Chapter Fifty-Seven
Rowen
The leather chair was cold beneath me as I sat, the kind of expensive furniture that was meant to impress rather than comfort. My hands rested on the armrests, fingers splayed, appearing relaxed even as every muscle in my body coiled tight with tension.
“Gentlemen,” I said, my voice steady despite the chaos churning in my chest. “Thank you for coming.”
The words hung in the air, formal, almost absurdly polite given the circumstances. But that was the game, wasn’t it? Civility was armor. Courtesy a weapon.
Cesar Vitale inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
Morpheus remained perfectly still, his scarred hands folded on the table before him, eyes tracking my every movement like a predator assessing prey.
And Braesal O’Malley leaned back in his chair with the kind of casual confidence that came from decades of power, his silver hair catching the firelight.
“An interesting choice of words,” Braesal said, his Boston accent softening the edges of what might have been a challenge.
“As if I had a choice in the matter.” His eyes fixed on Sinclair with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
There was curiosity there, yes, but also calculation.
He was trying to read him, to understand what game he was playing.
“Why are we here, Rowen?”
The question was simple. Direct. The kind of question that demanded an equally direct answer.
But I didn’t respond immediately. Instead, I let my gaze drift across the table, taking in the faces of the men who survived and lived to see another day.
Men who’d built empires on blood and fear.
Men who’d survived wars, betrayals, and the kind of violence that would break most people.
And then my eyes found Sinclair.
He was still leaning against the bookshelf, one hand in his pocket, the picture of casual elegance. But I knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set just a fraction too tight. He was waiting. Watching.
Our eyes met.
For a moment, the room seemed to fade away.
It was just the two of us: mentor and student, manipulator and pawn, father figure and son, in all the ways that mattered and none that were legal.
He’d brought me to this moment. Every lesson, every manipulation, every carefully orchestrated move had been leading here.
And now, standing on the precipice of everything we’d planned, I saw something in his eyes I’d never seen before.
Uncertainty.
He didn’t know if I was going to go through with it.
Neither did I.
But then I thought of Melissa. Of the way she’d looked at me that night six months ago, her body saying everything her voice couldn’t. Of the promise I’d made, to myself, to her, to whatever future we might still have.
I will come back to you. I will find a way.
Sinclair straightened.
The movement was subtle but deliberate, drawing every eye in the room. He adjusted his suit jacket with the kind of precision that spoke of years of practice, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, ensuring every line was perfect. Then he walked. Not to his own chair. Not to a neutral position.
To me.
He stopped beside my chair, close enough that his presence was unmistakable, his hand coming to rest on the back of my seat. It was a statement, clear, unambiguous, impossible to misinterpret. He was standing with me because what I was about to do; he was part of it.
The room shifted. I felt it like a physical thing: the way power redistributed itself, the way alliances suddenly became visible, the way every man at that table recalculated their position.
I turned my attention back to Braesal, feeling Sinclair’s presence beside me like a shield.
Like permission. Like the final piece falling into place.
“The IRA is yours, Braesal,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “I’m done.”
My words landed like a grenade.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one breathed.
Then chaos.
Cesar Vitale stiffened, his hands flattening on the table, knuckles white. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Morpheus’ chair scraped back, the sound harsh in the sudden tension. “You can’t just—”
“This is insanity,” Braesal interrupted, his voice sharp now, the casual confidence replaced by something harder. “You don’t walk away from this. You don’t just give it away.”
Their voices overlapped, rising in volume and intensity, each man trying to make sense of what I’d just said. Trying to understand the implications. Trying to figure out how this affected them, their territories, and their power.
I sat perfectly still, watching it unfold.
This was what Sinclair had warned me about. The moment when the carefully constructed order of the underworld threatened to collapse. When men who’d spent decades building their empires suddenly saw those foundations shift beneath them.
They argued over each other now, the facade of unity splintering as old resentments and ambitions erupted to the surface.
Some faces showed calculation, already weighing new alliances; others showed barely concealed hostility.
I caught Sinclair’s eye for a fraction of a second as he gave the faintest nod, as if to say, Let them scramble. Let them show their hands.
Amid the noise, Braesal just watched, lips pressed into a thin line.
I wondered if he saw, as I did, that power was no longer something to grasp but something being forced into his hands, heavy, dangerous, and irrevocable.
The old order had been shattered; what came next would depend on who had the nerve to seize it first.
“You’re telling me,” Cesar began, his accent thickening with anger, “that you’re handing over the Irish Republican Army, one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the world, to a man who’s been out of the game for years?”
“He’s never been out of the game,” I replied calmly. “He’s been playing it from the shadows. And he’s better at it than I am. And this meeting was a courtesy. I wasn’t asking for your permission.”
Braesal’s eyes narrowed. “And what makes you think I want it? What makes you think I’ll accept this... gift?”
“Because it’s not a gift,” Sinclair said, his voice cutting through the argument like a knife through silk. “It’s a strategic repositioning. One that benefits everyone at this table.”
All eyes turned to him.
He stood there beside me, one hand still resting on the back of my chair, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. This was Sinclair in his element, the chess master revealing his endgame, the puppeteer showing his strings.
“Rowen has spent months consolidating power,” Sinclair continued. “Helping to end the biker war. Forging alliances. Eliminating threats. He’s done everything that needed to be done. But the IRA was never his to keep. It was always meant to return to its rightful heir.”
“Rightful heir?” Morpheus’ voice was rough with disbelief. “He’s a bastard. An outsider. He has no claim.”
“I have every claim,” Braesal interrupted, his voice quiet now but no less dangerous. “I am a grandson of Casper O’Malley.” His words hung in the air, heavy with implication, and I felt something twist in my chest. Hope.
“So this is what?” Cesar demanded, his attention swinging between Braesal and me. “A passing of the torch? What about the rest of us? What about the agreements we had in place?”
“The agreements remain,” Sinclair firmly said, his voice controlled and leveled. “Nothing changes for any of you. The territories stay as they are. The alliances hold. The only difference is who sits at the head of the Irish table.”
“The only difference,” Morpheus repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple,” Sinclair said. “Rowen never wanted this life. He was forced into it by circumstances beyond his control. Now those circumstances have changed. The biker war is nearing its end. The threats have been neutralized. There’s no reason for him to continue playing a role he never wanted.”
“Except for the small matter of loyalty,” Cesar said coldly. “Except for the fact that men have died following his orders. Except for the fact that he can’t just walk away from this world.”
“I’m not walking away,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I’m stepping aside. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Braesal’s voice was soft now, almost gentle, but there was steel beneath it. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re running.”
“Call it what you want,” I said finally. “The result is the same. The IRA needs a leader who wants to lead it. Who believes in it. Who’s willing to sacrifice everything for it. That person is not me. It never was.”
“And you think it’s me?” Braesal asked, his expression unreadable.
“I know it is.”
The silence that followed was different from before. Heavier. More contemplative. Braesal studied me, his eyes searching for something. Truth, maybe. Or weakness. Or some sign that this was a trick, a manipulation, another move in the endless game.
“You’ve thought this through,” he said finally. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“And Sinclair agrees?”
I felt Sinclair’s hand tighten slightly on the back of my chair. “I do.”
“Why?” The question came from Morpheus as his scarred face twisted with suspicion. “What’s in it for you, Sinclair? You don’t do anything without a reason.”
Sinclair’s smile was thin, almost sad. “I do it because he asked me to. Because for once in my life, I’m choosing to help someone get what they want rather than what I think they need.”