Chapter Three
HEADING DOWN THE elevator with Alisha and Hazel to rush over to the tattoo shop, panic tightens in my chest. The text message from last night burns like a brand in my pocket.
I keep rehearsing how to tell them, when to tell them, but every version ends with their faces breaking—hurt, betrayed, angry that I kept it from them.
But by the time the doors glide open to the underground garage, I’ve talked myself out of saying anything. I’ll just… keep holding it in.
The elevator doors slide open, spilling that harsh glow of fluorescents across the garage floor.
For a heartbeat, I think maybe the light’s just too bright, maybe tha’s why it looks wrong.
But as the four of us step out, the silence hits first. No hum of the air system. No dripping pipes. Just…ruin.
The car sits in the center of the garage, or what’s left of it. My car.
Hazel gasps beside me. “Holy shit. What even—what could’ve done that?” But I can’t barely hear her, let alone see her. What I do hear is the shrill sounding echo reverberating in my brain from the cavernous walls in the garage.
Alisha’s hand flies to her mouth. “Was anyone down here?” she whispers, scanning corners as if expecting someone—or something—to still be here.
“No.” My voice sounds foreign. Hollow. “I parked it last night. Nobody’s been down here since. Or, I wasn’t alerted to anyone else, anyways.”
Richie crouches by the wreckage, squinting.
“The tires didn’t burn out. They burst. From inside out.
That’s pressure. Like it got…crushed.” He runs his hand along the hood, then pulls back when his fingers come away smeared with a dark oil stain.
“Whatever did this wasn’t human hands. It was a machine of some kind. ”
I step closer, glass crunching beneath my boots.
The smell of coolant, oil, and something burnt—rubber maybe—hangs thickly in the air clogging my throat.
Or maybe those are the tears I haven’t let fall.
My heart hammers in my chest. Not fear, exactly.
Just that sharp, crawling awareness that someone’s been here. In my space.
Then I see it, somehow untouched by the surrounding debris.
A single sheet of paper lies dead center of the roof, pinned beneath a fragment of the wind shield. The white stark against the mangled metal, the handwriting unmistakably shark and deliberate.
A note. With my name on it. In handwriting that brings a chill to my spine.
I stare at it for a long moment before moving, as if it might explode if I get too close. The others try to grab me, telling me to stay back. But I can’t do nothing. My pulse pounds in my ears as I slide the glass aside and lift the page free.
Up close it’s the same. Untouched by the surrounding oil and dust, it had obviously been placed after the damage.
My hand shake as I unfold it.
Once I finish reading it, I snap a photo and fire it off to my dad—Stephan O’Brien, the almighty leader of the Western US Irish Mafia—with nothing but that stupid squirt-gun emoji. The one I always use when I want to say blood without saying blood.
The garage isn’t some casual lot. Dad had it built like a bunker–cameras in every corner with overlapping angles, infrared beams that read heat signatures, license-plate readers at the entry, bollards that drop if the code doesn’t clear, magnetic locks on the pedestrian doors, key-card gates for vehicle access, PIN pads on the service doors, motion sensors under the soffits, and vibration sensors embedded in the concrete that would scream if somebody tried to jack a car out from under it.
There are motion-activated lights, a redundant fiber optic loop for the cameras, and an off-site monitoring service that mirrors everything in real time.
Even the elevators have biometric checks to get from the residential level down to the garages.
It’s all logged–timestamps, who swiped what card, which license plate rolled through at what second.
Nothing here is casual. Nothing is easy.
So whoever did this didn’t just walk in.
To bypass it, you’d need one of a few ugly options: a cloned key-card and a tailgater, a direct physical breach with heavy equipment (and enough time to not trip the seismic sensors), or serious cyber-foo to blind cameras and scrub logs–which means someone with real hacking skills.
Or you need someone on the inside to open a door and look the other way.
None of those are simple. None are cheap.
None are quick. And none are likely unless you have resources, balls, or friends in low places.
Which means this wasn’t random. This was planned. It was precise. It was personal.
When I look back down at my phone, I see my dad replied. Five minutes. Go back upstairs. Tell Hazel to stay home.
He must have already been in the city.
“Dad says head back up. Don’t touch a thing. Hazel—he said don’t go to work. I am assuming he wants to talk to you about the shop since we heard about it from June already.”
