CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Marco
THE ABANDONED WAREHOUSE stands isolated miles from the Walsh estate; it offers the privacy I need.
Inside, Gerald sits bound to a metal chair, his body betraying him more effectively than any restraint I could have devised. His hands tremble uncontrollably, and the sickly yellow tint of his skin confirms what I already suspect: the old man is dying.
"I don't have much time," Gerald says, his voice barely above a whisper. "So I'll tell you what you need to know."
I stand before him, arms crossed, my patience wearing thin. "Start talking."
"Patrick is behind everything," Gerald confesses, pausing to catch his breath. "He's been planning this for months, ever since the doctors told him about the cancer."
The word hits me like a physical blow. "Cancer?" My expression hardens, masking the shock beneath. This is the first I've heard about my father being sick.
Gerald nods weakly, then doubles over in a violent coughing fit. When he finally straightens, a thin line of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. "Terminal. Six, maybe seven months left. He didn't want any of you to know—saw it as weakness."
I pace the concrete floor, processing this revelation. "So he decided to kill his own sons?" The disgust in my voice echoes through the space.
"Not all of them," Gerald replies, his breathing labored. "Just you and Danny. The ones he couldn't control."
I stop pacing, my gaze fixed on Gerald. "Why?"
"He told Lucas you both were planning to overthrow him, to align with the O'Reillys against the family." Gerald's eyes, though clouded with pain, hold mine. "He said you were the traitors."
The pieces fall into place for me—Lucas's sudden return, his betrayal, his conviction that I was the enemy. The past weeks of chaos now make sense, revealing a horrifying design crafted by my own father. I killed Lucas when I could have figured out a way to convince my brother that our father was lying.
"Lucas believed him. Believed I would betray my own father." My voice is hollow, the depth of the betrayal still sinking in.
"Patrick can be very convincing," Gerald says. "He offered Lucas full control after he was gone, but only if you and Danny were removed. Lucas didn't like it, but he went along, convinced your father would never lie about something so important."
I absorb this devastating truth. My father had orchestrated the murder of his own sons, has turned brother against brother through calculated lies. Everything I've done—every sacrifice, every compromise, every moral line crossed in the name of family loyalty—has been for a man who sees me as nothing more than an obstacle to be removed.
"And Danny?" I ask, dreading the answer.
"Patrick arranged the ambush himself. “
My hands clench into fists, my knuckles white. "Why tell me this now?"
"Because I'm dying anyway," Gerald says simply. He attempts a shrug, but the movement triggers another coughing spell. "And because what Patrick's doing will destroy everything the Walsh family built. He's becoming irrational, paranoid. The disease has affected his mind as well as his body. If I had known sooner, I would have stopped it."
As Gerald speaks, my trained instincts register subtle movements outside the warehouse windows—shadows where none should be, the glint of metal in the moonlight. My body tenses, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. We aren't alone.
Gerald notices my change in posture. "They followed you here," he says, resignation in his voice. "Patrick knew you'd bring me to this warehouse—he established it as a safe house years ago."
My phone vibrates with an emergency alert—the house has been breached, but Sasha is fine. But judging by the movements outside, it's already too late.
"How many?" I ask, subtly reaching for the gun holstered beneath my jacket.
"Enough," Gerald replies.
The warehouse doors burst open with a metallic groan, and Patrick Walsh himself enters. Once an imposing figure who commanded any room he occupied, my father now appears noticeably thinner, his designer suit hanging loosely on his frame. Yet his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—burn with the same unforgiving authority they always have. He walks with practiced confidence, flanked by four armed men.
"Hello, son," Patrick says, his voice still carrying its characteristic strength despite his weakened state. "I see Gerald has been talking too much."
My hand moves away from my weapon. Even in my current state, surrounded by Patrick's men, I can't bring myself to draw on my own father.
"Is it true?" I ask, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "About Danny? About all of it?"
Patrick surveys the scene with clinical detachment. His gaze lingers on Gerald, who meets his eyes without flinching.
"You always were too sentimental, Gerald," Patrick says, before turning back to me. "Family businesses require difficult decisions. Ones that sentimental men can't make."
"You didn't answer my question," I press, stepping forward. The armed men instantly raise their weapons, but Patrick waves them down.
"Yes," Patrick admits, no trace of remorse in his voice. "Danny was becoming a liability. His addiction, his recklessness—he would have brought everything down eventually."
"He was clean," I counter, thinking of my brother's three months of sobriety before his death. "He was trying."
