CHAPTER EIGHT
William
THE DRIVE BACK to my house is silent except for the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the security team's radios. Aoife sits beside me in the backseat, staring out the window at nothing. Her hands are folded in her lap, perfectly still. Too still.
She hasn't said a word since we left the hospital.
I watch her from the corner of my eye. The blood is still on her dress, dried now into dark patches that look black in the dim light. It's in her hair, too. Flecks of it on her neck, her jaw. Her father's blood.
Who was the target? The question circles in my head like a vulture.
Dillon O'Rourke, head of the western territories?
Makes sense. Take out the leader, fracture the alliance before it even begins.
Or maybe it was Aoife herself. Kill the bride, end the marriage, destroy the unity we're trying to build.
Could've been meant for me. Or Aidan. Or all of us.
Someone with a high-powered rifle and a clear line of sight doesn't miss by accident. They hit exactly who they wanted to hit.
The question is, why Dillon? Why now? Why wait until after we signed the contracts?
My hands curl into fists on my thighs. Someone opened fire. In my house. At our engagement meeting. While we were signing the contracts that were supposed to unite our families and keep us all safe.
Safe. What a fucking joke.
The SUV pulls through the gates of my estate. Security is everywhere now. Armed guards at every entrance. Lights flooding the grounds. The place is locked down like a fortress.
Should've done it before. Should've anticipated this. Should've protected her better.
The thought makes something twist in my chest. I barely know this woman. Just met her a few hours ago. She's a political arrangement. A strategy. But watching her father get shot in front of her, seeing her covered in his blood, hearing that raw, broken sound she made when she screamed...
It did something to me.
We pull up to the main entrance. I get out first, scan the area even though I know my men have already cleared it. Then I open her door.
Aoife doesn't move.
"We're here," I say.
She blinks slowly, like she's coming back from somewhere far away. Then she turns those blue eyes on me, and I see it. The shock is wearing off. Reality is setting in.
"I need to go back," she says. Her voice is hollow. "I need to be there when he wakes up."
"You need rest."
"I need to be with my father."
"He's in the ICU, Aoife. There's nothing you can do right now."
"I can be there." Her voice cracks on the last word, and I watch her fight to keep it together. Watch her jaw tighten, her shoulders straighten. "I can be there when he—"
"You can barely stand." I keep my tone flat. Factual. "When's the last time you ate?"
She stares at me like I've asked her to solve a mathematical equation.
"That's what I thought." I extend my hand. "Come on. Food first. Then we'll figure out what's next."
For a moment, I think she'll refuse. Will tell me to fuck off and demand I take her back to the hospital. But then she looks at my outstretched hand, and something in her face just...crumbles.
She takes my hand.
Her fingers are ice cold and so small in mine.
I help her out of the SUV and guide her toward the house. She's unsteady on her feet, and I move my hand to her elbow, ready to catch her if she falls. Security parts around us as we walk through the front door and into the main hall.
The house feels different now. Violated. The drawing room where we signed the contracts, where her father was shot, I can feel it from here. The wrongness of it. The violence that seeped into the walls.
"This way," I say, steering her away from that wing of the house.
We walk through corridors I barely register. My mind is racing, running through scenarios. Who took that shot? How did they get past security? How did they know exactly when we'd all be in that room?
Someone on the inside. Has to be.
The thought makes rage flare hot in my chest. Someone in my house. Someone I trusted. Someone who looked my future wife in the eye and then helped put a bullet through her father's throat.
I'm going to find them. And when I do…
"Where are we going?" Aoife's voice pulls me back.
I realize I've led us to the kitchen. The massive chef's kitchen that gets used maybe twice a year when we host events. It's empty now, quiet except for the hum of the industrial refrigerator.
"Sit." I pull out one of the bar stools at the island.
She sits without argument. That alone tells me how bad she is. The woman who challenged me the moment we met, who looked at me with fury in her eyes and told me I was late, she's gone. This woman is hollowed out. Fragile.
