CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Marco
DAWN HASN'T brOKEN yet, but I'm already awake, watching the soft rise and fall of Sasha's chest beside me. Her dark hair spills across the white pillow, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, looking impossibly peaceful. Nothing like the fiery woman who matched me stroke for stroke last night, who took everything I gave her and demanded more.
I shouldn't have touched her. I've spent years keeping my distance for a reason. Women like Sasha—good women, pure women—they don't belong in my world. But now that I've had her, I can't imagine letting her go. The thought sits heavy in my chest, too close to fear for comfort.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. I silence it quickly before the sound can wake her, slipping out of bed with practiced stealth. The screen displays Mikey's number—my best informant, the one I've had watching Lucas. A call at this hour means trouble.
I glance back at Sasha once more, sleeping soundly in my bed, and feel something tighten inside me. Something dangerous. Something that feels too much like weakness.
I step into the hallway to return the call, keeping my voice low. "What do you have?"
"You need to see this." Mikey's voice is tense. "In person. Now."
"Where?"
"The construction site at Blackrock. The abandoned one."
I hang up without another word. Whatever Mikey's found, it must be significant for him to insist on a face-to-face this early.
Back in the bedroom, I dress silently, watching Sasha sleep. I write a quick note and place it on my pillow: Had to step out. Back soon. Stay inside. It's not enough, not nearly enough to explain anything, but it will have to do.
My fingers hover above her cheek, tempted to brush a strand of hair from her face, but I stop myself. Better not to wake her. Better not to have to explain where I'm going or what I suspect.
Better not to see the look in her eyes when she realizes what kind of man she's given herself to.
The construction site is eerily quiet, the skeletal framework of what was supposed to be a luxury apartment complex looming against the pale morning sky. The project went bust two years ago when the developer was found floating in the harbor with concrete in his lungs—unfortunate business dispute.
Mikey is already waiting, a thin, nervous man with quick eyes and quicker fingers. Former pickpocket, now one of my most valuable information gatherers. He's perched on a stack of cement blocks, smoking anxiously, a thick manila envelope clutched in his lap.
"This better be worth dragging me out of bed," I say, approaching him.
He stands quickly, stubbing out his cigarette. "You said to watch Lucas. To tell you if he was making any unusual moves." He thrusts the envelope toward me. "This is way beyond unusual, Boss."
I take the envelope, feeling the substantial weight of its contents. "Talk to me."
"It's all there," he says, gesturing to the envelope. "Photos, bank statements, phone records. Lucas has been meeting with the Black Crew for months."
I keep my expression neutral despite the fury building in my chest. "The ones who were using Sasha's garage?"
Mikey nods. "That's just the start. He's also been talking to some other outfit—a syndicate moving in from the north. They've been planning something big."
I open the envelope and start sifting through its contents. Phone records show dozens of calls to mobile numbers. In rushed handwriting are names of crew members. I glance up at Mikey as I tap the numbers.
“The Black Crew.” He fills in the blanks.
I return to the material in hand. Bank statements reveal suspicious deposits coinciding with various Walsh family operations. Then the photos—Lucas meeting with men I don't recognize, their expensive suits and hard eyes marking them as higher-level players.
But the last photo makes my blood run cold. Lucas standing outside Sasha's house, watching from his car. The timestamp shows it was taken two days before Dave and his crew beat her father.
"He set her up," I mutter, the realization like ice in my veins.
"What?"
I shake my head, tucking the evidence back into the envelope. "How long has this been going on?"
"At least six months, from what I could trace. But could be longer." Mikey shifts his weight nervously. "There's more. Lucas knew about the weapons shipment at the safehouse. He told them where you and Danny would be."
My brother. My own fucking brother orchestrated the hit that killed Danny. My father had been right.
Something inside me goes very still and very cold. Lucas has always been ambitious, ruthless even, but this? Betraying family? Having our youngest brother killed? It crosses a line I didn't think even he would dare.
