Chapter 1 #2
My father is sitting behind the desk that belonged to his father. The room is dim, lit only by a green banker’s lamp that casts long, sickly shadows against the walls. The air here is different—stiller, colder. It smells of dust and old paper.
Liam Kavanagh looks small.
That’s the first thing that hits me. My father has always been a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and loud. But tonight, he looks shrunken inside his suit. His skin is grey, the color of wet ash. He’s staring at a tumbler of whiskey, his hand trembling slightly.
"Close the door," he says. His voice is gravel.
I push the door shut until the latch clicks. "Devaney’s men are handled. I sent a message."
"I didn't ask about Devaney."
"You sent me to handle it."
"I sent you to give me an hour of peace." He looks up. His eyes are bloodshot. "Sit down."
"I’ll stand."
"Sit down, damn it."
I pull out the wooden chair opposite the desk and sit. The wood creaks under my weight. I keep my hands on my knees, hiding the blood.
"Rory says you had a visitor."
My father laughs. It’s a dry, hacking sound. "Rory has big ears and a loose mouth."
"Was it Falcone?"
"It was his Consigliere. Rossi."
I feel the muscles in my neck tighten. "Why is a Falcone Consigliere walking into this pub and walking out alive?"
"Because I invited him."
The words hang in the air. I stare at him, trying to make sense of the shape of them. Invited. My father invited the enemy into the heart of our territory.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because the war is over, Killian."
"The war isn't over until they’re dead or we are."
"Then we’re dead." He slams his hand on the desk. The sound is startlingly loud. "Open your eyes! Look at the books! We’re bleeding cash. We’re losing men faster than we can recruit them.
And now the Russians is circling like sharks.
Volkov is in the city. He’s taking the ports. He’s buying the cops."
"I can handle Volkov."
"You can't." He points a finger at me, and I see the tremor is worse than I thought. "You’re good at violence, son. You’re the best I’ve ever seen. But this isn't a street fight. This is economics. This is politics. We are being erased."
"So we fight harder."
"We fight smarter." He leans back, the chair groaning. "Salvatore Falcone sees the same writing on the wall. He knows that if we keep tearing each other apart, Volkov picks the bones of both our families."
"So? A truce? We stay on our side of the line, they stay on theirs?"
"A truce isn't enough. A truce is a piece of paper. Paper burns." He picks up the whiskey glass, swirls the amber liquid. "To survive Volkov, we need an alliance. A merger. One organization. The Kavanagh muscle and the Falcone political reach. Unified."
I feel cold. It starts in my stomach and spreads out to my fingertips. "A merger."
"Yes."
"And how exactly do you merge two families that have been killing each other for forty years? You think shaking hands is going to erase the blood?"
"No. Blood erases blood." He takes a drink. "The old laws. The Compact of 1920. When the families were founded, there was a provision for ending a blood feud. A binding union."
"A marriage." The word tastes like vinegar.
"Yes."
I almost laugh. It’s absurd. "Da, look at me. Look at Rory. Look at Salvatore’s sons. There isn't a woman in this generation. Who are we supposed to marry? Unless you’ve got a secret daughter tucked away in a convent somewhere."
My father doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. He sets the glass down with a precise, deliberate click.
"The Compact doesn't specify gender, Killian. It specifies blood. The heir of one house to the heir of the other. A binding of names."
The silence in the room stretches. It becomes a physical weight, pressing against my eardrums. I hear the hum of the refrigerator in the corner. I hear the rain lashing against the window. I hear my own heart, slow and heavy, thudding against my ribs.
"No," I say.
"It’s done."
"No." I stand up. My chair scrapes back. "You’re insane. You want me to marry a Falcone? A man?"
"I want you to save this family!" He roars the words, standing up to meet me. He sways slightly, gripping the desk for support. "It’s the only way. The papers are drawn. The terms are agreed."
"You sold me."
"I saved you! Without this, you’re dead in six months. A bullet in the back of the head from a Russian you never saw coming. Is that what you want? Is that what you want for Rory?"
The name stops me. Rory.
My father sees the hesitation. He strikes.
"Rory is soft, Killian. He’s an artist, not a soldier. If we go down, he goes down first. They will tear him apart. You know they will."
I grip the back of the chair so hard the wood splinters under my fingers. "So I’m the payment."
"You’re the Underboss. This is your duty."
"Who?" I ask. My voice sounds hollow. "Which one? Rocco?"
"No. Rocco is the dog. You don't marry the dog." My father looks at me, and for a second, I see a flicker of something that looks like apology in his eyes. But he suffocates it. "Alessandro."
Alessandro. The Prince. The surgeon. The man who walks through the city in bespoke suits, looking at the world like it’s a specimen on a slide.
"He’s a Falcone," I spit. "He’ll kill me in my sleep."
"He won't. The Vow is binding. If he hurts you, the truce breaks and his family dies. If you hurt him, we die. It’s mutually assured destruction. It’s the only thing that works."
I feel sick. Physically sick. I’ve taken beatings that left me unable to walk. I’ve been shot. I’ve stabbed men and watched the light go out of their eyes. But this? This is a violation I don't have a defense for.
"When?" I ask.
"Friday. A private ceremony. Neutral ground."
"And then?"
"And then you live with him. You work with him. You present a united front to the city and to Volkov."
I look at the man across the desk. I look at the lines in his face, the trembling hands, the whiskey bottle that is his only real friend.
I realize, with a sudden, clarity, that I don't hate him. I pity him. He’s a king standing on a crumbling castle, throwing his children into the moat to keep the water from rising.
But I am not a child. I am the Reaper.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you walk out that door," he says quietly. "And you take Rory with you. And you never come back. You’re out of the family. No protection. No money. No name. Just you and your brother against the Russians and the Falcones."
It’s a checkmate. He knows it. I know it. He knows I can survive on the street. He knows I can fight. But he knows I can't protect Rory without the army behind me. Rory needs the walls. Rory needs the money.
I slowly release my grip on the chair. My hand is throbbing. I look at the split knuckle, the blood drying dark and crusty on my skin.
"Friday," I say.
"Friday."
I turn around. I don't look at him. I can't look at him. If I look at him, I might do something that can't be undone.
"Killian," he calls out as I reach the door.
I stop, my hand on the brass knob.
"It’s just a marriage," he says. "It doesn't have to be love. It just has to be a cage."
"Careful, Da," I say, and my voice is so cold it surprises even me. "You’re locking a wolf in with a snake. Don't be surprised when you wake up and find out one of them ate the other."
I open the door and walk out.
The noise of the pub hits me again. The laughter, the music, the life. It feels distant now. Muted. I see Rory at the bar, still spinning his coin. He looks up, a smile starting on his face, but it dies when he sees my expression.
He slides off the stool. "Kill?"
I walk past him. I walk past Brennan and Doyle. I walk past the men I’ve bled for, the men I’ve killed for. I push through the front door and step out into the rain.
The cold water soaks my shirt instantly. I lift my face to the sky, letting it wash the sweat and the blood from my skin. But it doesn't wash off the feeling of the trap snapping shut.
Alessandro Falcone.
I picture him. Sharp cheekbones. Cold eyes. Hands that have never held a weapon heavier than a scalpel.
My father is wrong. It’s not a cage. It’s a funeral.
I just haven't decided whose yet.