Hazel’s face drains of any color. “That’s not ominous,” she mutters, pulling out her phone. She types fast, texting Juniper that she isn’t coming—my car was destroyed, and apparently, we’re all grounded.
The three of us trade a look, silent, wide-eyed, then hustle back to the elevator. None of us breathes until the doors close.
Upstairs, Alisha makes a beeline for the wine fridge like a soldier to her weapon.
She pulls out four bottles and doesn't even bother with glasses. Hands us each our own, opener included, then cracks hers and drinks half in one go. Hazel and I follow suit, collapsing on the couch, gulping down liquid courage. Richie not leaving his spot between the front door and kitchen as he chugs his entire bottle before striding into the kitchen and grabbing four more. Words don’t come.
Not even curses. Just silence, heavy as the texts from Gavin sitting in my pocket.
I wonder if there’s a word stronger than furious. I’ll have to Google that.
Now I feel like I do need to tell them. This doesn’t just affect me. Not that I ever expected it to only affect me in the long run. It’s Juniper and her shop. It’s Hazel and her work. It’s our garage. It is all of our safety.
“Hey, so I have been meaning to tell you something. I have just been really afraid. Also, I think I have been avoiding it. But I go–”
Ding.
The elevator chimes.
Alisha and Hazel look expectantly at me.
“It’s my dad I’m sure. I’ll get it. Then I can tell all of you at the same time.
I need more alcohol though.” Hazel gets up and moves toward the kitchen to grab more.
For everyone. Third bottle of wine in a row, damn we are going to be drunk before I can even tell them.
“Oh, a stór, yer beautiful car!” Mama’s voice breaks the air as she rushes from the elevator, skirts rustling as she half-runs toward me. She knows how much I loved that car, and it’s nice to have those feelings validated. I know it’s just a car. But, it was something that I loved. A lot.
“Mama,” I choke, tears spilling fast. I don’t even know what I’m crying for—fear, grief, rage. Maybe all of it.
She gathers me into her arms, whispering, “Sweet girl, we’ll sort this.”
Behind her, my dad steps in, broad and calm, but his voice carries the weight of command.
“Sweet Surry, we need t’ talk. But since it seems t’ touch all four o’ ye, ye’ll all stay put.
” His accent thickens when he’s tense. He scans the room seeing the open bottles in our hands.
“Fetch s’more bottles, will ye?” He directs at Richie.
“We’ll be needin’ it before this is done. ”
His guards, Darragh and Finley, linger by the elevator, their faces lit by the glow of their phones. Fingers fly, tapping furiously. Not normal. Not casual.
“Papa, I—” My voice falters. Shame prickles hot. “I have something to add. I should’ve said it earlier.”
He holds up a hand. “We’ll get t’ it, mo stór. Let me speak first.”
He paces, his voice dropping lower. “We checked the garage footage. Wiped clean, as I expected. Finley’s workin’ on diggin’ it back.
Darragh’s speakin’ wit’ the others about the note.
I assume ye know the hand. The symbol’s been altered.
” His jaw tightens. “Hazel, lass, the shop’s been hit as well.
Likely ‘cause Surry spends so much time there. My men are on it, searchin’ fer anythin’ left behind.
’Twas the same mark on the wall as the one we found on ‘dis letter.”
I pull the note out of my pocket and hand it to my dad, glancing at it before I do so. I hadn’t noticed the symbol was different until now.
It’s his. Gavin’s. Always marked with Gort—the two diagonal lines. Life goes on. But now it’s changed. Eadhadh. Five straight lines. To conquer.
He intends to conquer his obstacles. His adversaries. Now it’s me. Us. My family.
My dad’s eyes bore into mine. “Has he contacted ye?”
The truth claws out of me. “He texted me. Last night. I panicked—I didn’t know how to tell anyone. I’m sorry.”
I hand him my phone, shame burning in my chest. He reads. Mama leans in, Richie hovering, Hazel too. Alisha doesn’t. She’s staring at me, hurt deep in her eyes. A different kind of wound.
I drain the rest of my wine, slamming the bottle down with a hollow clunk.
My hands shake. My breath won’t even out.
Before I have set it down for the long, Riche is handing me his, I didn’t even notice he had walked over.
