The Irish Arrangement (Mafia Bosses)

1. Declan

1

DECLAN

B lood flew out of the man’s mouth as his head whipped back from my hit. The jab was hard and fast, sending him staggering to one knee. He wasn’t done, though, struggling to stay on his two feet before the arc of my other hand could connect with his side.

A crack was my reward. His whoosh of a rough exhale was better yet. Best of all was his drop to the sweat-slicked floor of the fighting ring.

Take that, you fucker.

Heaving in air to catch my breath, I stood braced and alert in case this fight the Boyles sponsored would stand again. If he wanted more, if he was eager to literally fight to the death, then by all means, I was here for it.

In the distance, outside this ring where I’d defeated countless fighters and trained even more, I noticed the spectators grimacing and scowling. This wasn’t a match for the crowds. We were settling a personal matter here, and I’d be damned if anyone from the Boyles would think to suggest any of my men cheated.

“What’s that now?” I taunted, wiping my hand over my mouth. My lips weren’t split like the exhausted and beaten man at my feet. He had yet to get up. Braced on his side, curling into his tenderest injuries I’d given him, he surrendered.

“You want to go around telling everyone the Sullivans are liars?” I growled, climbing through the ring’s ropes.

The Boyle shook his head, nudging his companion that they should go. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

I grunted a mirthless laugh as I accepted a towel from my brother, Ian, who also stood by watching. As I walked further from the ring to approach the two men affiliated with the Boyle Family, I cocked my head to the side.

“Nothing to say?”

Peter Boyle smirked at me, his dark glare full of loathing and disdain. We’d never gotten along with our rivals, but over time, the Sullivans had learned to keep their distance, and the Boyles knew not to mess with us either. Except last week, when Peter claimed that one of my fighters cheated in the ring and his man—lying on the ring’s floor and panting to survive—should’ve won that fight.

“Fuck you, Dec.” Peter shook his head, walking out with his lackey.

“Hey!” Ian called out, grinning as he watched them go. “You forgot your trash.”

Peter didn’t stop, leaving and grumbling.

“Stupid motherfucker,” I muttered, wiping my face and making sure those two left without bothering anyone else here. The sounds of men training resumed, and the usual bustle of the large gym returned to normal. The Sullivan Clan dabbled in all sorts of avenues of income. My family had risen to wealth and prominence hundreds of years ago with the success of many illegal and dangerous businesses, but I preferred this one. Fighting. If I wasn’t training them, I participated in matches myself, and I took it personally when the Boyles disparaged my reputation. All of the men who fought under the Sullivan name did so honestly. We stood by our strength and honor, and I’d punish anyone who tried to cut corners and cheat.

“Let’s see them try to accuse one of us again,” Ian said.

I nodded, glancing at him again. He wasn’t a blood relation, only an adopted sibling, but he’d always been my right-hand man. In a finely tailored suit, he looked out of place here. This gritty, loud, and violence-prone warehouse was a far cry from his office in the city. I cut a sharp contrast, sweaty and down to my pants from that fight.

“What brings you by?” Ian and I were close, but he handled a lot of administrative things for my father, the leader of our Clan. It wasn’t often that he stopped over here, unless it was the night of a big fight. I squinted at him through the sting of sweat dripping into my eyes as I unwrapped my hands.

“Dad.” He lost all residue of his smirk at the Boyles. Lines etched on his face, tugging his expression down with a sober frown. “He’s not doing well.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” I huffed. “He hasn’t been doing well for years.” Donal Sullivan was a larger-than-life sort of Irishman no one would dare to disrespect, but for the last ten years, his pulmonary conditions had worsened gravely. His body failed him faster with every passing day, and I dreaded the idea of his being gone soon.

Ian shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “No. He’s even worse. Riley called and told me that the doctors have been to the estate three times this week.”

Fuck. I wiped the towel over my face once more. My duties kept me in the city. It wasn’t often that I could hang out at the massive family home where Dad stayed, usually bedridden and trying to tolerate a moderate level of activity. I hadn’t been home since last weekend, and I could take Ian and Riley’s word as the truth.

“It’s got to be bad if she’s calling,” Ian said, raising his brows.

“I know.” Donal Sullivan was a proud man, and he’d ordered his primary doctor to downplay the severity of his status. Ian and I often felt like we didn’t have the whole picture of how near our father was to his deathbed. They glossed over facts and no longer contacted us with worries about Dad’s decline. If Riley, one of the cooks, also Ian’s longtime lover, took it upon herself to break that rule and update Ian about Dad’s health, it had to be bad.

“I’ll head out there.” I sighed, tossing the towel to the bin where they were collected. After I grabbed a quick shower, I’d drive straight there.

Ian walked alongside me, also scoping out the activity of the other men training and exercising here. “I’ll wait for you. We may as well ride together.”

“Yeah.” Because if both of us were there to check on him, he’d have a harder time dismissing us.

An hour later, we entered the estate house and hurried up to Dad’s wing. I doubted he’d left his bed for at least a couple of weeks. He’d be in the same position, with the same sour and gruff temperament, as he had the last time I saw him.

Yet, I wasn’t prepared for how much he’d worsened. He was barely able to breathe, gaunt and thinner.

“Dad,” I greeted somberly. I didn’t check my tone, though, and it came out sounding like a scolding.

“How bad is it?” Ian said as he approached the bed with me.

Riley glanced at us, her brows raised, and backed out of the room with the tray of an untouched dinner.

