Chapter 43 Sean
Sean
Suddenly, I am more afraid of what Connor will say about me killing James than of anything else. I slammed a letter opener into his brother’s neck without a second thought and left Connor to clean up the mess.
“I didn’t know,” Connor says, almost as if he is reading my thoughts. “About James and what he did to Ciara.”
“I figured, or you’d have killed him yourself.”
“Some things are off limits, even to us. He lost sight of that, clearly. He deserves what he got,” Connor says gruffly, sitting heavily in his old leather chair. He looks like he is bearing the weight of the world.
“I won’t apologize.”
“No one is asking you to, least of all me.” He fixes me with that hawk-like stare that used to make me feel two feet tall. “O’Sullivan is dead. The Russians are pacified for now, although I suspect that won’t last long. And you... you are sober.”
“I am. Thanks to you.” I sit in one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Thanks for not killing me before I had a chance.”
“Pah,” he scoffs. “You did the hard work.”
“I had no choice,” I point out with narrowed eyes. “But that’s not a complaint.”
“She’s worth it.”
“She is.”
He gives me a shit-eating grin. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That Ciara O’Byrne would make you want to be a better man.”
“Oh, well done, you,” I drawl, sitting back and relaxing.
“I’m an excellent matchmaker,” he says, beaming.
“That you are,” I mutter, reluctant to give him the accolade, even though he deserves it.
“That shot at fifty meters. With a handgun. I’m impressed.”
And we are onto business.
“I learned from the best.”
He inclines his head, accepting the compliment with the arrogance of a man who knows he’s a legend.
For years, I hated that arrogance. Now, I recognize it as a necessary evil in this world.
Weak men get left behind at best, killed at worst. “Skill means nothing without the discipline to wield it. You have that now.”
“I’m barely two weeks sober. What makes you think I’m about to stay on this bumpy wagon ride?”
Connor leans forward, his elbows resting on the mahogany desk that has always felt like a barrier between us. Now, it feels like a negotiating table.
“Because you have something to lose now. Before, you were drinking to numb the fact that you didn’t give a shit about tomorrow. Now? You’re terrified of losing tomorrow because she’s in it.”
I want to argue, to tell him he doesn’t know what goes on in my head, but the words die in my throat. He’s right. The fear of losing Ciara is infinitely more terrifying than the fear of facing reality without a buffer.
“You’re not the spare anymore, Sean,” Connor continues, his voice dropping to that low rumble that commands boardrooms and battlefields alike.
“You never were. You put yourself in his shadow because you were too afraid of proving you could live up to him. That was never the case. I recognize my sons are two different people.”
“So why did it take so long for you to lock me in a room without booze?”
“I was hoping I didn’t have to. I was hoping you would do it yourself. I was hoping every time you said it was the last time, you meant it. My patience ran out.”
I swallow the hard truth of his words. He’s right. I spent years drowning because swimming seemed too much like hard work, and I resented him for watching from the shore. But he threw me the lifeline when it mattered.
“Well, it worked,” I say quietly, meeting his gaze. “I’m here.”
“You are, and you will keep being here because I know that girl… that woman, waiting for you in the dining room, means more to you than taking a drink. You will lose her, and you know that’s not acceptable to yourself.
” Connor straightens, the brief flicker of sentimentality vanishing as quickly as it appeared.
“Here’s my proposal. The Russians aren’t going to stop with O’Sullivan.
They’ll test our borders. I need someone who can push back without hesitation.
Someone who can put a bullet between the eyes from fifty meters away without calling in a specialist. I’m offering you the streets, Sean. The enforcement. The hands-on war.”
“I want autonomy,” I state, setting my terms. “I run my crews my way. No micromanaging from you or Liam, for that matter. If I pull the trigger, it’s my call.”
Connor nods slowly, a glint of respect in his eyes that I haven’t seen since I was a boy. “Agreed. The streets are yours.”
“Then we have a deal.” I stand up, the leather chair scraping against the floor. The weight of the O’Neill name settles on my shoulders, but for the first time, it doesn’t feel like it’s crushing me. It feels like mine.
I turn and walk out, leaving the study and the past behind. Ciara is waiting in the dining room, sitting alone like a queen in exile. When I step through the doorway, her head snaps up, her green eyes sharp and questioning. She wanted to build an empire; I just secured us the army.
“Well?” she asks as I sit opposite her and take a sip of water.
“He offered me the job of enforcer.”
“Did you take it?”
“I did. Is that okay?”
She giggles. “It’s not my decision.”
“No, but you are my wife.”
She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing against my knuckles. “The streets fit you, Sean. They’re dirty and violent, but you understand them better than anyone in this organization.”
There’s no hesitation in her touch, no fear of the violence I’ve just signed up for. She knows exactly what being an enforcer entails—the blood, the late nights, the brutality. She’s not just accepting it; she’s endorsing it.
“It suits you,” she adds, a dark smirk curling her lips. “Control. Power. Autonomy.”
“It’s dirty work, Ciara.”
“We live in a dirty world, Sean. Someone has to take out the trash.”
I stand up, moving around the table to bring her with me.
She comes willingly, stepping into my space until the scent of her perfume fills my nostrils.
I wrap my arm around her waist, feeling the solid reality of her against me.
For years, I thought my legacy was nonexistent.
Now, I see it in the reflection of her eyes.
“Let’s go home,” I murmur against her hair. “We have plans to make for this city.”
We walk out of the house, and for the first time, the massive oak doors don’t feel like they’re closing on a prison. They feel like gates opening to a kingdom we’re about to conquer. The air outside is crisp, smelling of rain and wet soil.
I open the door to the Fiesta, and she climbs in. I follow, and we set off back down the driveway, heading for home.