"You've done good work, Mikey." I hand him an envelope of cash, substantially thicker than our usual arrangement. "Take a vacation. A long one."
He understands the implication immediately. "You sure? Might be useful to have someone still watching—"
"I'm handling this personally now." My tone leaves no room for argument. "Go. Today."
Mikey hesitates just a moment before nodding. "Be careful, Boss. He's not alone in this."
I watch him leave, my mind already calculating my next move. I know where Lucas will be. It's Wednesday morning, and old habits die hard.
The warehouse sits on the edge of the industrial district, with ancient brick walls covered in decades of graffiti. To most, it looks abandoned, another relic of Meath’s manufacturing past left to decay. But to us—to the Walsh brothers—it was once a sanctuary.
We found it as teenagers, claimed it as our own. A place to drink stolen whiskey, to fight, to plan. It was here that Lucas and I swore blood oaths of loyalty, promising to always protect each other, to put family above everything. It was here, on that rusted metal table in the corner, that we plotted our first real job—a heist that put the Walsh name on the map and earned our father's rare approval.
And it's here I find Lucas now, sitting on that same table, smoking a cigarette like he's been waiting for me.
"Took you long enough," he says, not bothering to look up as I enter. The morning light filters through broken windows, casting barred shadows across his face. "Thought you'd come last night after your romp with the chef."
My hand instinctively moves toward my gun, but I stop myself. "What are you talking about?"
He smirks, finally meeting my gaze. "Sasha Gillespie. Father will be disappointed. He had higher hopes for your taste in women."
The casual mention of Sasha in his mouth makes my skin crawl. "We need to talk, Lucas."
The casual mention of Sasha in his mouth makes my skin crawl. "We need to talk, Lucas."
"About what? Danny? The syndicate? Or perhaps about how you've been fucking the very woman whose house we've been using as a distribution point?" He laughs, the sound hollow and echoing in the vast space. "You've always had a weakness for damaged goods."
I move closer, controlling my temper with effort. "I know what you did. I know about the Black Crew, about the syndicate. I know you sold out Danny."
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that I've pieced it together so quickly. But it vanishes just as fast, replaced by cold calculation.
"And what exactly do you think you know, brother?" His tone is mocking, the last word a twisted jab.
I throw the envelope onto the table beside him, photos and documents spilling out. "Everything. The meetings, the payoffs, the information you've been feeding them about our operations." I step closer, my voice dropping. "You told them where to find Danny and me. You got our brother killed."
Lucas glances at the evidence without touching it, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs—a genuine laugh that bounces off the decaying walls.
"Well done, Marco. I underestimated your intelligence network." He stands, facing me directly now. "But you're missing the bigger picture. Always have."
"Enlighten me," I say, my voice dangerously calm.
He circles me slowly, like we're back in our teenage years, looking for an opening before a fight. "Father has finally come to his senses. He doesn’t see you as his heir."
"Let me guess, he sees you as his heir," I sneer.
Lucas steps forward, his eyes hard, I know my words have landed a punch but he is refusing to address them. "The syndicate offered partnership, not just employment. They have connections across Europe, product lines we've never touched. This could have elevated us all. Why the fuck do you think the O’Regan’s bailed and went to better ground?"
I’m shaking my head. "You did all this for you. You killed Danny?” My control slips, anger bleeding into my words.
His expression shifts to contempt. "Danny was collateral damage." He shrugs and glances away.
The casualness with which he dismisses Danny's life—our baby brother—ignites something primal in me. Before I realize what I'm doing, my fist connects with his jaw, sending him staggering backward.
Lucas recovers quickly, wiping blood from his lip with a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "There he is. The real Marco Walsh. Not the businessman Father pretends you are, not the protector you play at being. Just another thug with a temper."
He swings back, catching me right above my eye where my wound from the docks is still healing. Pain explodes through the side of my head, but I push through it, driving him back against the table.
We fight like we used to as kids, but with the full force of grown men harboring years of resentment.
