Chapter 1
Chapter One
Maeve
7 years ago
I hate that fireplace.
It’s a monstrous black brick fireplace with deep green tile, surrounded by dark walls. The flames lick at the edges, scorching it with tarnished soot. The dark stained wood of the mantle is nearly black against the wallpapered walls of green forests and golden accents, of dancing nymphs and flying birds.
This place is a spot of power in my home. In my father’s home.
This office is the bane of my existence. It’s where my father rules his empire, it’s where I sit and listen to his decrees.
A decree that he’s now going to give to me.
I shouldn’t have been given one, not yet. Decrees are given at twenty-one to those in the clan; if you wanted to stay within the family, then you were given a place to fit. That could be as simple as what your job in the clan would be, like enforcer or soldier, or what the Captain needed from you.
My younger sister Collins will get her decree at twenty-one, just like everyone else. My father has always envisioned her as the clan doctor, and that’s what he’ll tell her on the eve of her birthday. My youngest sister Sloane will be told to marry and produce children, her relationship leveraged as a way to strengthen the family. As for my brother Briar, though still an infant, he’ll likely be groomed to serve as hired muscle or a hitman. Most of the men born into the clan are used the same way.
That leaves me, the heir, to know of my fate.
Once the decree is leveled, it’s either take it with gratitude or walk away from the family. There is little else I can do.
I’m thirteen. I can’t go anywhere. This is my home, my legacy. Whatever my father has planned, I have no choice but to follow through.
Leaning back into his chair, my father is a massive man. Dark locks, the same shade as my own, with muddy, beady eyes. His hands are like mallets, and his body is thick like a tree trunk. His pale cheeks are ruddy, his Irish complexion still not used to the cold of Boston during the winter.
In two weeks, I’ll be fourteen. I wonder if he even remembers.
My father is a good businessman, running his clan with an iron fist. But he’s a shitty father.
Puffing on his cigar, I don’t turn as the door behind me opens and then closes quietly. It could be anyone. Looking away from my father is a death sentence, though. He expects loyalty at all times. Always from me.
A body moves to perch itself on to my father’s massive desk. It’s just as dark as the room, with a cloud of smoke lingering above us. I hate the smell but it isn’t my home. It’s his . Always his.
Locking eyes with Michael Langston, my father’s second-in-command, I stop the urge to recoil. Michael is a normal fixture in my father’s rebuilt castle, a mockery to the ones that litter the Irish coasts. He’s always lurking around, enjoying my father’s best wine or his expensive cigars. What he does for my father is anyone’s guess; he doesn’t run the product, he doesn’t do the books, and he certainly doesn’t kill the competition.
I would know. Because I do it.
Thirteen years old and I have already taken a life. I’ve done all sorts of terrible things for this clan.
I am, after all, my father’s daughter.
When Michael continues to stare at me, I turn my gaze to my father, shooting him an annoyed glare. I would never openly disagree with him, but here, in his office, I am as stubborn as him. He knows I have no fear of him.
Soon, I’ll replace him on this throne and control the clan that belongs to me. With his death, I’ll be Captain.
“Well?” I drawl. “I’m here. What did you want?”
He stubs out the cigar. “It’s time for you to know your place in the clan.”
I brace myself. My father is not a fan of women; he’s made that abundantly clear. I had to work harder, faster, be more ruthless than anyone else in his crew in order to get just a scrap of admiration. But this is my birthright.
He’s naming me as his heir. Finally.
Nodding, I plant my feet shoulder-width apart, bracing myself as if readying for battle. My leather jacket is a bit too big for my slender body, my combat boots too scuffed to belong to a mafia princess. But I don’t rely on my father to buy me things. I never do.
My shoulders tense as he stands. Ferguson O’Brien dwarfs me easily.
“You are to be betrothed.”
The wind rushes from my lips silently. My body locks, fight or flight mode activating as adrenaline surges through my veins.
“Betrothed?” I could not have heard him right.
Sloane was to be married. Collins was to be a doctor. Briar was to be a soldier.
I’m supposed to be Queen.
“Yes.” My father claps Michael on his shoulder in a show of some familiarity. They’re the same age, having come to America from Ireland decades ago.
Michael chews on the butt of his cigar and his blue eyes turn malicious.
Something is niggling at me, in the back of my head, a nail poking a festering wound. I need to pay attention here. But my focus is entirely on my father. On the indescribable feeling of wrong.
Swallowing, my hands fist at my sides. Breathe. “And what of my birthright?” The words sound hollow.
Ferguson snorts. “Birthright?” He shakes his head, temples barely grey. “Your birthright is what I tell you it is.”
“I’m your oldest. Your heir ,” I stress the word. Heir. Birthright. This clan is mine.
If not, why was I on the streets, selling drugs? Why did I know what it was like to take a life, hands warm from freshly spilled blood? What was the point of it all if he’s just going to sell me to the highest bidder?
“You are my heir,” he says slowly. “But you will never lead this clan, Maeve. There is no way a woman could be what this clan needs at its head.”
I rear back as if struck. He thinks, because of what was between my legs, that I can’t rule effectively. That I can’t be the person who strikes fear into the men of this clan, that I cannot wield my power like an untouchable man.
How very fucking wrong he is.
“Instead, the clan will continue in our name, through you.” He gestures to my body, still developing into girlhood. I haven’t even started my period yet, and he’s already discussing the use of my uterus to this family.
“You’re going to give the clan to an outsider.” Someone who is not an O’Brien.
My father spent decades building this clan into the powerhouse it was now. We have two rivals in Boston who we fight on the regular for territory. We went from nothing to something and he just wants to give it away.
He claps Michael again. “Not an outsider. To someone in the family.”
My green eyes land on Michael and everything goes eerily still.
Him. My father is giving me to him .
Michael, who my little sisters call Uncle Mike. The man who my father goes to strip clubs with and who pays prostitutes to lower themselves to their knees for him. The man has a beer belly and usually wears a stained white shirt and dirty jeans. He’s balding with yellow teeth and gives me the absolute worst creeps.
He’s to be my husband.
I feel sick.
“No.” I shake my head. “ No.”
Ferguson grabs my upper arm, hauling me close. At his nearness, I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes—the same ones I have—and I can feel his power in his hands. One flick of his wrist and he can break my thin arm without a second thought.
“Yes,” he hisses. “You will marry Michael. You will be a good, obedient wife to him and produce heirs to our clan. And you will do it all with a fucking smile on your face. That is my decree. Or,” he breaks off, tossing me back. My feet stumble over the stationary chair I had refused to sit in. “You could leave, Maeve. Walk away. But I will say that if you do, someone will still be Michael’s wife.”
“Someone?” I lick my dry lips, glancing from his second to him. “Who?”
My father shrugs. “I have two other daughters. They’re more than willing to serve the clan, their father, without question.”
On the outside, I’m a mask of cold disinterest. Inside, my chest feels as if it’s been sliced open with a rusted blade.
If I don’t take his decree, he'll impose it on one of my sisters. My beautiful, bright, sisters who don’t know an ounce of darkness in this world. Because I’ve kept it from them, let them live ignorant lives. I took the hits so they could thrive.
My father would shackle one of them to this monster before me and at their ages, they would agree. Just to make Ferguson happy.
I can’t let that happen. I can’t let my father break them. Not like how he broke me.
Lifting my chin, I snarl at them both, “Fine. I accept your decree.”
It’s better if it’s me, instead of them. I can handle the abuse, the shame.
Because even though Michael would control me, I’m not done fighting.
Once I have a plan, I’ll take back my power and my throne from them both.