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

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SOFIA HUGHES WAS more than a name in a file, more than a statistic in the dark underbelly of the city. She was a person, a sister, a part of a family torn asunder by her disappearance. As I flip through the documents Rian has painstakingly gathered, I can”t help but admire his diligence. For someone who”s not a professional, Rian”s work is impressive. The array of Sofia”s social media accounts sprawls across the table, a digital footprint frozen in time. The last post dates back two years, a smiling photo that betrays no hint of the darkness to come.

This timeline doesn”t add up. Sofia”s death was a recent affair, yet her digital life halted long before her last breath—the discrepancy nags at me, a puzzle piece that refuses to fit.

Rian”s next revelation is a stack of articles, each penned with the kind of fervor that spoke of Sofia”s passion for her work. She was a prolific writer. The majority of names of those she interviewed were politicians. Yet, there”s a glaring gap in her professional output. No articles published in the last year of her life. What silenced Sofia Hughes?

In the kitchen, Selene and Rian share a quiet moment over cups of tea, the steam swirling between them. Rian had offered me a cup, but the chaos of his apartment made the very thought unappealing. It”s not that Rian”s living conditions reflect a lack of cleanliness; rather, it”s organized chaos. Everything has its place, though that place makes sense only to him. Selene doesn’t seem to mind the mess around us as they speak with ease over their cup of tea.

I can”t share their ease. The disorder clashes violently with the world I grew up in, a world of precision and predictability. My comfort zone is a rigid structure, a framework within which I know how to operate.

But it”s not the time to dwell on personal discomforts. Sofia”s life, her legacy, demands more than that. As I sift through the documents, a plan begins to crystallize. We need to follow the threads Sofia left behind, to trace her last days through the shadows she chased. Her sister deserves answers.

“Rian, how did you come across this?” I ask, motioning towards the stack of articles. My voice cuts through the comfortable silence, a reminder of the work yet undone.

Rian turns toward me. “It wasn”t easy. Sofia was meticulous, maybe too much so for her own good. It”s like she knew she was onto something big.”

Something big. The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Sofia Hughes didn”t just vanish from the digital world without reason. She was silenced, but not before she uncovered a truth someone wanted buried.

Selene”s question about our next move anchors us back to the task at hand, pulling my attention momentarily away from the chaotic spread of Rian”s apartment. Rian”s enthusiasm is palpable as he outlines a strategy that includes reaching out to Sofia”s sister, contacting secretaries of politicians entangled in Sofia”s articles, and possibly even approaching the publications that had purchased her work.

As Rian speaks, my gaze drifts, taking in the layers of his obsession that wallpaper the room. Amongst the clutter, a project centered on a ”Lizzie O’Neill” with a “1925” label catches my eye. It”s a web of information, a historical puzzle he”s piecing together with the patience of a saint. Close by, another collection focuses on Moll McCarthy, and I marvel at Rian”s capacity to dive into the past, to resurrect stories long buried.

But it”s a familiar symbol that snags my attention, halting the idle wandering of my eyes—a crown cradled in the palm of a hand. I rise, drawn to the wall, where this symbol acts as a nexus for an elaborate network of strings that branch out to maps, photographs, and timelines. It”s a conspiracy theorist”s dream, connecting dots between organized crime, law enforcement, and even religious figures. There, scrawled in Rian”s hand, is the name “Hand of Kings.”

The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine. The Hand of Kings, a name whispered in shadows, a name that has brushed against my own life in ways I wish it hadn”t. I can”t resist the pull of curiosity. “Tell me about this,” I urge, my voice tinged with an intensity that mirrors the fixation displayed on the wall.

Rian”s excitement is a tangible thing as he turns to the wall, his eyes lighting up with the fire of obsession; he leaves his tea on the counter as he approaches me and pushes his glasses up on his nose. “The Hand of Kings,” he begins, unaware that he speaks to someone far more entwined in that world than he could imagine. “I”ve been tracking this cult since I was a teenager. Most people laugh, call me crazy, but there are too many connections, too many coincidences. They”re real, and they have their hands in everything—crime, the law, even the church.”

Listening to him, I can”t help but feel a twinge of fear mixed with a profound sadness. Here is Rian, a man consumed by a truth too dangerous to pursue.

