Chapter 42 Ciara
Ciara
The drive back to the penthouse, via another car swap, is mostly introspective. Sean has a lot to think about, and I have things to consider, too.
“Go to Connor’s,” I say to him eventually. “We should tell him in person that O’Sullivan has been taken care of.”
Sean glances at me, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “You want to walk into the lion’s den while the blood is still fresh?”
“It’s the only way,” I counter, checking my reflection in the visor mirror. I look tired, but dangerous. “We don’t call. We don’t send a message. We show up. We show him you’re the one who pulled the trigger.”
He nods, a sharp, decisive movement. “Connor’s.”
He spins the wheel, navigating the nondescript Ford toward where the O’Neill estate looms like a fortress against the Dublin sky. My heart is beating a steady, heavy rhythm of anticipation.
The iron gates roll open before we even reach the intercom.
I’m guessing Connor has cams set up all the way down the street with facial recognition software.
We wind up the driveway, and Sean pulls to a stop.
This crappy car looks ridiculous parked next to the armored SUVs lining the front.
I don’t see the Toyota parked anywhere, so I assume Connor had to scrap it in disgust for sullying up his red-bricked driveway.
Sean kills the engine. He turns to me, his blue eyes clear and piercing. “Are you ready for what might fall out of this?”
“I am. Are you?”
He contemplates the question for a long, silent moment and then nods. “Guess I’ll be disappointed if he sends me on my way now.”
I squeeze his fingers. “He won’t. He will see that you have pulled your life together, that you are an asset worth investing in. He won’t turn his back on you, Sean. I think all he ever wanted was for you to come to the realization that you have worth outside of Liam’s shadow.”
“You sound awfully sure of that.”
“I am.”
He stares at me for a beat longer, searching for a crack in my conviction, but I don’t give him one. Finally, he exhales, a sharp sound that signals the shift from husband to soldier.
“Let’s go then,” he says.
We climb out of the battered Ford Fiesta, the slam of the doors echoing like gunshots in the quiet morning air. I smooth down my shirt, though the wrinkles from the long drive are a lost cause. It doesn’t matter. We aren’t here for a fashion show; we’re here to claim a legacy.
Sean rounds the hood and takes my hand. His grip is firm, his palm warm and dry. No tremors. No hesitation. We walk up the stone steps together, not waiting to be summoned.
The heavy oak doors open before we even reach for the handle. One of Connor’s guards nods respectfully. We step into the foyer, and the scent of something delicious for lunch hits me instantly. My stomach growls, but I ignore it, even as Sean gives a slight chuckle.
Sean leads me to the dining room, where Connor is seated by himself at the head of a twenty-seater table. He is tucking into a roast pork dinner that makes my mouth water.
“And?” Connor says, barely looking up from his food.
“O’Sullivan is out of the picture. I suspect we wait to see if Ronan steps into his place, but if he does, it will be without funds and no credit lines. I doubt that means he will be a threat to anyone.”
“Good,” Connor says, picking up his napkin and dabbing his mouth as he sits back and rakes his gaze over both of us. “Food?”
“Yes, please,” I say before Sean can refuse. I take a seat at Connor’s left side without being offered, leaving Sean to sit at his right. It’s a bold move, but Connor seems to appreciate it.
A housekeeper arrives with plates of food that she sets down in front of us before she pours out glasses of water.
The atmosphere is tense, but no one utters a word as we tuck in.
This isn’t business. This is lunch. I force myself to eat, matching Connor’s deliberate pace, refusing to show weakness or impatience.
Across from me, Sean is calm. He eats like a man who has nothing left to prove, his movements efficient and steady.
Connor watches him. I see the assessment in the older man’s eyes, the way he tracks Sean’s steady hand as he reaches for his glass of water.
When the plates are cleared, the air shifts. The domestic facade drops, replaced by the cold steel of the organization. Connor leans back, steepling his fingers, his gaze unreadable.
“How did you do it?”
“Paddy ‘the rat’ found him on the underworld grapevine. We followed the trail and executed him in the kitchen of the cottage he was renting.”
Connor’s eyebrow goes up. “From how far out?”
“Fifty meters. With a Glock.”
“Impressive. Not many men could accomplish such a killing shot from that distance.”
“And definitely no drunks,” he retorts.
Connor snorts in surprise at the joke. “You are right about that.” He pushes his chair back and stands. “Come. We have things to discuss.”
Sean nods stiffly and rises as well. I stay where I am.
Connor acknowledges it with a nod, but Sean holds his hand out for me.
I smile and shake my head. “I’m not done here.
You two go and discuss. I’ll join you when I’m ready.
” Or not. I have no intention of interrupting them.
This is for Sean, not Sean and me. I’m the wife.
The woman who is expected to sit around, looking pretty, making legitimate donations to legitimate charities and ignoring the darker side of mafia life.
Not that I will, but Connor is old skool.
He represents a generation where this was the done thing.
I don’t want to undermine Sean by tagging along in an O’Neill meeting that has nothing to do with me.
Yet.
One day, I will join the men at the table. But that day isn’t today.
Sean hesitates, his hand still extended, searching my face for any sign that I’m being forced out.
He won’t find it. This is my choice, a tactical retreat to let him advance.
He needs to stand before his father not as a husband protecting a wife, but as a son claiming his birthright.
He needs to do this without me holding his hand, or Connor will never see past the couple to the man beneath.
“Go,” I murmur, dipping my chin. “I’ll be here.”
He drops his hand, and he turns to follow Connor. The dining room door closes behind them with a finality that vibrates through the floorboards, leaving me alone in the cavernous dining room.
Silence descends, heavy and expensive. I pick up my water glass, watching the condensation weep down the crystal. A lesser woman might feel excluded, relegated to the sidelines while the men carve up the world. But if anything, I know my worth. I am not lesser. I never was, and I never will be.
The housekeeper returns, looking nervous as she eyes my solitary figure at the massive table. “Can I get you anything else, Mrs. O’Neill?”
Mrs. O’Neill. It rings differently now. It sounds less like a shackle and more like a weapon.
“Coffee, please,” I say, leaning back and crossing my legs, settling in to wait for my king to return. “Black.”
The housekeeper scurries off. When she returns with my coffee, I take a slow sip. It’s scalding and bitter, exactly how I like it. I sip it slowly, watching the minutes tick by on the grandfather clock behind Connor’s seat.