CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sasha
"BUT WHY CAN'T you come with us?" Lily's voice quavers slightly, her small face a picture of confusion and hurt as she watches me fold her clothes into a suitcase. "You said we'd stay together."
Each word is a dagger to my heart. I pause, setting down the sweater I've been folding, and sit beside her on the bed. "I know, Lil. And I meant it. This is just temporary, I promise."
She looks unconvinced, tears welling in her green eyes—so like mine, yet still holding an innocence I've long since lost. "That's what Dad said when Mom went to the hospital. 'Temporary.' But she never came back."
The comparison steals my breath for a moment. Of course, she would see it that way—the last time our family was separated, it became permanent in the most devastating way possible—no wonder she's terrified now.
"This is different," I assure her, pulling her against me in a tight hug. "I'm not sick, Lily. I'm staying to help Marco finish some very important business. Once it's done, I'll come straight to Kerry to be with you."
"What kind of business?" she asks, her natural curiosity momentarily overriding her fear. "Is it about the bad men who attacked the house?"
I hesitate, torn between honesty and protection. Lily deserves the truth, but how much can a nine-year-old possibly understand about mafia warfare and familial betrayal?
"Yes," I admit carefully. "Marco needs to make sure those men can't hurt us again. And I'm helping him."
She pulls back slightly, studying my face with surprising intensity for someone so young. "Because you love him," she states with the simple certainty of a child.
"Yes," I acknowledge, seeing no point in denying what she's clearly observed. "I do love him."
Lily nods, processing this. "Is he going to be my brother? Like, will you marry him?"
The question catches me completely off guard. Marriage? The thought has flitted through my mind in unguarded moments, but we're in the middle of a war, for God's sake. We haven't even had a proper conversation about long-term plans beyond vague references to a shared future.
"I don't know, Lil," I say honestly. "Maybe someday. Right now, we're just trying to keep everyone safe."
"I like him," she declares, apparently satisfied with this answer. "He's scary sometimes, but not to us. And he makes you smile like you used to before Mom died."
The observation—so insightful, so innocently delivered—brings an unexpected lump to my throat. "You're pretty smart, you know that?"
"Yep," she agrees without hesitation, some of her usual spark returning. "That's why you should listen to me and come to Kerry."
I laugh despite myself, grateful for the moment of lightness amid so much darkness. "Nice try. But you know I need to stay."
She sighs dramatically, the sound far too world-weary for her years. "Fine. But you have to promise you'll call every day. And you can't get hurt. And you have to come as soon as the business is finished."
"I promise," I say solemnly, holding up my pinky finger for our traditional pact. "Pinky swear."
She links her finger with mine, sealing the agreement with all the gravity such childhood rituals deserve. "Buddy's coming with me, right?"
"Of course," I confirm, relieved that she's moved on to practical questions. "He'll keep you company, and you'll keep him safe."
This framing—giving Lily responsibility for Buddy's well-being—is deliberate, a strategy to help her feel empowered rather than victimized by the situation. Based on the way she straightens her shoulders slightly, it's working.
"I'll take good care of him," she promises. "And Aunt Karen, too."
The mention of Karen brings a different kind of worry to mind. My aunt has been uncharacteristically quiet since the attack, moving through preparations for their departure with mechanical efficiency but little emotional engagement. The shock of the violence, the realization of just how deep I've become entangled in Marco's world—it's a lot for anyone to process, let alone someone who has lived her entire life in relative normalcy.
"Speaking of Aunt Karen, why don't you go check and see if she needs help packing?" I suggest, needing a moment alone to collect myself. "I'll finish up here."
Lily nods and hops off the bed.. At the door, she pauses, turning back with sudden seriousness. "You'll be careful, right? You won't let the bad men hurt you?"
"I'll be very careful," I promise, forcing confidence into my voice. "Marco won't let anything happen to me."
This seems to satisfy her, and she disappears down the hallway, Buddy trotting faithfully at her heels. I resume packing, mechanically folding clothes while my mind races with everything that remains unsaid, unresolved.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to find Marco standing in the doorway, his expression softening as he takes in the scene.
"How's she taking it?" he asks, entering the room and closing the door behind him.
"Better than expected, worse than hoped," I answer honestly. "She's scared, but she's trying to be brave."
Marco nods, understanding without further explanation. "And Karen?"
"Processing. Withdrawn." I sigh, closing the suitcase and turning to face him fully. "She hasn't said much since the attack. I think it's all finally sinking in—what my involvement with you really means, the dangers it brings."
"She's not wrong to be concerned," he acknowledges, a shadow passing over his face. "Last night proved how high the stakes are."
"I know." I meet his gaze steadily, wanting him to understand that my position hasn't changed despite the escalating dangers. "But I've made my choice, Marco. I'm not second-guessing it."
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "The surveillance team has confirmed both Gerald and my father are at the O'Reilly compound. We're finalizing plans for an operation."