“I”ve seen this symbol before,” I confess, my voice low, laden with a weight of knowledge I wish I didn”t carry. “Your work, your theories... they”re not as farfetched as you might think.”

Rian”s eyes meet mine, a flicker of realization, of validation, passing between us.

Rian”s conviction seems to grow with every word, painting a world where hidden clues and shadowy councils pull the strings of global events from behind a veil of secrecy. His theory that there”s a vault filled with the world”s darkest secrets, with the entrance clue hidden on a grave in Glasnevin Cemetery, sounds like something out of an adventure novel.

“A council?” Selene interjects, skepticism threading through her voice. “There isn”t one leader?”

“Not from what I”ve discovered,” Rian responds, his eyes alight with the thrill of sharing his findings.

I find myself drawn into the conversation despite my reservations. “No, wouldn”t there be one guy? A Hand to guide the Kings?” I ask, trying to fit Rian”s revelations into the framework of what I know.

“The Hand does the bidding of the council. Only he knows their identities,” Rian clarifies, his statement echoing through the room like a prophecy. The implication of his words, the existence of someone more powerful than Victor, hangs in the air.

A thump from the hallway outside, a sudden noise that cuts through our discussion, has us all spinning toward the noise.We all freeze, our gazes snapping toward the door as if it were the only thing anchoring us to reality. Selene”s whisper slices through the silence, a sharp edge of fear in her voice. “Rian, do you have a weapon?”

Rian”s response is almost comical in its naivety. “Why would I have a weapon?” He looks genuinely puzzled, as if the concept of needing physical protection in his own home is a foreign one.

Rian moves toward the door, his determination masking the uncertainty that flickers in his eyes. Selene and I can only watch as he reaches for the handle, the simple act charged with the potential to change everything.

The door swings open to reveal an older man. He introduces himself as someone who works for Diarmuid, claiming concern for Selene and me. His words are smooth, with a practiced ease that belies the tension of our unexpected encounter. Rian”s confusion is evident, the name Diarmuid holding no significance for him, a stark reminder of the worlds colliding at his doorstep.

The older man”s smile is enigmatic. “The ladies shouldn’t be here; they do not have permission.” I can sense a veiled threat wrapped in politeness. I watch Rian, trying to gauge his reaction, to see if he senses the danger that”s seeped into his home with this stranger”s arrival. Rian”s body language, open and unconcerned, betrays his inexperience and his inability to see beneath the surface of our visitor”s calm demeanor.

Despite the man”s unassuming appearance, something about him sets my instincts on edge. His hair, more gray than black, speaks of years and experiences far beyond what any of us can claim. And there, hidden beneath the benign exterior, is the subtle suggestion of a body honed by training.

“Who is Diarmuid?” Rian asks.

I exchange a glance with Selene, a silent communication that speaks volumes.

When Rian glances back at me, I can’t find any words. He turns back to the old man. “I think it’s best you leave.” I don’t know what Rian sees on mine and Selene’s faces—fear, maybe. Dread. But he pushes the door closed.

A foot wedged in the door stops Rian from closing it. The older man pushes it open with ease and strength. When he reaches for Rian, I rush toward him, but it’s a blur of movement. One minute Rian is standing there, the next the old man’s arms are around his neck. Rian”s death is swift, a chilling demonstration of the older man”s lethal skill. The crack of his neck sends my stomach swirling. My heart beats rapidly in my ears. Blood rushes through my body at what just happened in front of us.

He killed Rian.

With a swift movement, he’s in the apartment with the door closed behind him and Rian hanging lifeless from his arm. He removes a gun, and Selene screams at the same time as I jump back.

“Be quiet,” he warns.

Tears run down my face, and with a shaky hand, I reach up and touch my face. I wasn’t even aware that I had started crying.

“Now, get rid of all of this,” he orders, his weapon sweeping the room, encompassing the entirety of Rian”s life”s work in one dismissive gesture.

Selene has her hands raised and nods, backing toward the wall with all its maps and connections.

I swallow bile. I can”t look away from Rian’s lifeless body.

“Move,” I’m ordered, and I find myself with trembling hands reaching out to remove Rian’s work. I can’t see from the blur of tears.

As we tear it all down, he orders us to place it all in the sink. The man lowers Rian to the ground but still holds the gun toward me and Selene. The flames consume every piece of paper, every note and article, as he lights it all on fire.

