CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Marco
THE RAIN IS relentless, drumming against black umbrellas like nature's own funeral march. Fitting, I think, as we lower Danny's casket into the soggy earth. The youngest Walsh, barely twenty-five, going into the ground before his time. My brother. My responsibility. My failure.
I stand rigid at the graveside, my face a mask of stone. To my right, Father stares straight ahead, his weathered face betraying nothing of the storm I know must be raging inside him. To my left stands Sasha, a surprise to everyone present, including me. She insisted on coming, said I shouldn't face this alone. The black dress she wears makes her skin look even paler, her green eyes stark and solemn in the gray morning light.
Damien and James flank Father, both maintaining careful distance from each other and from me. The Walsh family fracturing even as we pretend unity for the watching eyes of our associates and enemies alike.
I scan the assembled mourners from behind dark sunglasses. Every major crime family in North/East has sent representatives—a show of respect, yes, but also reconnaissance— measuring our strength in our moment of grief. I note who stands where, who whispers to whom, filing away each detail for later consideration.
Then I spot him—Lucas, standing apart from the main gathering, beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient oak. Like me, he wears dark glasses, his posture is deliberately casual as if attending a minor social obligation rather than our brother's burial.
The priest's words fade into the background as I maintain that visual connection with Lucas. My hand throbs where I've clenched it too tight, wounds from our fight reopening beneath my leather gloves. I feel Sasha shift beside me, her arm pressing gently against mine.
Father steps forward, dropping a handful of soil onto the casket. The sound it makes—earth against polished wood—brings me back to the present. One by one, we follow suit. When it's my turn, I remove my glove, wanting to feel the cold, damp earth between my fingers—a last tactile connection to Danny.
"I'll make this right," I promise silently as the soil slips from my grasp. "I'll send the one responsible to join you soon."
The ceremony concludes with minimal fanfare. No one in our world expects flowery eulogies or dramatic displays of grief. Death is a business hazard, even when it comes for one of our own.
As the mourners begin to disperse, Father approaches me.
"The Russian delegation wants to pay their respects," he says, his voice low. "Handle it. I have no patience for it today."
It's not a request. I nod, watching as he walks away, Gerald and Michael flanking him like twin shadows. Father didn’t question why Lucas wasn’t standing with us. Either he found out the same truth that I did or he doesn’t care.
"Marco."
I turn to find Sasha at my shoulder, her expression concerned. "You're bleeding," she says quietly, nodding toward my hand where a droplet of blood has stained the cuff of my white shirt.
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I check it discreetly—a message from Tony: Lucas will be at the North docks. Meeting with the Black Crew.
A surge of adrenaline hits my bloodstream. I look in the direction that Lucas had been standing, but he’s already gone. This is it. The final confirmation I need.
"I have to go," I tell Sasha, already mentally shifting gears.
Concern flashes across her face. "Now? But the reception—"
"Tony will escort you back to the estate." I flag him down with a subtle gesture, and he materializes at my side within seconds. I’m sure he was watching me read the text he sent.
"What's happening?" Sasha asks, her voice dropping to ensure only I hear her.
I hesitate, torn between keeping her in the dark for her own protection and the growing need to bring her fully into my world. "Lucas," I say finally. "I need to settle something with him."
Understanding dawns in her eyes—too much understanding. She's piecing it together faster than I'd like.
"Be careful," she says simply.
I brush my knuckles against her cheek, not caring who might see the gesture. "I'll be back soon."
It's a promise I hope I can keep.
I drive quickly toward the North Docks, rain lashing against the windshield. My mind races faster than the car, turning over possible scenarios, calculating outcomes. If Lucas is meeting with the Black Crew again after Danny's funeral, it means he's accelerating whatever plans they've made. I need to end this now, before more blood is spilled.
The docks loom ahead, massive cranes silhouetted against the stormy sky like industrial giants. This area has been disputed territory for years—officially neutral ground where deals can be made without territorial aggression. In practice, it's a lawless zone where the strongest take what they want and the weak pray for mercy.
I park a quarter-mile away and proceed on foot, sticking to shadows and staying low. The rain works in my favor, reducing visibility and muffling sound.
Tony's intel was solid. I spot Lucas's distinctive silver Mercedes parked near Warehouse 7, an abandoned storage facility we've used ourselves for various purposes over the years. Two men stand guard outside.
I circle around, finding a service entrance at the rear of the warehouse. The lock is old and yields easily to my picks. Inside, the space is cavernous and dimly lit, stacks of shipping containers and abandoned machinery creating a labyrinth of potential cover. I move silently, guided by the low murmur of voices coming from the center of the building.
"...shipment arrives next Tuesday," Lucas is saying as I get close enough to hear. "Walsh security will be focused on the south side. You'll have a clean shot at the north entrance."