The information lands with the weight of inevitability. "When?"
"Tomorrow night," he says, watching my reaction carefully. "We move as soon as Lily and Karen are safely away."
I absorb this timeline, mentally calculating what needs to be done before then. "What kind of operation?"
Marco hesitates, clearly weighing how much to share. "It's not a direct assault," he says finally. "The compound is too well fortified, and they'll be expecting that approach after last night. We're planning something more...strategic."
"Meaning?"
"We've identified a vulnerability in their security system," he explains, his tone shifting to the clinical precision I've come to recognize as his tactical mode. "An opportunity to get a small team inside undetected. The goal is to extract Gerald—he's the key to everything. With him in our custody, we can verify the extent of my father's involvement and force the O'Reillys to the negotiating table."
The plan sounds cleaner than I expected, more surgical than the all-out warfare of the previous night. "And if Gerald won't cooperate? If your father resists?"
Marco's expression hardens. "Then we adapt. But let's be clear, Sasha—this ends tomorrow night, one way or another. I won't allow the threat to hang over us indefinitely."
The certainty in his voice is both reassuring and terrifying. I move to him, placing my hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. "I want to be there," I say, the words emerging before I can fully consider their implications.
He stiffens. "Absolutely not. We've already discussed this—"
"Not in the compound," I clarify quickly. "Not in the direct operation. But nearby. I can't sit here alone, Marco, just waiting to see if you come back."
His instinct to refuse is obvious, written in every line of his body.
"It would be dangerous," he warns. "If something goes wrong, if the operation is compromised..."
"Then I'd be no safer here than there," I point out. "The O'Reillys have already proven they can breach the estate when properly motivated."
He can't argue with this logic, though I can see he wants to.
"You would stay in the command vehicle," he stipulates finally. "With Tony. Under no circumstances would you approach the compound or involve yourself in the operation directly."
"Agreed," I say quickly, before he can reconsider. "I just need to be there, Marco. To know what's happening as it happens."
He sighs. "Sometimes I wonder if you realize how extraordinary you are, Sasha Gillespie."
The unexpected compliment warms me despite the gravity of our situation. "I'm just doing what anyone would do for the people they love."
"No," he contradicts gently. "You're not. Most people would have run from this—from me—as fast and far as they could. You stayed. You adapted. You've faced things that would break most people without flinching."
I shake my head, uncomfortable with this characterization of courage I don't entirely feel. "I've been terrified every step of the way."
"That's what makes it brave," he says simply. "Doing what needs to be done despite the fear."
Before I can respond, another knock interrupts us—Tony, this time, his expression apologetic but insistent.
"Sorry, Boss, but we've got the final reconnaissance report from the team at the compound. You'll want to see this immediately."
Marco nods, professional focus instantly replacing the momentary tenderness. "I'll be right there." After Tony withdraws, he turns back to me. "We'll continue this discussion later. For now, focus on getting Lily and Karen ready for tomorrow."
"I will," I promise. "What time do they leave?"
"Dawn," Marco says. "Tony's arranged the transport—unmarked vehicles, multiple route changes to avoid being tracked. Six of my most trusted men will accompany them to Kerry and remain as security detail."
The thoroughness of the arrangements reassures me somewhat, though nothing can completely erase the anxiety of being separated from Lily during such dangerous times. "I should finish packing, then. And talk to Karen."
Marco nods. He kisses me briefly, a casual gesture that still sends warmth spreading through me, before heading out to review the reconnaissance reports.
Once alone, I finish packing Lily's essentials, carefully including her favorite books and the stuffed rabbit she's slept with since infancy. These small touchstones of normalcy will be crucial in helping her adjust to yet another disruptive change in her young life.
With Lily's suitcase completed, I steel myself for the more difficult conversation awaiting me down the hall. Karen has been avoiding me since the attack, her disapproval evident in every avoided glance and abrupt exit when I enter a room. But we can't send her and Lily to Kerry without clearing the air between us.
I find her in her temporary bedroom, methodically folding clothes into a small suitcase. She looks up briefly when I enter, then returns to her task without greeting.
"Can we talk?" I ask, closing the door behind me to ensure privacy.
"What's left to say?" Her voice is flat. "You've made your choice, Sasha. You're choosing him, choosing this life, despite everything you've seen."
"I'm choosing a future," I correct gently. "One that includes Marco, yes, but also you and Lily. A future where we can all be safe, be a family."
She laughs, a brittle sound utterly lacking in humor. "Safe? After what happened last night? Men with guns invaded this house, Sasha. People died mere feet from where Lily was sleeping. That's not safety by any definition I recognize."
"That's why you're going to Kerry," I explain, working to keep my voice calm despite her accusatory tone. "So Marco and I can deal with the threat permanently, make it truly safe for all of us."