I hate it.
I open the fridge and pull out containers. Roasted chicken. Bread. Cheese. Fruit. I don't even know what I'm doing. Just know that she needs to eat something, and I need to do something with my hands before I put my fist through a wall.
I make her a plate. Simple. Protein, carbs, something easy to digest. When I set it in front of her, she stares at it like it's a foreign object.
"Eat," I say.
She picks up a piece of chicken. Brings it halfway to her mouth. Then sets it back down.
"I can't."
"You have to."
"I can't." Her voice breaks again, and this time she doesn't try to hide it. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him. The way he looked at me. The blood—"
She stops. Presses her hand to her mouth. Her whole body is shaking.
I should comfort her. Should say something reassuring. Should do whatever men are supposed to do when women are falling apart in front of them.
But I can't.
I can barely keep myself together. Can barely keep the rage and the guilt and the need for violence contained. If I let myself feel what she's feeling, if I let myself step into that grief...
I’ll snap.
And I can't afford to snap. Not now. Not when someone just proved they can get to us. Not when she needs me to be strong enough for both of us. Not when my entire family is relying on me.
So I do the only thing I can do.
I walk away.
"William—"
"I'll be back," I say without turning around. "Just...eat something. Please."
I leave the kitchen before she can respond. My footsteps echo through the empty corridors as I put distance between us. Between her broken voice and her father's blood and the way she looked at me like I might actually be able to help.
I can't help her.
I can barely help myself.
My feet carry me to the gaming room. The one place in this house that's mine. Where I can shut out everything else and just...exist.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, breathing hard. My hands are shaking again. The rage is building, building, building, and I need it to stop. Need everything to stop.
The safe is behind the dartboard. My fingers fumble with the combination. It takes me three tries before I get it right. Inside is a small plastic bag of cocaine.
Fuck it.
I cut a line on the glass coffee table. The familiar ritual steadies my hands. I roll a bill and lean down, inhaling sharply. The burn hits my sinuses, and my head snaps back.
The rush floods through me. Edges blur. The rage softens, just slightly. Just enough.
I cut another line. And another.
By the third one, my heart is racing. The tremor in my hands has stopped. Everything sharpens, then softens. The thoughts slow down. The guilt recedes.
I can breathe again.
I sink onto the leather couch and let my head fall back. The cocaine sings through my veins, sharp and electric. Everything comes into focus. The chaos in my head organizes itself into clear, manageable problems.
I need to protect her. Need to lead this family. Need to be strong enough to handle this.
And right now? I am.
The self-doubt, the guilt, the constant fucking noise, it's all quiet now. I can think. I can plan. I can be the man they need me to be.
I sit up with an itch to do something, go find the shooter, and put him ten feet under.
My phone buzzes.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
I pull it out, ready to throw it across the room. But the number on the screen makes me freeze.
Unknown.
I stare at it for a long moment. Every instinct screams not to answer. But curiosity wins.
I swipe to accept the call and bring the phone to my ear.
"William Murphy." The voice is smooth. Cultured. Familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I sit up slowly. "Who is this?"
A low chuckle. "You don't recognize your own uncle's voice? I'm hurt, William. Truly."
The cocaine makes everything feel distant, but that voice cuts through the haze like a knife.
Frank.
"You're supposed to be dead," I say.
"Supposed to be, yes. But here we are." Another chuckle. "I heard about poor Dillon O'Rourke. Terrible business. And on such an auspicious occasion, too."
The cocaine-fueled clarity sharpens into something cold. Frank calling right after Dillon gets shot? That's not a coincidence.
"Was it you?" The words come out flat. Dangerous. "Did you have him shot?"
A pause. Then that smooth voice again, but with an edge now. "No, William. I didn't. Though I understand why you'd think so." Another pause. "If I wanted Dillon O'Rourke dead, he'd be dead. And you'd never trace it back to me. This...this was sloppy. Obvious. Not my style."
My grip tightens on the phone. "What do you want?"
