Chapter 20
The soles of my dress shoes echo heavily against the hardwood as I descend the stairs, and the cold steel of my Glock presses against my ribs beneath my suit jacket, a silent reminder of the world I live in—and of the stakes tonight.
Eavan stands alone in the kitchen, her fingers lightly rolling the base of her stemless wine glass along the granite countertop where she stands at the island. The hem of her skirt grazes the curve of her thigh, and for a second, I forget everything else.
I cross the space between us like a man possessed.
She looks up as I reach her, surprise flashing in her eyes as her mouth starts to speak.
I crash into her, lifting her effortlessly and roughly placing her on the counter.
My mouth finds hers with violent urgency, swallowing her gasp as I crash my lips onto hers.
The faint taste of Merlot on her soft lips ruins me. My hands fist into her red locks, pulling her tighter, needing her closer. She grips the front of my suit jacket like she’s holding on for dear life, and I wish I could stay here. Between her knees. Tasting her. Claiming her.
“I’ve been thinking about these lips all day, princess,” I breathlessly whisper, my forehead pressed against hers. “All fucking day just trying to find a moment alone with you.”
Pulling at my lapels, she drags me back into her.
I don’t fight her—I want to be lost in her, no matter how reckless it is.
“Not touching you is fucking unbearable,” I groan, kissing her again.
Slower this time, but deeper. So fucking deep that I’m leaving a piece of my soul in her as I plunder her mouth.
One of the bedroom doors slams upstairs— shit— and I begrudgingly break away from her.
Still panting, my hands reluctantly slip from her hair and slide down her body as I lower her to the floor.
Her toes barely brush the hardwood before I step back.
I position myself on the other side of the kitchen island just as Nikolai appears at the top of the stairs. Immediately followed by Cillian.
Eavan’s cheeks are flushed, and her lips are swollen. Her eyes burn into mine as Nikolai and Cillian join us in the kitchen. God, I want her again. Every part of me aches for her. I turn my attention to them as they step up to the island. “We ready? ”
“Yeah,” Cillian responds, sweeping around the island and pulling Eavan into a brotherly hug. “There are guys outside to keep an eye on you until we get back. We might be late. Okay?”
She squeezes him back, her eyes never leaving mine as she insists, “Be careful and come home safe.”
I nod. Just enough that she knows that I intend to uphold that promise.
“If we’re done with all this mushy family shit, let’s go,” Nikolai barks.
The last of us to leave the kitchen, I walk close to Eavan—too close—and let my fingers trail across hers.
Just a whisper of contact. Our hands curl together for the briefest second, sending a bolt of electricity zipping up my arm.
Her breath hitches, and I agonizingly slip my fingers from hers, pretending that my entire body doesn’t ache, leaving her behind.
The ride into Chelsea is quiet. Just like the last time. No music. No unnecessary conversation. Just the roar of the engine and the anticipation humming beneath our skin.
Cillian sits shotgun, tapping his hand against his knee.
Nikolai drives, and his face in the rearview is emotionless, eyes sharp, watching every car we pass like he’s memorizing license plates.
I sit behind him, my ringed fingers bouncing off my thigh.
This isn’t just a meeting. This is the meeting to forge our families together .
Nikolai pulls to a stop before a vacant but familiar warehouse. His family has used it for years—gun running and interrogations. Tonight, it has a different purpose. It’s our boardroom.
Arriving before the men of our organizations, we step into the dimly lit space, and our footsteps echo against the concrete of the vast empty building. The faint scent of oil, metal, and dust clings to the air. No chairs. No table. Just the three of us standing in the middle of the room.
One by one, they start showing up—Irish, Italian, Bratva—their eyes darting between us and at each other as they file in with suspicious glances.
The growing crowd is filled with grumbles and muttered threats, a few of the men already reaching for the grips of their pistols.
None of them were told what tonight was.
They don’t know why they’ve been summoned to this meeting of rivals.
But they showed up, which means they’re smart enough to know that, individually, we’re in charge of our families now.
“What the fuck is this?” someone shouts with a thick Irish accent.
