Chapter Fifty
Rowen
Sitting alone on a bench in the dimly lit locker room, I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees.
The faint scent of sweat lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of stale blood.
The bench creaked beneath me as I shifted, and somewhere in the distance, a water pipe rattled.
My head hung low, as if bowing it could somehow lighten the burden pressing on my shoulders.
Each shallow breath was thick with regret, and the silence made the consequences of my actions echo louder in my mind.
There was no going back—what was done was done.
I had made my choice: betraying her was the only way to keep her safe from the threat of my world.
The weight of my decision settled deep in my chest, making it hard to breathe; every muscle felt tense, my thoughts swirling with remorse and finality, knowing the path I’d chosen was now set in stone.
It was the only way. I knew that now.
The only way I could protect her and everyone else from what was to come.
The locker room felt colder than usual, as shadows stretched across the tiles as if trying to swallow me whole.
I squeezed the envelope Sinclair had handed me before I left the house, its edges crisp and sharp, digging into my palm.
The scent of paper mingled with the locker room’s mustiness.
I wondered what secrets it held, and for a moment, fear tangled with curiosity—would opening it change my mind, or merely confirm what I’d sacrificed?
My breaths came shallow, the silence broken only by the distant thrum of footsteps in the hallway.
I lifted my head and stared at the closed locker in front of me, searching for strength I wasn’t sure I possessed.
Whatever came next, I knew I couldn’t turn away—the responsibility was mine now, and I would have to face it, no matter the cost.
Taking a deep breath, I tore open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Sinclair’s letterhead was visible at the top as my eyes read what he wrote.
It was silly. It made no sense, yet as I looked at those words—“Courage is choosing kindness”—I felt as if my entire world collapsed.
Everything I thought, believed, vanished; a slate wiped clean.
For a moment, I sat frozen, unable to process the pain.
But as a lone tear fell onto the paper in my hands, smudging the ink, clarity washed over me.
I finally understood what Sinclair had been trying to teach me all along: obstacles would always find their way into my life, but what mattered most was the strength to choose integrity and do the right thing, no matter how hard it was.
As I folded the letter and slipped it carefully back into the envelope, the words echoed in my mind, lingering like a gentle push against the heaviness inside me as I tucked it into the inside pocket of my coat.
The locker room, with all its shadows and silence, suddenly felt less suffocating—almost as if Sinclair’s message had cut through the gloom.
I stood, the bench groaning beneath me, and straightened my shoulders.
Whatever trials lay ahead, I would carry that simple truth with me.
Kindness would be my armor, even when every instinct shouted for self-preservation.
With renewed resolve, I walked toward the door, ready to face the consequences and the unknown that awaited beyond it when the door opened, and in walked my father.
“Are you sure about this?”
Taking a deep breath, I straightened my shoulders, my voice steady even as my heart pounded, and replied, “Yes.” Even if it meant stepping into the fire, her safety depended on my willingness to take the risks they needed me to face.
Shaking his head, he sighed. “Alright then. Once you leave this room, there is no going back. I have men stationed close to her in case this goes badly. I give you my word, she will be protected at all times.”
“Thank you,” I muttered, turning away, my fingers brushing the coarse fabric of my coat and feeling the envelope tucked inside—a reminder of what I stood to lose.
“Rowen,” he whispered. “I’m sorry it had to be this way.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I replied, the weight of the new role pressing on my shoulders.
“Do you want to see her before you go?”
“No.” My answer was quiet but final; I couldn’t risk wavering now.
Saying nothing more, I headed for the back door of the locker room and walked out into the night.
The sharp scent of cigarette smoke mingled with the cold air as Braesal O’Malley, head of the Irish Mob in Boston, approached.
His boots crunched on gravel beneath the glare of a single streetlamp, breath misting in the darkness.
Several men stood waiting, their faces shadowed and silent.
“Rowen,” the older man gruffly said, motioning to the men behind him. “I’m sending a few of my men with you. You can trust them. They are loyal. They’ve been instructed to follow your orders to the letter.” His tone was rough, clipped, every word heavy with authority.
“Thank you, Braesal.” I shook his hand, the calluses on his palm reminding me of the hard realities behind his promises.
“And I’m going too.” A familiar face stepped out of the shadows, grinning. “Didn’t think I’d let you do this alone, did you?” Silas’ easy humor broke the tension, his words light despite the thick night air.
Grinning, I hugged Silas. “Sinclair knows about this?”
“Oh, please,” Silas scoffed. “That fucker doesn’t need me. He’s got Dante. That brat alone will keep him busy for years. Besides, it’s not every day my brother takes over the IRA.” He winked, his speech casual and irreverent, masking the gravity of what I was about to do.
I glanced at the men around me, feeling the magnitude of the moment settle in.
Taking over the IRA wasn’t just a title—it meant stepping into a legacy fraught with danger, history, and expectation.
It meant risking everything for a future I wasn’t sure I wanted, but one I had to accept for her sake—and for everyone else caught in the crossfire.
“Why am I here, Buchannon?” Cesar Vitale’s voice boomed as he entered, his gaze sharp and calculating, knowing the summons wasn’t just formality—rumors had reached him that a power shift was imminent, and his family’s future hung in the balance.
Flanked by Guilio and Luca, Cesar’s presence alone spoke of the Vitale family’s expectation: leverage, alliance, or defense, depending on how the night unfolded.
My father stood behind his chair, knuckles white on the wood. “You’ll learn soon enough,” he replied, his gaze flickering toward Reaper, who stalked in, lips curled at King’s muttered quip.