"To offer my condolences, of course. And to congratulate you on your engagement. Though I must say, starting a marriage with your bride's father bleeding out does set quite the tone."
"Get to the point, Frank."
"Always so impatient." I can hear the smile in his voice. "Just like your father. Edward never could wait for anything either."
My father. The man Frank helped destroy. The man whose empire Frank tried to steal.
The man whom Alex killed because of Frank's machinations.
"I also heard about Alex leaving," Frank continues when I don't respond. "Such a shame. He had real potential. But I suppose murder does weigh heavily on the soul, doesn't it?"
"If you're calling to fuck with me…"
"I'm calling to help you, William." His tone shifts. Goes serious. "You're in over your head. Russians circling. Enemies on all sides. A family barely held together with duct tape and hope. You need guidance. You need someone who understands the business side of things."
"I don't need shit from you."
"No?" There's that dangerous edge again. "Then how do you explain what happened tonight? How did those Russians know exactly when and where to strike? How did they get past your security? Who told them about the meeting?"
The questions I've been asking myself. The ones that keep circling, circling, circling.
"Someone on the inside," Frank says softly. "Someone close to you. Someone you trust."
"And you know who."
"I know many things, William. I've been watching. Waiting. Building my own network while you all thought I was dead." A pause. "I have information about the Russians that might be very useful to you."
Of course he does.
"What's your price?" Because men like Frank don't offer help out of the goodness of their hearts.
"A meeting. Just the two of us. No brothers. No security. Just you and me, having a civilized conversation about the future of our family."
Our family. Like he has any right to claim that.
"Why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't." Frank's laugh is genuine this time. "But you also can't afford not to. The Russians are planning something big, William. Something that will destroy not just the Murphys, but the O'Rourkes too. Your new bride's family. Do you really want their blood on your hands as well?"
I think of Aoife sitting in my kitchen, covered in her father's blood. The way she looked at me when I walked away.
"When?" The word comes out before I can stop it.
"I'll be in touch with details. Soon." Frank's voice softens. "And William? Congratulations on the sobriety. Six months is impressive. Though from the sound of your voice, I'd say you've fallen off that particular wagon tonight."
How does he…
"I have eyes everywhere, nephew. Remember that."
The line goes dead.
I sit there, phone in hand, staring at nothing. Frank is alive. Frank is watching. Frank has information about the Russians. And Frank knows exactly how desperate I am.
Frank wants a meeting. Just the two of us. No witnesses. No backup. Walking straight into whatever he has planned.
Every rational part of my brain screams that this is a trap. That Frank Murphy is a snake who will strike the moment I let my guard down. That he's played this game longer than I've been alive, and he's better at it than I'll ever be.
But the cocaine-fueled part? The desperate part that watched Aoife's father get shot and knows more attacks are coming? The part that needs answers more than it needs safety?
That part of me thinks maybe Frank is exactly what we need.
I hate that part of myself. The part that would rather believe Frank Murphy than face the truth. That I don't know what I'm doing. That I'm drowning. That maybe I'm not strong enough to save anyone, least of all myself.
I lean forward and cut another line. The room is spinning now, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. But the edges are soft. The thoughts are quiet.
I can pretend, for just a few more minutes, that I'm not drowning.
That I'm not failing.
That I'm strong enough to do this.
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out with shaking hands. Unknown number. A text this time.
“Tomorrow. Noon. The old docks. Come alone, or don't come at all.” - F
Frank.
I stare at the message. Tomorrow. Less than twelve hours to decide if I'm walking into a trap.
The cocaine makes the decision easy. Of course I'm going. I'm invincible right now. Untouchable. I can handle Frank Murphy and whatever game he's playing.
I'll remember this confidence is chemical. That it's a lie. That I'm probably making the worst decision of my life.
But that's tomorrow's problem.
Tonight, I have another line to cut. Another few minutes of pretending I'm the man they need me to be.
Even if everyone knows it's not true.