"And your father?" a voice responds—unfamiliar, with a subtle accent I can't quite place. "He still suspects nothing?"
Lucas laughs, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. "The old man's losing his grip. Too focused on Marco to see what's happening under his nose."
"Speaking of your brother," the accented voice continues, "my employers are concerned. He's becoming…problematic."
"Marco's distracted," Lucas dismisses. "The girl has him wrapped around her finger. He's not thinking clearly."
"Still, perhaps we should accelerate our timeline. After today's display..."
I edge closer, peering around a stack of crates. Lucas stands with his back to me, facing two men. One I recognize as a high-ranking member of the Black Crew. The other is unfamiliar—tall, lean, with the cold precision of someone used to giving orders rather than taking them. This must be the syndicate representative Mikey mentioned.
"Marco's predictable," Lucas says confidently. "He'll follow the breadcrumbs we've left, focus on the decoy shipment. By the time he realizes what's happening, it'll be too late."
"And if he doesn't?" the syndicate man asks.
Lucas shrugs. "I’ll deal with Marco."
Deal with me? It sounds like kill me.
I've heard enough. Silently, I retreat, planning to confront Lucas when he's alone. The syndicate man is an unknown variable, potentially too dangerous to engage directly without backup.
I don't have to wait long. The meeting concludes twenty minutes later, with handshakes and promises of future communication. The Black Crew member and the syndicate representative leave together, climbing into a sleek black Audi that purrs away into the rainy afternoon.
Lucas remains behind, making a phone call as he walks slowly toward his car. I step out from between two containers, blocking his path.
His reaction tells me everything I need to know about his guilt. No surprise, no confusion—just a resignation that settles across his features as he pockets his phone.
"Took you long enough to show up, brother," he says, his tone almost conversational.
"I wanted to give you the chance to bury Danny before I confronted you again," I reply, keeping my voice steady despite the rage simmering beneath the surface.
Lucas smirks, running a hand through his rain-dampened hair. "Always so sentimental. That's your weakness, Marco. Always has been."
"Loyalty isn't weakness," I counter, moving closer. "But you wouldn't understand that concept, would you?"
"Loyalty?" He laughs, the sound bitter and hollow. "You have none.”
We're circling each other now, predators assessing strengths and weaknesses, looking for an opening.
"You sold out Danny," I say, watching his reaction carefully. "Your own brother."
A flash of something—regret, perhaps?—crosses his face before his expression hardens again. "Danny was collateral damage. I already told you that. It was necessary."
"Necessary for what? Your power grab? Your deal with the syndicate?"
Lucas stops pacing, fixing me with a calculating stare. "This is bigger than you understand, Marco. The syndicate has connections across Europe, product lines we've never touched. This is evolution—the future of our family's business."
"There is no future where you betray your own blood and live to enjoy the rewards," I say coldly.
He sighs theatrically. "I was hoping you might still join me. We could rule together, Marco. Push the old man into retirement, modernize our operations. The Walsh brothers, stronger than ever."
The offer hangs between us, rain drumming on the metal roof above. For a fraction of a second, I see the path he's offering —a world where my hands aren't stained with my brother's blood. But it's an illusion, a mirage that evaporates as quickly as it formed.
"If I say no you will kill me," I say flatly.
His expression shifts, “then don’t say no.”
His hand moves with practiced speed, reaching inside his jacket. I'm faster, drawing my gun and aiming it at his chest in one fluid motion.
"Don't," I warn.
Lucas freezes, then slowly raises his hands, a mocking smile playing at his lips. "You won't shoot me, Marco. You couldn't even finish the job at the warehouse."
"Things have changed."
"Have they?" His eyes narrow, assessing. "Or are you still the same Marco who hesitates at the crucial moment? The one who checks his conscience before pulling the trigger? The one who's gone soft for a woman who will never truly understand what you are?"
Before I realize what I'm doing, I've closed the distance between us, pressing the gun against his temple. "What about our family?"
"Family," he scoffs. "You think Father cares about family? He only cares about legacy. About control. He would sacrifice any of us if it served his purposes."
"Maybe," I concede. "But I wouldn't. I never would have sacrificed you or our brothers, or Danny."
Something flickers in Lucas's eyes—a moment of genuine regret, perhaps.
His movement is sudden, vicious—the hidden knife in his sleeve slashing toward my throat. I jerk backward, the blade catching my shoulder instead of my jugular. Pain blooms, hot and immediate, but training takes over. I slam the butt of my gun against his wrist, sending the knife clattering to the concrete floor.
Lucas tackles me before I can recover, and we crash into a stack of crates. The gun skitters away as we grapple, trading blows with the brutal efficiency of men who grew up fighting each other. He's always been quicker, but I have the advantage in raw strength.
