The Heir’s Defiance (Sins of the O’Rourke Empire #5)

1. Connor

CONNOR

M y headlights swing around the corner, catching up to my line of sight.

The property is old, owned by my family for over seventy-five years now, but the building is new, built just over a year ago.

The pub's sign flickers even at this late hour, but they're not open for business.

The full parking lot may tell passersby otherwise, but if they come to the door, they'll be turned away.

The car pulls up next to Ronan's black SUV, some new Rover EV with armored body panels and bullet-proof glass.

He's not taking any chances now that his son is out and about with him from time to time.

I can't blame him. With the shit happening in Dublin ever since he took command of the family, we can't be too careful.

"Thank you, Kirk," I grunt as I open the door and get out before he even has the thing in park.

The rain needles down on my shoulders, soaking into me like the stench of death. I hang my head and stalk toward the building where the sign spasms in the rain, casting sickly yellow flashes across the hood of Ronan’s Rover like crime scene tape.

Nights like this don't shift the path—they bury it. Every footstep forward feels like you're treading on the bones of the last poor soul who didn't see the knife coming. When a trusted ally is taken out of the game, it means retaliation and redirection.

We'll find out who did this and we will make them pay, and then we'll have to find someone to take his place, which won't come easily. Garda officials are always trying to insert themselves into our ranks, find weaknesses in our armor. My brother will have a difficult time replacing Corbin.

"Connor," I hear as I step through the doors of the pub.

I look up to see Killian standing next to two of my brothers.

They all carry stern expressions. We're not mourning so much as brooding.

Corbin was a good man and didn't deserve what happened to him, but this isn't quite so personal as it is an assault on our business. One we can't take lightly.

"Kill." My eyes flick toward the bar where Ronan stands talking with some of our men. He's expecting me, but I pause and turn toward Killian. "News on exactly what happened?" I ask, and Killian's eyebrows rise as he purses his lips.

"Burned alive. Garda found his car three blocks from home at a pharmacy, round back.

Said there was no foul play, just a short in the wires for the fuel pump that ignited the fuel line.

They said he never had a chance." Even as Killian speaks, my heart twists in my chest. That doesn't sound like an accident or a mechanical malfunction to me. It sounds like murder.

"Ro's not too happy," Finn says, nodding at our eldest brother, chief of this family. "He's been asking for you."

Sucking in a breath to clear some tension from my chest, I dip my head at Finn and turn toward the bar.

It's a somber night with the rain and the atmosphere in here.

Most conversations are subdued, likely because Ronan is pissed, and whoever crosses him might get an earful.

It isn't often someone gets so brazenly murdered, and even less often when it's someone like Corbin who had ties across all five Families in Dublin.

The soles of my boots squeak on the polished wood floors as I cross the room, nodding at men who make an attempt to greet me. The entire family is here to hear Ro's announcement about the dead fence and what the O'Rourke response will be.

Ronan finishes speaking to the men at the bar and turns toward me.

His expression is unreadable but sharpened by the pressure he's carried since the news broke.

I step up beside him silently, and we stand there for a moment, both of us watching the room.

The usual chatter of the pub has been replaced with somber chatter that carries an undertone of anger.

“Let’s keep this simple,” Ronan says to me, then raises his voice just enough to carry across the space. “Everyone in this room knows what happened, and if you don’t, you’re in the wrong room.” He lets the silence take hold of the room for a moment before continuing.

“Corbin was left to cook in his car behind a pharmacy in Kilmainham. Garda says it was a fault in the wiring. We know better. There is no proof, no trail, no fingerprints—just charred metal and enough of his teeth left to check dental records.”

Some heads nod while others stay still, their attention fixed on Ronan like they're waiting for permission to respond. I haven't seen the images yet, but I hear they're gruesome, like something from a horror film.

“He moved product, cleared goods, and handled clean drops for half the names in this city, including ours. He wasn’t family, but he was loyal, and now he’s gone. Replacing him won't be fast, and it'll cost us.” He turns his head slightly, just enough to find my eyes.

“We’ll be holding a public memorial on Saturday on neutral ground. Every major family gets an invite, the Fitzpatricks included.”

The name draws a few quiet reactions. Some glances shift.

A man near the wall mutters something to the one beside him.

Ronan doesn't acknowledge it. The Fitzpatricks are who we suspect may have done this as an attention grab.

They know how priceless Corbin's work was for many of the names in this city, and his murder, if it really was a murder, is a power play we can't afford to ignore.