Lucas fights dirty, always has. He gets me in a chokehold, his forearm crushing my windpipe. "You're not fit to lead this family," he hisses in my ear. "You never were. Father will never choose you."
I drive my elbow back into his solar plexus, breaking his hold, and spin to face him. We're both breathing hard and bleeding.
"You're right about one thing," I say, my voice ragged. "I never wanted to lead. But at least I didn't betray my own blood."
Something shifts in Lucas's expression—a flicker of the brother I once knew, perhaps. But it hardens again just as quickly.
"She's made you soft," he sneers. "The great Marco Walsh, taken to his knees."
I lunge forward, tackling him onto the table. We roll across it, sending the evidence of his betrayal scattering. I pin him, drawing the knife from my boot and pressing it against his throat. A thin line of blood appears beneath the blade.
Lucas stares up at me, defiant even now. "Do it," he challenges. "Prove you're Father's son after all."
My hand is steady, the knife poised to end his life with one decisive stroke. I can almost hear our father's voice: Betrayal cannot be forgiven. A traitor must pay with blood.
But this is Lucas. My brother. The same boy who taught me to fight, who stood back-to-back with me in our first real brawl. The man who carried Danny home when he broke his leg climbing the estate wall on a drunken dare.
My hesitation is all Lucas needs. He sees it in my eyes and smirks.
"You'll never be him," he says quietly. "You'll never be Father."
He spits in my face, blood and saliva mixing as it runs down my cheek. I pull back slightly, disgust and fury warring within me, and in that moment of distraction, Lucas bucks, throwing me off balance.
I maintain my grip on the knife but stumble backward. When I look up, Lucas is on his feet, straightening his jacket with exaggerated care despite the blood staining it.
"This isn't over," I warn him.
"No," he agrees, his smile cold. "It's just beginning."
I watch him leave, the knife still clutched in my hand, my chest heaving with exertion and something else—something that feels too much like grief.
The drive back to the estate is a blur, my mind replaying Lucas's words, searching for any explanation besides the obvious. He's my brother. We grew up together, fought together, protected each other. How could he betray us so completely?
But the evidence is undeniable. Lucas sold us out, got Danny killed, and put Sasha in danger—all for power, for his own ambition.
As I pass through the city, my phone rings—Father's number flashing on the screen. I let it go to voicemail. I'm not ready to tell him what I've discovered, not ready to admit that one son murdered another. Not when I still don't know how deep this betrayal goes or who else might be involved.
Another call comes in immediately after—this one from the funeral home. Danny's arrangements are finalized. The service is tomorrow morning.
Reality crashes back. My youngest brother is dead, killed on Lucas's orders. Tomorrow, we'll put him in the ground, and Lucas will stand there beside us, playing the role of grieving brother while knowing his hands are stained with Danny's blood.
I pull over, suddenly unable to breathe. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
Lucas can't live, not after this. He's too dangerous, too unpredictable. As long as he draws breath, everyone I care about is at risk—Father, Damien, James.
Sasha.
The thought of her brings a fresh wave of complicated emotions. Last night changed things between us in ways I'm not ready to examine. She gave herself to me freely, trusted me with her body if not yet with her heart. And today, I discovered my own brother put her in danger deliberately, used her as a pawn in his twisted game.
I restart the car, decision made. Lucas has forced my hand. But first, I need to see Sasha. I need to make sure she's safe, even if I can't yet tell her why she was targeted.
Even if I can't tell her what I'm about to do.
As I drive toward the estate, a thought comes unbidden: What if there was another way? What if I could walk away from all of this—the business, the violence, the endless cycle of betrayal and retribution?
What if Sasha and I just disappeared?
The fantasy lasts only a moment before reality reasserts itself. There is no escape from who I am, from what I've done. Men like me don't get happy endings. We don't get to ride off into the sunset with the girl.
We get blood on our hands and graves to visit. We get hard choices and harder consequences.
And tomorrow, I'll have another brother to bury—one way or another.