7. Cormac
CHAPTER 7
CORMAC
BETRAYAL & brOTHERHOOD
H er taste lingers on my tongue hours after I leave the penthouse. The memory of Aoife on her knees, copper hair spilling over my thighs, lips wrapped around my cock—it haunts me through meetings and strategy sessions. My body is on a knife edge, unsatisfied, taunted by her deliberate denial.
A dangerous game she's playing. One that will end with her beneath me, begging.
But first, business requires my attention.
The surveillance on Liam Gallagher has been very insightful. Connor drops a manila folder on my desk, he’s uncharacteristically silent as I flip it open.
Photographs spill across polished mahogany. Liam Gallagher meeting someone at a pub in Temple Bar. The second figure sits with his back to the camera in the first shots. Then, in the final image, he turns.
My blood freezes.
Finn . My youngest brother.
"There must be a mistake," I say, voice deadly calm despite the rage building beneath my skin.
Connor shifts uncomfortably. "Three separate meetings documented. Audio recordings from the last one."
He slides a flash drive across the desk. "You'll want your privacy for this."
After he leaves, I plug the drive into my laptop. The audio quality isn't perfect—pub noise creating background static—but the voices come through clear enough.
"Patrick's losing patience," Liam's distinctive voice says. "The shipment locations worked out, but he wants something bigger."
"I've given you three major scores." Finn's voice, unmistakable. "That wasn't our arrangement."
"Arrangements change. Especially when you're dealing with a man whose daughter's been kidnapped."
A pause, then Finn again: "Cormac's move, not mine. I strongly advised him against it."
"Yet here we are. And now Patrick wants the Donovan distribution network. All access points, security details. Everything."
"That wasn't the deal. I agreed to help balance power in exchange for territory when this is over. Not hand over the family business."
Liam laughs, the sound cold through the static. "You handed over the family business the moment you betrayed your brother. Don't act all moral and mighty now."
The recording continues, detailing drop points, payoffs, schedules. With each word, the betrayal cuts deeper. Finn—raised under my protection after our father's brutality nearly destroyed him. Finn—whom I shielded, educated, positioned as my right hand.
Finn—who has sold our family to the Gallaghers.
I send a text to Declan: Bring him. Now. The warehouse.
Then another to Connor: Secure transport for our guest at the penthouse. Deliver her to location Alpha at 9PM. No explanations.
The drive to our Docklands warehouse passes in a blur of cold calculating rage. Betrayal in our ranks explains everything—the ambushed shipments, the precise intelligence, the targeted strikes against our operations. Not Murphy feeding information to the Donovan’s, but my own brother driving a knife into my back.
Declan waits outside the warehouse, cigarette burning between his fingers. "He's inside. Confused, not afraid. He clearly doesn't know what we know."
"Anyone else know?"
"Just Connor and me, boss. As ordered."
"Good." I adjust my cufflinks, a ritual before violence. "Family business stays private."
The warehouse interior stretches vast and empty, save for a single chair in the center where Finn sits, unbound. He rises as I approach, confusion on his face.
"Cormac? What's this about?" He gestures around the empty space. "Declan wouldn't explain anything."
I circle him slowly, measuring each step. "Tell me about Liam Gallagher."
His posture shifts subtly—the first sign of guilt. "What about him?"
"Your meetings. Three in the past month. The most recent on Tuesday at O'Malley's Pub."
A flash of panic crosses his face before his demeanor settles into neutal. "Business reconnaissance. Getting a feel for their operation since the escalation."
"Business reconnaissance," I repeat, voice deceptively soft. "Is that what we're calling treason now?"
"Treason? Cormac, what are you?—"
I strike without warning, fist connecting with his jaw. He stumbles backward, hand rising to his split lip.
"Don't. Lie. To. Me." Each word punctuated with cold hard pain. "We have a recording, Finn. Your voice, clear as day, selling our shipment schedules, and secrets to Liam fucking Gallagher."
The color drains from him. His shoulders slump as the pretense falls away.
"You wouldn't understand," he murmurs.
"Try me."
He straightens, finding a shred of dignity. "This war with the Gallaghers—it's destroying our business. You're so blinded by hatred for Patrick that you can't see the damage it's causing. I made a strategic business decision."
"To betray your family." The words taste like ash. “Without fucking talking to me first?”
"To save it!" His voice rises. "Patrick approached me three months ago with an offer. Limited information exchange to prevent all-out war. A controlled conflict that benefits both families."
I laugh, bitter and cold. "And you believed him? Patrick Gallagher would burn every Donovan alive given the chance."