Death reduces Rian”s body, that was once vibrant with life and curiosity, to an object to be concealed, rolled in a rug as if he were nothing more than refuse.

Guided by the barrel of the man”s gun, we move in a daze.

He swings the rug across his shoulder and opens the apartment door. “Outside.” He orders.

A strangled cry falls from my lips. A hand takes mine, and I jump for a second until I look into Selene’s tear-filled eyes.

The streets are silent witnesses to our grim procession. The alley was a makeshift route to an ending none of us could have predicted. The trunk of the man”s car becomes Rian”s final resting place, a thought that churns my stomach with a mix of rage and despair.

The man levels his gun once more.“Get in the car.” His words are a sentence, mostly a death sentence.

Selene tightens her hand on mine.

“No,” she says, keeping me rooted at her side.

I tremble at the cock of the gun. How can this be our end? I glance around the darkened alleyway. Something moves in the shadows. And then Diarmuid is there, a gun in his hand.

It takes me a moment to really allow what I am seeing to sink in. He has blood on his shirt, and he looks like he’s been in a battle. In his eyes, there burns a fierce resolve.

The old man turns to Diarmuid. “You got here quicker than I thought.” His gun is now pointed at Diarmuid.

“I was only ten minutes away. I lied,” Diarmuid confesses and takes a step closer. “You will let them go, Cormick.”

Cormick’s smile is a flash in the darkness. “And why would I do that?”

There is a shift in the air as Diarmuid puts his gun away and steps even closer to Cormick. “You don’t need a gun.”

Cormick laughs. “It”s a quicker way.”

“If you fire that gun, people will hear.” Diarmuid holds up his hands and takes another step closer to Cormick; he hasn’t looked at Selene and me who are holding hands.

I want to tell Diarmuid that he killed Rian, but it’s like there is no air in the alleyway.

Cormick lowers his gun, his smile no longer visible. “You want to dance? Let’s dance.” He whips out a knife, and my stomach sinks to my feet.

With a growl, Diarmuid moves with precision, a knife in his own hand I hadn’t even seen him extract. His movements are both horrific and mesmerizing. He swipes a large arch, and the knife nicks Cormick’s arm. Selene drags me back until our backs hit the wall.

Cormick retaliates instantly, his own knife drawing blood across Diarmuid’s chest. I scream when I see the injury, but Diarmuid’s onslaught is relentless, driven by a primal need to protect, to avenge. He swipes quickly at Cormick again, this time cutting the man’s torso. I’m waiting for his guts to spill out across the asphalt, but crimson red soaks his shirt. He hasn”t a moment to recover when Diarmuid swipes out and takes his legs out from under him with one quick movement.

When Cormick hits the ground, Diarmuid is on top of him, one knee crushing the man’s hand that held the knife. With a pressure that has Cormick releasing his knife, the clang of the weapon echoes. But relief that Diarmuid has the upper hand has me stepping away from the wall, thinking it’s over.

“I trained you well,” Cormick says before spitting to his left. Diarmuid’s fist slams into Cormick’s face with a viciousness that takes the remaining air from my lungs. He raises the knife and pierces one of Cormick’s eyes. The sound is too much, and I want Diarmuid to stop.

“Please stop.” It’s all too much.

I don’t think Diarmuid can hear me as he removes his knife with an eyeball hanging on the end.

“Never touch what is mine,” Diarmuid says before he drives the knife deeper until only the handle sticks out of Cormic’s eye, and his body goes still.

I pivot just in time as bile claws its way up my throat, and I empty the meager contents of my stomach along the alleyway wall.

Arms circle me, and I expect Selene, but it’s Diarmuid. “It’s okay. You are safe.” He pulls me into his chest, blood soaking into my clothes, and I can’t stop the sobs that take over.

“Are you hurt?” I find myself saying.

He brushes it off. “We need to leave.” He doesn’t look like he could walk two feet without collapsing, but he pulls me and Selene away from the gruesome scene.

“Rian, he killed Rian,” I say. “We need to get him out of the trunk.”

“No,” Diarmuid orders as he drags us away from the bodies.

“We can’t just leave him here,” I object.

“It”s just the way with our world,” he states, a harsh truth spoken with a finality. His refusal is not cruel but a necessity born from years within a world that devours its weak and sentimental.

We leave the alleyway and Rian behind.