We roll across the floor, each seeking dominance. His elbow connects with my temple, sending stars exploding across my vision. I counter with a knee to his ribs, feeling one crack under the force. Lucas gasps but doesn't slow, smashing his forehead into my nose. Blood pours warm down my face, metallic on my tongue.
"I've been wanting to do this for years," Lucas grits out, landing another blow to my injured shoulder. "Always in your shadow. Father's chosen one."
I laugh through the pain, the sound harsh and manic. "That's what this is about? Jealousy? Christ, Lucas, I never wanted any of it. You could have had it all if you'd just asked."
"Liar!" he snarls, wrapping his hands around my throat.
My vision starts to darken at the edges as his grip tightens. With a desperate surge of strength, I buck upward, throwing him off balance. We roll again, and my hand connects with something solid—the knife he dropped earlier.
Without conscious thought, I grab it, muscle memory from countless fights guiding my movements. There's a moment of resistance as the blade meets flesh, then gives way. Lucas's eyes widen in shock as the knife slides between his ribs, finding his heart with deadly accuracy.
Time seems to slow as we stare at each other, his blood hot and slick over my hand. The hatred in his expression fades, replaced by something almost like recognition.
"You'll never escape this life," he chokes out, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "You're just like Father now."
His body goes slack, dead weight collapsing on top of me. I push him off, scrambling backward until my back hits a crate. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I stare at my brother's lifeless form, at the blood spreading across the concrete floor, mixing with rainwater that drips through the leaking roof.
Lucas is dead. I killed him. My brother.
I don't know how long I sit there, watching his blood dilute in the gathering puddles. Minutes or hours, time loses meaning as the reality of what I've done settles into my bones. Finally, mechanically, I retrieve my gun, wiping it clean before tucking it away. I use rainwater to wash Lucas's blood from my hands, though I know it's a temporary cleansing at best.
My phone buzzes—Tony, checking in. I text back a simple instruction: Cleanup at North Docks, Warehouse 7. Discreet.
Tony will understand. He'll handle the body, make sure no evidence remains. By morning, Lucas Walsh will have simply disappeared—another casualty in our world's endless power struggles.
I drive back to the estate in silence, rain lashing the windshield, matching the storm within me. The weight of what I've done presses down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I've killed before, many times. But never family. Never blood.
The estate looms ahead, lights glowing warmly in the stormy dusk. I park haphazardly in the driveway, not bothering with the garage. My clothes are soaked with rain and blood, my face battered, shoulder throbbing where Lucas's knife caught me. I should go to the back entrance and clean up before anyone sees me like this.
Instead, I find myself walking through the front door, drawn by some instinct I can't name. The foyer is quiet, most of the staff and security giving me a wide berth as I drip rainwater and blood onto the marble floor.
And then she's there, appearing at the top of the staircase. Sasha, still in her funeral dress, her face pale with worry. She takes one look at me and knows—not the details, perhaps, but enough. Enough to understand that something irrevocable has happened, something that has changed me in ways I'm only beginning to comprehend.
She descends the stairs slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. I expect her to ask what happened, to demand explanations I'm not sure I can give. Instead, she simply reaches out, placing her hand against my chest, directly over my heart.
The simple contact breaks something loose inside me. My composure, maintained through sheer force of will since driving that knife into Lucas's chest, begins to crack. I take her hand, leading her upstairs to my bedroom without a word. She follows willingly, closing the door behind us.
In the privacy of my room, she helps me out of my bloodied clothes, her movements gentle but practical. She cleans the knife wound on my shoulder, applying antiseptic and bandages from the first aid kit I keep in my bathroom. Her touch is sure, clinical almost, but her eyes betray her concern. She works in silence, asking no questions, making no judgments.
When she's finished, I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The adrenaline crash hits me all at once, leaving me hollow and exhausted. Sasha sits beside me, her hip against mine, a warm, solid presence in the emptiness that threatens to consume me.
"He's gone," I say finally, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears.
She nods, understanding immediately. "Lucas?"
I close my eyes, the confirmation too difficult to voice aloud. She doesn't press for details, doesn't ask if I was the one who killed him. She already knows the answer.
"Sleep," she says softly, her hand cool against my forehead. "I'll be here."
I want to tell her she doesn't have to stay, that she doesn't need to witness this darkness in me. I want to remind her that tomorrow we'll get Lily, that she can still leave all this behind. I want to warn her that loving me—if that's what this is becoming—will only bring her pain.
But exhaustion claims me before I can form the words, dragging me into a darkness where Lucas waits, blood still pooling around him, his last accusation hanging in the air between us.
You're just like Father now.
In my dreams, I don't deny it. I simply ask: Was there ever any other way this could end?
The ghost of my brother has no answer. Neither do I.