring up instantly. “I don’t know. Amira and Tess... they don”t have the best relationship,” he says. He slowly drops his hands and takes another look around. “From the state I found the kitchen in, I’d say they had another row.”

The implication of his words hits me like a physical blow. If there was a fight here, it wasn”t just an argument; it was violent, destructive. John”s lack of surprise at the violence tells its own story, a grim testament to the norm in this household.

A fury builds within me, a tidal wave of anger at the parade of shitty parents I”ve encountered in this world. John”s mistakes have cost him dearly—Michael, taken as a hostage because of him, and two sons are dead because of his actions. And now, his only daughter is left to fend for herself against an abusive mother while he indulges in another woman. The injustice of it, the sheer negligence, pushes me over the edge.

“You leave your daughter with that woman while you”re off playing Casanova?” My voice rises, a mix of disbelief and contempt. “Michael and your other sons paid for your mistakes with their lives. And now Amira... What? She”s just another casualty in your long list of failures?”

John”s face crumples, the weight of my words hitting home. But my sympathy is long gone, burned away by the sight of the chaos his negligence has wrought. This isn”t just about Amira or the Reardons; it”s about every child left vulnerable by those who should protect them. My grip on my gun tightens, not with the intent to use it, but as a physical reminder of the control I must maintain. Losing it now won”t help Amira, but every fiber of my being screams for some semblance of justice. I want to fucking shoot him, but his dying isn’t justice enough.

“She beats Amira?” I say.

He clears his throat and frowns. “You know mothers and daughters.” He tries to laugh off his statement.

I put my gun away and grin at him. “No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

I take a step closer to him.

“They fight.”

I nod again. “She hits Amira?” I ask.

He shrugs. “She drinks a lot. Tess doesn’t mean it.”

My fist collides with his face, and he hits the ground hard. “Did I mean that?” I ask, kneeling over him. He’s shocked for a second before he raises a shaky hand and wipes blood from his face.

I don’t give him a moment to recover before I slam my fist into his face again. “Did I mean that, or did my fucking hand slip?” I roar, rage riding high with words that spill from my mouth.

My hands are around his throat, and I squeeze. I squeeze the life out of him. He deserves to die. He claws at my arms, and when his hands fall to the floor as his life slips away, I come to my senses and release him. He doesn’t move or gasp for air. I stare at him for a second before he starts to gasp and rolls on his side.

He’s alive.

I leave him before I finish what I started.

Fury courses through my veins. My fists clench at my sides as I stare down at him one last time, crumpled and defeated on the floor. My heart races, not with the thrill of victory, but with a ferocious concern for Amira. I need to find her, ensure she”s safe from the harm that John”s wife has clearly inflicted on her.

Powerful strides carry me to my car, the evening air doing little to cool the heat of my anger. My mind races as I consider where Amira might have sought refuge. The Hand of Kings manse flashes through my thoughts, but I dismiss it just as quickly. No, I had thrown her out, a decision that now twists in my gut like a knife. She wouldn”t return there, not after everything.

Where could she be? The city sprawls before me, a labyrinth of possibilities and dead ends. She wouldn’t be with Niamh and Selene, as they have no time for her. If it was one of them, I could go to the other for help.

Before I can start the car, my phone pierces the silence. My heart skips, hope and dread mingling in equal measure as I answer. “Do you know where your Brides are?” The voice is unfamiliar, edged with a sinister amusement that sends a shiver down my spine. Selene and Niamh are safe, accounted for, but Amira... This caller knows of her, of the danger she”s in.

“I don”t know who you think you are,” I growl into the phone, my voice a low rumble of barely contained rage, “but you”ll regret this call.” My mind races, trying to place the voice.

When the caller speaks again, recognition slams into me like a physical blow. Oisin Cormick. The hitman who trained me, the man whose name I”ve taken as my professional moniker. Him. A flood of memories washes over me, moments of brutal training and begrudging respect. Cormick had been a constant, a harsh mentor but one who had looked out for me in his own twisted way.

All of that feels like a lie now.

“Cormick,” I say, the name tasting like betrayal on my tongue. “What have you done with her?”

His laughter is cold, devoid of the warmth I once thought I knew. “Nothing. But I know where two of your Brides are, and it’s somewhere they shouldn’t be.”

I have so many questions, like why is he tracking my Brides? He calls out an address I’m not familiar with.

I type the address into my navigation app. “I am more than twenty minutes away,” I say and start up the engine.

“It”s a good thing Victor gave you three.” The implication of his words sends a fresh wave of urgency coursing through me. The line goes dead, and I grip the steering wheel tighter as I drive toward the address.

The man who had shaped me into the weapon I am today, who had watched over me with a cold, detached kind of care, now plays the most dangerous game with the lives of those under my protection. I have no idea why he is following my Brides, but I need to get to them. I need to protect them from Cormick and from themselves.