"He offered us territory. A seat at the table when the city gets divided. More than you ever promised me."
The accusation hangs between us. Finn—always in my shadow. Always the protected one, never the protector. But he’s always coveted what was mine.
"You cost us three shipments," I say quietly. "Two men dead in the Connelly Street ambush. All because you felt that you weren't given enough power?"
He flinches. "The men weren't supposed to be killed. That was Liam's doing, not the plan."
"And what was the plan for Aoife Gallagher?" The question emerges sharper than intended. "Did you know I'd take her? Did you warn them?"
Confusion radiates from him. "That was your move, not mine. Patrick went ballistic when it happened. It wasn't part of our arrangement. And he may still kill me over it."
The warehouse door opens behind me. Declan enters with Aoife between him and Connor. Her hands cuffed in front of her, copper hair gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights. Her chin lifts in that defiant gesture I've come to expect, though she looks confused.
"What is this?" she demands.
"Education," I reply, not shifting my attention from Finn. "About family loyalty."
Recognition hits as she recognizes Finn. "Your brother?"
"My little traitor brother." I circle Finn again, each step deliberate. "Who sold our operations to your family. Who got our men killed chasing the promise of power."
Understanding transforms her. She assesses Finn with new interest. "So not Murphy after all."
"Murphy was a distraction," Finn says, addressing her directly. "A name I fed Cormac to divert his suspicions."
"Clever," she acknowledges. "Though not clever enough. Murphy is as loyal as a dumb dog."
I motion Connor forward. "Tie him up."
Connor forces Finn into the chair, binding his wrists to the armrests with zip ties. My brother doesn't resist—perhaps already sensing the inevitability of what comes next.
"Cormac," he begins, voice steady despite his position. "This doesn't need to end badly. I can fix this. Negotiate with Patrick?—"
"Negotiate?" I cut him off. "The way you negotiated our family secrets? Our security protocols? The lives of our men? Negotiate with me, bother, I fucking dare you."
"I never meant for anyone to die."
"But they did." I remove my jacket, folding it carefully before handing it to Declan. Next, my cufflinks, placed in my pocket. The ritualistic preparation for violence learned at our father's hand. "Actions have consequences, brother. Rats get trapped, and then they die."
Aoife observes silently from where Connor holds her to the side. Her presence should feel like an intrusion into family business, yet somehow it feels necessary. A witness to the price of betrayal.
"Why bring her here?" Finn asks, nodding toward Aoife.
"Because the Gallaghers should know what happens to those who betray me." I roll up my sleeves methodically. "And because Miss Gallagher has developed certain... misconceptions about me she needs corrected."
Her posture stiffens at my words, the memory of our earlier encounter clearly fresh in her mind. Good. Let her sense the monster beneath the man she played with so boldly.
"Last chance, Finn," I say quietly. "Full confession. Every detail you shared. Every plan discussed. Tell me what you did, and pray to God it was worth the pain that comes with it."
He meets my stare, something like resignation settling over him. "Everything's on my laptop. Password is MaMasBirthday1988. Files labeled 'Contingency Planning.'"
I nod to Declan, who steps away to make a call.
"Was it worth it?" I ask. "Betraying everything our father built? Everything I protected you from?"
"Our father was a sadistic bastard," Finn spits. "And you became him, Cormac. Every day, every decision—you're him in every way except the drinking. But even that, these days I wonder."
The accusation lands like a physical blow. In my peripheral awareness, Aoife shifts, her attention at this revelation.
"I protected you," I remind him. "Took the beatings meant for you. Sent you to university while I cleaned up his mess. Gave you a place in our business when you could have walked away with nothing, he disowned you, I let you stay."
" Protection, you mean control." Finn's voice rises. "You shielded me and suffocated me in the same breath. Just like him ."
The comparison ignites something primal. In three strides, I close the distance between us. My fist connects with his jaw—once, twice, three times. Crimson sprays from his split lip, spattering across my white shirt.
"Cormac!" Aoife's voice cuts through the red haze. "He's your brother!"
I pause, breathing heavily. "Family means loyalty. Above all else."
"And what has your loyalty earned any of us?" Finn asks through bloodied teeth. "A legacy of violence. Territory that costs more to defend than it makes. Endless blood feuds with families like the Gallaghers."
"You chose your side," I tell him coldly. "Now face the consequences."
What follows isn't quick or merciful. My father taught lessons through pain, and some teachings run too deep to escape. Each blow extracts another confession—names of contacts, drop locations, bank accounts where Gallagher money was being washed.