“I don’t give a flying fuck,” the president of the Golden Skulls snapped at the president of the Silver Shadows. “If I have to be here, so do you.”
“I don’t know if you remember or not, but my clubhouse looks like a fucking demilitarized war zone!”
“Oh, boo-hoo. Cry me a river,” Reaper huffed, flinging himself into his chair. “Bitch at me when someone blows your clubhouse to smithereens.”
Maxim Fedorov strode in next, flanked by Vladmir and Dimitry. “My favorite bikers, always so charming,” he said, his tone dry and tinged with authority.
Reaper shot Maxim a glare as Vladmir grinned. “How’s my daughter and my new grandson, Victor?” Vladmir asked, his words layered with both pride and challenge.
“You’re insufferable,” Reaper snapped, the Russian’s laughter echoing. Maxim frowned at Vladmir. “Let’s not provoke Reaper tonight.”
“I’m not scared of him,” Vladmir retorted.
Reaper’s stare hardened. “You should be.”
Armando Garcia, head of the Mexican Cartel, swept in next, silent but alert, knowing cartel interests were riding on the outcome. He took his seat, eyes scanning the room, calculating risks.
Reaper leaned forward. “Let’s cut to the chase. The TRIAD won’t show unless it has to deal with them. So why drag us here, Buchannon?”
My father moved aside, meeting my eyes as he pulled out the chair reserved for me. I felt the weight of the moment—each man around the table was here because of their power, their survival, their legacy.
This was the crossroads. The debts owed tonight were more than numbers—they represented history, favors, and obligations that bound us all, and whoever claimed the throne would hold those chains.
No hesitation now.
I straightened my suit and strode forward, claiming my seat as the head of the IRA. The room went taut, every eye on me. Reaper whistled, his grin wild. Cesar’s shoulders tightened; Maxim’s lips thinned.
King crossed his arms, a rare smile cracking his usual stoicism. “Hell, this beats mopping up blood,” he said, leaning back.
Maxim spoke first, his voice clipped and full of authority. “Explain, Buchannon.”
I met his gaze, cold and steady. “Before you say another word, Fedorov, let me remind you that you are not without fault. Before you pass judgment, remember you owe Sinclair. One word from me and that debt’s due. We all know what those debts mean—so choose your next words carefully.”
Vladmir tensed. Maxim’s jaw tightened as Cesar slammed his palm down. “Enough,” he barked, authority ringing out, the room bristling with expectation and threat. “What the hell is going on here?”
“I am taking over the IRA,” I simply said. “And as such, I’ve asked Brian Buchannon to call this meeting so I could inform you all that as of today, all debts owed to Sinclair are wiped clean... on one condition.”
“Which is?” Armando quietly asked.
Turning to Cesar, I smiled. “The Italian Council agrees to give up all forms of retribution against the Pisano family.”
“No!” Cesar shouted, jumping to his feet, sending the chair he was sitting in flying back against the wall. “Tell Sinclair, he can go fuck himself. The Pisanos destroyed my family. Ran us out of Italy. We’re owed retribution, and no change in scenery will alter that fact.”
“Let me be crystal clear here, gentlemen,” I said, leaning back in my chair as I drummed my fingers on the table. “You all must agree or nothing. Either way, I will still be the head of the IRA. That will not change, and considering I know all your secrets, I think it’s best you take my offer.”
“You threatening me, Shay?” Maxim asked.
I shrugged. “Just stating a fact. If you don’t believe me, ask Aleksandr.”
Maxim stiffened, his head whipping to Vladmir, who looked pale. “What’s he talking about?”
“I don’t know, boss.”
The tension in the room was palpable as Cesar paced, fists clenched and eyes darting between the others, his anger thinly veiled behind a mask of outrage.
Maxim kept his gaze trained on Vladmir, waiting for answers I knew the man didn’t have, while Armando’s hands rested calmly on the table, his expression unreadable.
Reaper finally broke the silence, his voice steady but cautious. “You’re asking for something unattainable, Shay—a truce that will never happen. If the Italian Council refuses your condition, what happens next, ’cause I know you don’t have shit on me or the Federation?”
All eyes shifted back to me, waiting for my answer, the balance of power trembling in the space between my words. My fingers tapped lightly on the table as I surveyed the faces before me, the tension almost tangible in the heavy air.
I smirked. “I’ve always liked you, Reaper. You’re smart, cunning, and you don’t take any shit, so please forgive me when I say this. Should the Italian Council refuse my gift, as head of the IRA, I will vote to have you sit at the head of the table.”
No one moved.
No one dared.
Reaper glared at me, and if looks could kill, I’d be a dead man walking.
I didn’t have to explain myself. Everyone sitting around the table knew exactly what it meant if I were to cast my vote for Reaper.
Never in the history of the underworld had anyone ever sat at the head of the table.
No organization willingly gave up its vote for another.
It was unheard of, and yet, as I sat there, looking at the man across from me, I knew there was no one better to take on the factions of the underworld.
A slow, uneasy breath slipped from Cesar’s lips, and the room seemed frozen in anticipation.
The weight of my words lingered, pressing against the walls like a storm waiting to break.
Vladmir glanced at Maxim, uncertainty shadowing his features, while Armando’s fingers flexed, betraying a flicker of nervous energy.
Reaper’s gaze didn’t falter. He met my eyes, his jaw set, and nodded once, acknowledging both the challenge and the compliment. The others shifted uneasily, caught between loyalty and ambition, their silence stretching thin across the table like a razor’s edge.
“So the choice is yours, Cesar,” I spoke, turning to face the head of the Italian Council. “What shall it be?”