Karen finally looks up, her expression a complex mixture of disappointment and concern. "Listen to yourself. 'Deal with the threat.' 'Permanently.' You're talking like them now. Like violence is just another tool, another option."
The observation stings because there's truth in it. I have adapted to this world more rapidly, more completely than I sometimes realize.
"What would you have me do, Karen?" I ask quietly. "Run? Hide? Hope the O'Reillys and their associates just forget about us?"
"Yes," she says simply. "Exactly that. Take Lily far away from here, from Ireland entirely if necessary. Start fresh somewhere no one knows the name Walsh or O'Reilly or any of this madness."
The solution sounds so simple when she phrases it like that—a clean break, a new beginning. But we both know it's an illusion, a fantasy of safety that reality would quickly shatter.
"They would find us," I say, voicing the hard truth neither of us wants to face. "These people have resources, connections, reach that extends far beyond here. There is no 'away' that's truly beyond their grasp if they're determined to find us."
Karen's shoulders slump slightly, the first crack in her rigid disapproval. "So, instead, you stay. You fight. You risk everything—including Lily's future—on the chance that Marco Walsh can defeat his enemies and somehow transform from a violent criminal into a normal partner, a stable presence in your life."
Put like that, my choice does sound naive, perhaps even foolish. But there's more to it than Karen understands, more to Marco than she can see from her limited perspective.
"He's not just a violent criminal," I defend, though even as I say it, I recognize how weak it sounds. "There's more to him, to this situation."
"I'm sure there is," Karen sighs, her anger giving way to a weariness that somehow cuts deeper. "There always is with men like him. They're complicated, misunderstood, capable of change. Until they aren't. Until the next crisis brings back the violence, the criminal connections, the endless cycle of threats and reprisals."
Her words echo fears I've struggled to suppress—that despite Marco's genuine feelings for me, despite his talk of a different future, the life he was born into will always reclaim him in the end. That the violence is too deeply ingrained to ever truly leave behind.
"You don't know him," I say weakly.
"No," she agrees. "But I know men like him. Men who live by different rules, who justify violence as necessary, as protective. My brother, your father, may not have been a gangster, but a man who solved problems with his fists, who saw threats everywhere, who dragged your mother into a life of constant fear and instability."
The comparison to my father—a chronic gambler, an occasionally violent drunk—feels both unfair and uncomfortably apt. Marco operates on a completely different scale, but the fundamental pattern Karen identifies isn't entirely without basis.
"Marco is nothing like my father," I insist, though doubt creeps unbidden into my mind.
"Maybe not in the specifics," Karen concedes. "But the pattern, Sasha—the cycle of violence, the justifications, the promises that next time will be different—it's painfully familiar." She steps closer, her expression softening into genuine concern. "I watched my sister-in-law suffer through that cycle for years before cancer mercifully took her. I won't watch you travel the same road."
The brutal assessment leaves me momentarily speechless. Is that what I'm doing? Repeating my mother's mistakes, falling for a man whose world will eventually destroy me as surely as my father's addictions destroyed her?
No. The comparison is flawed, oversimplified. My father's violence was senseless, fueled by alcohol and gambling debts. Marco's is calculated, protective—a means to an end rather than an end in itself. And unlike my father, Marco has shown a capacity for change, for growth, for imagining a life beyond the constant cycle of violence.
"You're wrong about him," I say with more certainty than I truly feel. "And you're wrong about me. I'm not blindly following him into destruction, Karen. I'm making a conscious choice, with my eyes wide open to both the risks and the possibilities."
She studies me for a long moment, searching for something in my expression—weakness, perhaps, or the means to sway me from my chosen path. Finding neither, she sighs deeply.
"I hope you're right, Sasha. For your sake, for Lily's sake. I truly do." She turns back to her packing, a clear dismissal. "We'll go to Kerry as planned. We'll wait for you to join us, as you've promised Lily. But I won't pretend to support this decision, this relationship. I can't."
It's not the reconciliation I'd hoped for, but it's as much as I can reasonably expect given the circumstances. "Thank you for taking care of Lily," I say sincerely. "For being there when she needs stability. It means everything to me, Karen. Whatever you think of my choices."
She nods stiffly, not looking up from her methodical packing. "She's my niece. My family. That hasn't changed, regardless of how I feel about your involvement with Marco Walsh."
The conversation is clearly over. I leave Karen to her packing, a heaviness settling in my chest as I walk away.
Her warnings echo in my mind, mixing uneasily with my own suppressed doubts. What if she's right? What if I'm deluding myself about Marco's capacity for change, about our chances for a future that isn't defined by violence and fear?
Is this to be my life now? Living in a fortress, surrounded by armed men, always watching for the next threat? Is this the environment I want for Lily if she eventually returns to live with us?
The questions have no easy answers, no certainties I can cling to. Only the choice I've already made, for better or worse—to stand with Marco, to face whatever comes next by his side rather than fleeing into an illusion of safety that could shatter at any moment.