“They’ll show or they won’t. Either way, we’ll take note. Connor will represent us. He’ll stand up front, shake hands, and watch who looks him in the eye and who doesn’t. If someone slips, we’ll know. They’re watching to see if we flinch. If they think we do… we’ll burn like he did.”

He faces forward again, and the room tightens around his words.

Corbin's widow won't be expecting our help in this, but if we drew him into the line of fire, it's the least we can do.

The city's been stewing like a boiling cauldron since Ronan took our father's place. It's up to us to get it to simmer down.

“I don’t have to remind you that according to my father's wishes, Connor is next in line for my position.

Until my son is old enough to lead, Connor is my number two.

" His eyes narrow on a host of men who don't approve of my father's choice.

As the youngest, I'm the farthest from the line of succession, but it's what Da wanted, so Ronan will see to it.

And with the pressure in the city mounting, I don't have time to argue. I take my orders from Ronan for now, but knowing the mindset of those who should report to me makes my job all that much harder. They’ll play nice for now, but they’ve already started sharpening the knives.

I wasn’t supposed to be in the room, let alone stand at the head of it.

Across the room, Finn’s jaw sets. Declan stares at me without blinking, then looks away. Killian’s gaze stays level, but I can feel the shift in posture around the room as the others adjust to the new shape of things.

"Whatever Connor needs, you do it. He'll handle all of this. I have more important things to tend to." My oldest brother straightens his tie, buttons his suit coat, and walks toward the door through the mob of men who don't make eye contact with him.

The murmurs begin as soon as he leaves the room. The voices are low, but no one bothers to hide the way they watch me. Some take long glances, others just a flick of the eyes, but they’re measuring the same thing. Not whether I’ll hold the weight but how long it will take before it crushes me.

I walk past them without acknowledging a single look, stepping out through the side door into the narrow space behind the pub for a smoke.

The night has gone still, the rain now only a trace clinging to the pavement in thin sheens of reflection.

The brick walls rise around me like the inside of a box.

A soldier lingers near the dumpster, flicking the last of his cigarette into a puddle that doesn’t need more filth.

Kieran Malloy. Barely old enough to carry a gun legally. His eyes find mine, and he stiffens before he has a chance to pretend he isn’t afraid. He was supposed to be watching the fence that night and making sure his sale went down.

“Connor,” he says, nodding once. “Didn’t know you were still around.” I hear the quake in his voice ready to shatter him.

“I am.” I don’t stop walking until I’m close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath.

“You were posted near the alley behind the pharmacy,” I say, not raising my voice.

He nods once, too fast, and straightens his shoulders as if posture might shield him from failure. “Nothing out of place that night,” he answers. “Did my full sweep.”

He doesn’t hold my gaze for more than a second. The lie has already begun to stretch at the edge of his voice.

"Nothing," I say again, letting the stone sink between us into a shallow grave. "You saw nothing while one of ours was left to burn behind a pharmacy?"

His throat tightens, and whatever answer he tries to shape dies before it reaches his lips. He understands the cost of lying to me.

"There was someone," he mutters eventually, his eyes shifting to the ground. "It happened around two. He wore a hoodie with the hood up and kept his head low. He acted like he belonged there, so I didn’t think it meant anything."

"You recognized him?" I ask.

He hesitates, then nods. "Might've been a Fitzpatrick." But his eyes flick back and forth between mine like he's waiting for a fish to bite.

I wait, but he says nothing more. "Might've been?" I repeat.

His voice quavers. "I didn't report it because I wasn't sure. Look, the guy seemed like he knew this place. I thought he worked for the pharmacy."

I hold his gaze. "But you saw him." Anger bubbles up. If he recognized the man and said nothing, he's got a lot worse problems coming toward him. "Tell Ronan what you know. Now," I bark.

Then I hit him once, knuckles driving through the bridge of his nose.

The crack is immediate and heavy, and the blood follows.

It runs over his mouth and down his chin in long, dark streaks.

He stumbles into the wall, both hands rising far too late to defend himself or stop what’s already been done.

He wipes at the blood, trembling as he tries to find the right words. "I didn't think it was related."

"You should’ve said something the second you had a doubt," I say. "Next time you hesitate, it won’t just be your nose that breaks."

He crouches beside the dumpster, silently bleeding onto the pavement. I walk back inside and take the rear stairwell to the office. The door closes behind me, shutting out the voices downstairs. The quiet that remains isn't relief.

Corbin's death just lit a fuse under an already tense city, and war will break out at any second. If the Fitzpatricks did this, it means they're going to start pushing in other ways too, and if they push, their allies will push. And it will be up to me to stop this from escalating further.

If I can figure out how.