Aoife remains silent, her earlier defiance replaced by silence. Not horror, exactly. The daughter of Patrick Gallagher has surely witnessed violence before. But something else—beneath that, something dangerously close to understanding.
When Finn becomes unrecognizable, I step back. Blood coats my knuckles, drips from my sleeves. The warehouse is silent except for his labored breathing and my own.
"You know how this ends," I tell him quietly.
He nods once, dignity somehow intact despite his broken state. "I knew the moment you found out."
I turn to Declan. "Give me your gun."
The weight of the pistol feels familiar in my palm. Cold metal, warm grip. I check the chamber—habit, not necessity. Declan's weapons are always perfectly maintained.
"Leave us," I order. "Take Miss Gallagher outside."
"No." Aoife's voice rings with surprising authority. "I'll stay."
Connor looks to me for instruction. I consider her request—the witness to family execution, the enemy granted access to our most private shame. By all logic, she should be removed.
Instead, I nod once. "She stays. Everyone else out."
When the warehouse door closes behind them, leaving just the three of us, I turn back to Finn.
"Any last words?"
He meets my stare steadily despite the crimson dripping down his chin. "You'll become him now. With no one left to remind you of who you once were. Once you kill me, you’re just like him—exactly the fucking same monster."
The accusation cuts deep. For a moment, I'm fifteen again—standing over our father's unconscious form, knuckles bleeding, vowing never to become the monster who raised us.
"Remember me as your brother," Finn continues softly. "Not your betrayer."
The gun rises in my hand. One shot. Clean through the heart. Mercy, he doesn't deserve but receives because blood still means something to me.
The retort echoes through the empty warehouse. Finn's body slumps forward, crimson blossoming across his chest. Something breaks inside me—a piece of myself severed and lost forever.
For several minutes, I stand motionless. The gun dangles from my fingers, its purpose fulfilled.
Behind me, Aoife's voice comes soft yet clear. "You didn't shoot him in the head."
I turn slowly to face her. "What?"
"Professional killers shoot in the head. You chose the heart." Her gaze holds mine, unflinching. "Even in execution, you felt something for him."
"Don't mistake a bullet for mercy," I warn her.
She steps closer, unafraid despite the weapon still in my hand, despite the blood covering my shirt, even having just witnessed murder.
"I've seen men kill before," she says. "My father, my brother. Enemies. Associates. There's always something in it for them—pleasure, power, satisfaction." Her head tilts slightly. "You took no joy in this."
"He betrayed everything ." The justification sounds hollow even to my ears.
"Yes." Another step closer. "And still, you suffer for killing him. That's the difference. When you kill for revenge, dig tow graves Cormac, you just died with him."
Her perception unsettles me. This wasn't what I intended when bringing her here—not this strange moment of connection over my brother's corpse. She was meant to witness the brutal enforcer, the monster who holds her captive. Not... this. Not the fracture in my armor.
I turn away, holstering the gun at my waist. "Connor will take you to the penthouse."
"Is that all I am to you now? A prisoner?" Her voice carries an edge. "You brought me here for a reason, Cormac."
"To show you what happens to those who cross me." I face her again, forcing steel back into my voice. "Remember that when you're planning your next move."
She glances at Finn's body, then back to me. "I think you brought me here because you wanted someone to see."
"See what?"
"That it costs you something. That you're not him ." Her meaning is clear—not my father. Not the monster Finn accused me of becoming.
The insight strikes too close to truth. I close the distance between us, backing her against a support column. Blood-stained hands plant on either side of her head, caging her in.
"Don't mistake me for something I'm not," I warn, voice low. "I just executed my brother without hesitation. I kidnapped you to hurt your father. I'll kill anyone who threatens what's mine. Even you."
"Liar," she whispers, "your hands are shaking."
They are. Imperceptible to most, but she notices. The tremble of adrenaline crash, of loss, of something dangerously close to doubt.
"You're still reading me wrong, princess." I press closer, using proximity as intimidation. "This isn't grief. It's restraint."
"Restraint from what?"
"From taking what I want." My hips pin hers against the column. "From finishing what you started in that penthouse. From making you scream my name while your family's spy cools on the floor."
Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn't back down. "Is that what this is? Murder as foreplay? Not my thing, but I’m not judging."
My hand finds her throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a reminder of her vulnerability. "This is reality, Aoife. The world you were born into. The legacy you profit from. Don't pretend your father's hands are cleaner than mine."
"I never said they were." Her pulse races beneath my palm. "But I know the difference between a man who kills because he must and one who kills because he enjoys it."