He squeezes my arm and kisses the top of my head before going to the couch and sitting with Alisha.
My mom’s voice cuts through, soft but firm. “Ye’ll stay here. Don’t leave. Not until we say.”
I nod, because what else can I do?
Ding.
The elevator. Darragh and Finley move instantly, weapons drawn, aimed at the door.
A woman screams. A man swears. “Fuck, what the hell, guys?”
“Sorry, sir. Sorry, miss,” Darragh mutters in his thick brogue.
Then—“SISSY!” My sister’s voice pierces through.
Selene barrels into me, knocking me back until my shins touch the couch and I fall back with her on top of me.
Alisha piles on top, hugging us both, silent tears cutting down her cheeks.
She’s angry at me, yes—but she’s terrified for me, too. Always has been. Always will be.
Samuel enters behind them, broad-shouldered, steady. “Sorry we’re late. Selene had to pack.” He smirks when she rolls her eyes.
Then he looks at me. Just one word: “Surry.”
The sound of it breaks me. I squeeze out of the group hug and stumble into his arms and cry harder than I have in years, my brother whispering low Gaelic words into my ear, so soft I doubt anyone else hears. Words only meant for me.
Mom joins, wrapping us both, Selene too, then Dad. Hazel and Richie pile in before he cracks a filthy joke about threesomes at the club that makes us laugh through tears. Everyone is used to his quips by now.
Wine flows again when we break apart. Thankfully, we keep a well-stocked liquor cabinet. Selene hands out bottles like communion. For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Until Richie asks, “Okay, so now what? I’ll go stir-crazy sittin’ here.”
My dad clears his throat. “We’ll cover bills. Hazel, lass, ye’ll not worry about the shop. My men’ll see t’ it. We’ll take three days t’ gather intel. Then we’ll act. Gavin’s made moves. Word is he’s taken over the Russians. We’ll find out if it makes him stronger—or easier t’ burn.”
Talking about the Irish mafia and the Russian mafia brings me back to the time I had told everyone in the sacred bathroom about my dad being the head of the Irish. It was a hard conversation, but something they needed to know. To know that I’m not normal.
The memory hits me like cold water.
The bathroom. Our sanctuary, our confessional.
Steam still clung to the mirrors that night, curling around the edges as if the walls themselves were listening.
We’d been sitting in our usual spots—Alisha perched on the counter, Hazel cross-legged on the floor with her makeup scattered around her, Richie fussing over his brows in the mirror.
All of it the way it is every morning, basically.
I’d been leaning against the sink, silent, chewing the inside of my cheek until I finally blurted it out.
“My family isn’t… normal,” my voice shaking in a way that wasn’t like me.
Their chatter died instantly. Alisha leans forward, brows knitting, Richie frozen mid-pluck, Hazel sets her mascara wand down so slowly you can barely hear the tiny clink against the tile.
I tell them about my father. About the O’Briens.
About what Mafia meant in real life—not the polished movies, not the glamor, but the weight, the blood, the expectations.
My words tangle, heavy and raw, until the silence in the room was louder than anything I’d ever heard.
Alisha already knew. Her dad works for my dad, so the truth had lived in her house long before I ever admitted it in mine.
She kept quiet while I spoke, calm and steady, never once interrupting.
When my words faltered, she smoothed them over for me, filling in the blanks I couldn’t manage to say out loud.
She added how she was connected, filling Richie and Hazel in on her life as well.
Her quiet nods, her unshaken presence, told the others this wasn’t just some wild confession—it was real.
And because she stayed grounded, I did too.
They didn’t run. They didn’t look at me like a monster.
Hazel’s lip trembled, Richie muttered, “Well, that explains a lot.” But I could see it in their eyes—that shift.
They finally understood why I always carried shadows on my back.
Why danger followed me like smoke. And for the first time, I let them see me for what I was: the daughter of a king. A kingdom of crime.
I’m brought back to the present by the clap of my brothers hands. Samuel speaks. “What about the Russians? How do you know?”
Papa looks at him gravely. “I sent ye an email. Ye can watch it now if ye like. But be warned, son—it’s graphic. Disturbing. Not all o’ ye will stomach it. An’ I wouldn’t blame ye if ye didn’t.”
Safe here. Safe here. I keep chanting it in my head like a prayer.