“Is this some kind of joke?” An unfamiliar Italian-accented deep voice billows through the crowd. “We’re supposed to meet with them ?”
The noise rises like a wave—accusations, curses, and questions—building to a deafening level. “Enough!” I shout, my voice slicing through the chaos in the room, everyone falls silent and their eyes shift toward me .
“Why the feck should we listen to you, asshole?” a voice growls from the back.
Cillian steps forward, flanking my right side. “Because you’re listening to us .”
Nikolai moves to the left, his expression as tight as his grip on the gun tucked into his waistband. One wrong move and he’ll paint the walls with someone’s blood—where everyone can see it. “ All of us.”
Eyes widen and breaths are held as the three of us stand shoulder to shoulder—unshakable. I glance around the room, making eye contact with every man who dared show up tonight. Some look nervous. Others are confused. But none of them speak.
“There are no Italians,” I begin, voice low but steady. “No more Bratva. No more Irish. Those days are over. As of tonight, there’s only one family. Ours .”
Shock rolls through the warehouse like a tide. “Bullshit!” someone spits. “You can’t fucking do th?—”
Without hesitation, Nikolai draws his gun and fires a shot before the man can finish his sentence. The dissenter crumples to the floor as the single shot echoes off the metal walls. The silence that follows is absolute—our message is crystal clear.
“We can do anything we fucking want,” Nikolai coolly retorts, tucking his pistol back into the waistband of his pants .
“You think this city can survive divided?” I ask, stepping forward and filling the silence with purpose. “We’ve spent years killing each other, wasting time, wasting resources. It ends tonight. You’re either with us, or you’re a fucking ghost by morning.”
“This is a new world,” Cillian adds. “You fall in line, or we erase you. Plain and simple.”
“We aren’t asking for your loyalty,” I continue, watching the sea of nodding and uncertain faces. “We’re fucking demanding it. Our fathers are dead, and we are taking their place.”
“We are going to rule this fucking city,” Nikolai finishes, his voice like gravel.
A low voice cuts through the crowd—Marco, one of the older soldiers under my father, steps forward with hesitation etched across his face.
His hat is clenched tightly in his hand, eyes flickering between the three of us, like he’s still trying to decide if it’s safe to speak his thoughts.
“What about the funerals?” he asks quietly.
“Your father built this life for us. He deserves something.”
The silence that follows is sharp. Cillian shifts slightly, but I hold up a hand before he can say anything.
My eyes lock on Marco’s. “There aren’t any funerals,” I answer, calm but firm.
“They were cremated. All three of them. No names, no services. Ashes scattered before sunrise.” A few people look around, unsettled—it wasn’t the most Catholic thing to do.
Someone opens their mouth to protest, but I keep going.
“We don’t know who was behind their deaths.
Not yet. And until we do, we’re not publicly putting all our families in one place for someone to take another shot.
We’re not giving anyone the chance to finish what they started. ”
“You want to honor them?” Cillian barks, his eyes sweeping across the room. “Then merge our families together. Take everything they built and make it stronger. That’s how you fucking honor them.” Let them, because the three of us aren’t.
For a long moment, the crowd is silent and unwavering.
Then someone in the back—an older man from the Irish family—lowers his gaze and nods.
Then another. And another. We didn’t ask for permission.
We fucking took it. We are the kings of this city now.
Three devils at the head of one family—united, ruthless, and unchallenged.
The meeting ends with a quiet acceptance. Our men filter out slowly, whispering and murmuring among themselves. As the last man leaves, Nikolai mutters, “That’s fewer dead bodies than I was expecting.”
“It’s early,” Cillian exhales. “There’s no way they all just roll over and obey.”
He’s right. And fuck do I hate how right he is. “This is just the beginning,” I agree. We’re going to be fighting a war on multiple fronts—disgruntled family members and the Armenians.
And all I can think about is her. Eavan . The way her lips felt against mine, and the way her fingers curled into my jacket like she never wanted to let go. We may have just claimed the city, but I’d give it all away for one more kiss.