Patrick dismisses this with a wave of his hand. "Temporary. He would have relapsed, as he always did. And you—" He fixes me with a hard stare. "You've been questioning my decisions for years. Undermining my authority. The Walsh family needs a leader who understands what's necessary."
"Like Lucas?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice.
"Lucas follows orders," Patrick says. "He understands hierarchy, respects tradition. He's not perfect, but he's malleable. But I know you killed him."
He shrugs like it’s a minor issue. Not the death of his eldest son.
I shake my head in disbelief. "So that's what this comes down to? Not love, not loyalty, not even capability—just blind obedience?"
My father’s expression hardens. "Don't lecture me about loyalty, Marco. Not when you've been putting civilians over your duties.
I know he is talking about Sasha. I keep my face impassive, giving nothing away.
"Did you think I wouldn't know?" Patrick continues. "How you have moved them around, protecting them like they are above our family."
My father smiles. “It doesn’t matter, Sasha has been very helpful to me.”
“What do you mean?”
"How do you think I knew you'd be here tonight? Who do you think activated that emergency alert? She's been playing you, son. And you fell for it because she's pretty and made you feel understood."
My mind races, replaying every conversation with Sasha, searching for inconsistencies, for signs I might have missed. But my father is a master manipulator—this could easily be another lie designed to isolate me further.
"Even if that were true," I say carefully, "it doesn't change what you've done. To your own sons."
"Everything I've done has been for this family," Patrick insists, a hint of genuine conviction in his voice. "For its survival after I'm gone. The cancer is spreading faster than the doctors anticipated. I need to ensure the Walsh legacy continues."
"By killing half your heirs?" I challenge.
"By eliminating threats," Patrick corrects. "You and Danny represented different dangers, but dangers nonetheless."
I laugh bitterly. "And now what? You'll kill me, too?”
For the first time, my father’s composure falters, a flash of something like regret crossing his features. "I never wanted it to come to this, Marco. Despite what you may think, I raised you to be strong. In another life, you might have led this family well."
"Then why—"
"Because you lack discipline," Patrick cuts me off. "You question when you should obey. You hesitate when you should act. And most dangerously, you've developed a conscience at an age when most men have learned to bury theirs."
Gerald, who has been silent during this exchange, suddenly speaks up. "Tell him the rest, Patrick. About the O'Reillys."
Patrick's gaze snaps to Gerald, his expression darkening. "Shut your mouth."
But Gerald, with the fearlessness of a dying man, continues. "He's making a deal with them, Marco. Selling out our territory, our operations—everything we have built."
"Is that true?" I demand, the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place. My father isn't preserving the family legacy; he's dismantling it.
"Consolidation is necessary for survival," Patrick says coldly. "The landscape is changing. The old ways are dying. The O'Reillys have federal connections, political protection we lack."
"So you're not just killing your sons," I say, comprehension dawning. "You're killing the Walsh name itself."
Patrick's eyes flash with anger. "I'm ensuring something survives! Lucas will marry Fiona O'Reilly after I'm gone. Their children will carry both bloodlines. It's the only way."
I look at my father—truly look at him—perhaps for the first time. The man who has loomed so large throughout my life suddenly appears small, diminished not just by disease but by fear. Patrick Walsh, who built his reputation on ruthless strength, is terrified of being forgotten.
His words are scrambled; only moments ago, he recognized that Lucas was dead, now he’s saying he will marry into the O’Reilly family. The cancer must be bad.
"You could have told us," I say quietly. "About the cancer. We could have faced it as a family."
Something flickers in my father’s eyes—regret, perhaps, or simply annoyance at my persistent sentimentality. "There's no place for weakness in our world, Marco. You know that."
"There's a difference between weakness and humanity," I counter. "Danny deserved better. I deserved better."
He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. "Perhaps. But it's too late for that now." He gestures to his men. "Take him."
Two of the armed guards move forward, but before they can reach me, the warehouse windows explode inward in a shower of glass. Smoke canisters hit the concrete floor, immediately filling the space with thick, disorienting clouds.
Gunfire erupts from multiple directions. I drop to the ground, crawling toward Gerald's chair as bullets tear through the smoke around us.
"I am sorry," Gerald whispers as I reach him. "For what it's worth."
Before I can respond, Gerald's body jerks violently, blood blooming across his chest. A stray bullet—or perhaps not so stray—has found its mark.
The warehouse has become a chaotic battlefield, impossible to navigate through the smoke and gunfire. I can't tell who is shooting at whom, whether this is a police raid or something else entirely.
No matter what, I can’t let my father walk away from this. I need to end this now.