"And which am I?"
Her lips part slightly. "That's what terrifies you, isn't it? Not knowing the answer yourself."
The observation lands like a punch in the kidney. In retaliation, I crash my mouth against hers, swallowing whatever insightful words might follow. The kiss holds no gentleness—it is all possession and punishment and the desperate need to silence her too-accurate voice.
She responds instantly, her body arching into mine despite the blood on my shirt, despite the corpse mere feet away. Her tongue battles with mine, hands fisting in my ruined shirt.
The darkness of the moment feeds something primal between us. My thigh presses between her legs, finding her heat even through denim. Her hands slide into my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt as she grinds against my leg.
"This is what you want?" I growl against her mouth. "To fuck with death in the room?"
"This is what you need," she counters, biting my lower lip. "To feel anything besides the emptiness."
The truth cuts too deep. I spin her roughly, pressing her front against the column. My hand slides down her back, over the curve of her ass, before gripping her hip with bruising force. My cock hardens against her, straining against my trousers.
"You think you understand me," I murmur against her ear, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe. "You don’t know me."
My hand slides around her waist, up under her shirt to find bare skin. She gasps at the contact, arching back against me. I cup her breast roughly through her bra, feeling her nipple harden against my palm.
"Tell me to stop," I challenge, grinding my erection against her ass. "Tell me this disgusts you."
"I won't lie to save your conscience," she pants, pushing back against me.
I spin her again, lifting her against the column. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, pulling our bodies flush together. The heat between her thighs presses against my cock, only layers of fabric preventing me from taking her completely.
My mouth descends to her neck, biting hard enough to mark her again. She moans—a sound of pure need that sends fire through my veins. My hand works at the button of her jeans, desperate to feel her wetness, to confirm what her body language already reveals.
I slide my hand inside, past the barrier of black lace to find her soaked and ready. "This is what execution does to you?" I growl, circling her clit with my thumb. "Makes you wet for your enemy?"
"No," she gasps as I slide a finger inside her. "It's what you do to me. God help me."
Her confession breaks something loose inside me. I add a second finger, pumping into her slick heat while my thumb continues its assault on her sensitive clit. Her head falls back against the column, lips parted in pleasure.
"You're going to come for me," I tell her, curling my fingers to hit that spot inside her that makes her shake. "Right here, with my brother's blood still on my hands. Show me how depraved you truly are, princess."
"Fuck you," she moans, but her hips rock against my hand, chasing release.
"Soon," I promise, increasing my pace. "But first, I want to feel you shatter into pieces."
Her pussy clenches around my fingers as she gets close to climax. I cover her mouth with mine, swallowing her moans as she comes undone. Her body trembles against me, thighs tightening around my waist as pleasure overtakes her.
When she comes down from her high, I withdraw my hand slowly, bringing my fingers to my mouth. I taste her essence, mixed with blood, never breaking eye contact. "Sweet," I murmur. "Even better than I imagined."
Reality crashes back as the warehouse door creaks. I step back quickly, putting distance between us as Aoife adjusts her clothing with shaking hands.
Connor enters, carefully neutral as he assesses the scene—the body, the blood, our disheveled state.
"Clean-up team is five minutes out," he reports. "And Mr. Gallagher has responded to our demands."
Compartmentalization snaps back into place. Business first. Always.
"His answer?"
"Rejected everything on it, but offered monetary compensation for the shipment. And—" Connor hesitates, "—a counterproposal. He wants a meeting. You and him, neutral ground."
Interesting. Patrick Gallagher, legendary for refusing to negotiate directly, now requests a face-to-face. The game shifts again.
"Arrange it," I tell Connor. "And return Miss Gallagher to her accommodations."
Connor nods, moving toward Aoife. She allows herself to be guided toward the door, but pauses on the threshold.
"Your brother was wrong," she says quietly. "About you becoming your father. And my father, will try to kill you."
"You don't know my father."
"I know sons who become their fathers," she responds. "And sons who define themselves by opposing them. You're the latter, not the former."
With that, she disappears through the door, leaving me alone with my brother's body and her unsettling insights.
I run blood-stained hands through my hair, exhaling slowly. Tonight, changed things I didn't realize needed to change. Finn's betrayal. Patrick's unexpected response. And Aoife—seeing through the armor I thought impenetrable.
The cleanup team will erase all physical evidence of tonight's events. But nothing will erase what happened between Aoife and me against that column. Nothing will erase the knowledge that she witnessed not just my brutality, but the cost of it. Not just the monster, but the man.
And that makes her more dangerous than anyone.