“How bad is it?” Dad growled. “I’m dying. What do you expect?”

He’d been saying that for years.

“You don’t look well,” I commented as neutrally as possible.

“Looks like you need to check a mirror too,” he shot back, spry in his attitude. He thumbed his chin, indicating where I’d taken a hard hit from the Boyles’ fighter earlier.

I shrugged, glancing at the oxygen tank positioned near the head of the bed. Like usual, the thin, clear hose was lying on the mattress. The plastic nose piece rested, unused.

You stubborn, spiteful man.

Ian picked it up and held it out, but Dad swatted his offer away. “Ah, don’t mess with that. What good would it do?”

“It’d help you breathe, for one thing,” Ian replied as he dutifully gave up and released the hose. We were both too used to him to ever push hard. What Donal Sullivan wanted, he got.

“Why make me suffer any longer?” He huffed a laugh, which turned into coughing and wheezing. “At this rate, I’d be asking you to put me out of my misery.”

Ian and I shared a look. He’d voiced the very thing both of us dreaded. If Dad ever asked us to do that, we’d struggle with obeying him in such a final wish. We didn’t want to lose him, but we understood how miserable he had to be.

“But it’s too soon. I’ll fucking die knowing you don’t have an heir.”

I rolled my eyes, dropping to sit on the bed.

“I can’t,” Dad insisted. “I can’t die until you have an heir. I refuse to go to the grave knowing our line, our family, will die out with you.”

Ian bit his lip and stuck his hands in his pockets again, his usual stance when he was uncomfortable about something. “It’s not like he hasn’t tried.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Dad argued.

But I did. I had tried. Twice.

“I don’t see you married right now,” he said, narrowing his light-blue eyes at me.

I opened and closed my mouth. At a loss for words, I struggled with figuring out how long I had to put that task off.

“Finding him a wife is, uh, easier said than done,” Ian quipped.

I shot him a look of annoyance. “Hey, you could always knock someone up too.”

He laughed as Dad shook his head. “I refuse to die until I know you’ve secured an heir to the Sullivan name, the Sullivan bloodline.”

Ian shrugged at me, nonplussed. It was common knowledge that he couldn’t be expected to satisfy Dad’s request. Not only was he younger than me, but he was also not a blood brother. I was the only one. The only son.

“It’s always been like that,” Dad argued. “I didn’t make the rules, but you have to produce an heir, Declan.”

And through marriage. I was always careful to glove up when fucking a woman. The last thing we needed was an illegitimate child to pay for and raise. And I didn’t welcome the headache of a gold-digging woman to get knocked up by me and expect money, either.

“You have to find someone,” Dad insisted.

“You think I haven’t tried?” I stood and crossed my arms. “I married Erin.”

He sneered. “Who fucked one of those Italians. Only she had to have an affair with one who had a jealous wife.”

Erin was my first attempt at marriage and getting an heir. That Italian lover killed her to erase his evidence of infidelity.

“And Caitlin…” I shook my head. My second wife killed herself. She was too soft, too traumatized, she’d warned, from living with a “monster” like me.

“You need to find a fucking wife who can last long enough to give you a child.” Dad sighed, slumping back to his pillows. This argument wasn’t anything new, and each time he implored me to get this taken care of, he was tired of the wait and had lost hope.

Ian cleared his throat. “I’ve been trying to look around and find someone.”

I rolled my eyes. My brother playing match-maker. It was ridiculous.

“But not many Families want their daughters to marry him.”

Dad and I stared at each other. “He’s a fine man. He represents the future of the Sullivan name. The next leader.”

“But he’s also ruthless, prone to being brutish, and very impatient,” Ian said.

“Losing two wives can’t instill much faith,” I admitted.

“Have you asked the Murrays?” Dad raised his bushy gray brows, looking from Ian to me.

I didn’t give a shit about finding a wife. Even though I understood what Dad expected of me, I was fine with Ian trying—and failing—to secure me a bride who’d stick around.

“Shane Murray?” Ian asked, rubbing his chin. “No, I haven’t.”

“He’s got a daughter.” Dad nodded. “Saoirse, I think her name was. Young, but she’s got to be of age by now.”

“What makes you think Shane would want to offer her up?” I asked. I hardly cared who she was or what she looked like. If she had a pussy I could fuck, then that was all that mattered. It wasn’t like I’d actually be a husband and spend time with her. I had too much shit to do, and once Dad passed, I’d be completely in charge.

“He won’t want to,” Ian said. “Every single Family I’ve contacted, it’s a unanimous rejection.”

I smirked at him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Just telling it like it is.”

“I helped Shane Murray years ago. He benefited from the Sullivan protection, and he’s never paid back the debt.”

Now I was intrigued. Maybe this would be the best solution.

“You reach out to Shane Murray,” he told us, “and tell him that he owes me. He owes us a significant sum that he’ll never be able to repay if he lived another hundred years.” Coughing broke up his speech, but he managed to finish after a moment. “Demand that he offer Saoirse in marriage in exchange for his debt.”

I stood, nodding. Saoirse Sullivan. I would make it happen. “I’ll contact him right now.” Ian could handle this chore of correspondence, but I may as well live up to my reputation as a rough, hard asshole every father feared their daughter would meet. If Shane needed some encouragement to go along with this payment plan, it’d be my pleasure to get it done.

Whatever it took. Dad didn’t have much time left with how blue his lips looked and how weak he was to sit upright in bed.

I’d get him a damn heir as soon as possible.