CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Marco
I PACE THE length of my office, phone pressed to my ear, waiting for confirmation that Tony has secured Sasha's sister and aunt. Every minute feels like an hour, my mind conjuring increasingly dire scenarios. What if they were too late? What if the watchers decided to make their move first?
"They're en route," Mike finally reports. "No complications. ETA thirty minutes."
Relief floods through me, though I keep my voice neutral. "Good. Full security when they arrive. No one gets near them without my explicit permission."
"Understood, Boss."
I hang up, running a hand through my hair. My nerves are frayed in a way I'm not accustomed to. I've coordinated higher-stakes operations with less emotional investment. But this is different. This is Sasha's family. This is personal.
The realization that I've crossed a line I once swore never to approach settles uncomfortably in my chest. I've allowed her to become more than a temporary distraction, more than a responsibility. She's become a vulnerability—one my enemies are already exploiting.
You're my monster.
Her words echo in my mind, stirring something I've kept buried for years. Something dangerous. Something like hope.
A knock interrupts my thoughts. Damien enters without waiting for permission, his expression grim. Since Lucas's death, he's stepped up, filling the power vacuum with surprising efficiency. We've never been close—Damien has always kept to himself, the most inscrutable of the Walsh brothers—but circumstances have forced a new alliance between us, and since James has returned to France, we are all that is left.
"You called for an update?" he says, maintaining a careful distance.
I nod, gesturing for him to continue.
"My contact in the north confirmed it," Damien says, his voice low despite the privacy of my office. "The O'Reilly syndicate has made a significant move into the northeast over the past month. They now see us as even more vulnerable after Danny and Lucas."
"And the men watching Karen Gillespie's house?"
"O'Reilly soldiers, as you suspected. Low-level muscle, probably instructed to watch and report, not engage directly. Yet."
I absorb this information, fitting it into the larger picture forming in my mind. "Why now? The O'Reillys have kept to their territory for years. What's changed?"
Damien shrugs, but the gesture is too deliberate to be casual. "Lucas made contact with them three months ago, according to my sources. Offered them a foothold in exchange for support in his…restructuring plans."
The diplomatic phrasing doesn't disguise the reality: Lucas had been planning a coup, offering our territories to historical enemies in exchange for help eliminating Father and me.
"And now that Lucas is gone, they're still pursuing the opportunity," I conclude.
"With more aggression, if anything. They smell blood in the water." Damien's eyes narrow slightly. "Deckie O'Reilly himself has been spotted in the city. First time in five years he's left his stronghold."
This is significant. Deckie O'Reilly, eldest son of the O'Reilly gang, notorious for his brutality and tactical genius. If he's personally overseeing their expansion into northeast, the threat is even greater than I initially assessed.
"What about Father?" I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral. "Has he been briefed?"
Something flickers across Damien's face—irritation, perhaps, or concern. "He's aware of the situation. His instruction was to 'handle it appropriately.'"
Typical Father—vague directives with the implicit expectation of complete success. No guidance, no support, just the looming threat of disappointment should we fail.
"And Gerald?" I press, noting Damien's slight shift in posture at the mention of Father's right-hand man.
"Still firmly in Father's corner," Damien says carefully. "Though, there are…whispers."
"What kind of whispers?"
Damien hesitates, clearly weighing the risk of sharing uncertain information. "Gerald has been meeting with Lucas's old contacts. Private conversations, off the books."
The implication hangs in the air between us. Gerald, who has been like a second father to us all, might be playing both sides—or worse, orchestrating his own power play while we're distracted by external threats.
"Keep eyes on him," I instruct. "Discreetly."
Damien nods, then adds almost reluctantly, "There's one more thing. James is back."
This catches me off guard. James had just left, and he normally tried to keep his distance from our family business. He wanted to go straight after marrying Mary.
"Where is he now?"
"At Father's estate. Arrived this morning from France."
I consider this development, uncertain whether to count it as advantage or complication. James has always been the smartest of us, the strategist. Having him on our side could prove valuable against the O'Reillys. But his loyalty—like everyone's these days—remains a question mark.
"Set up a meeting," I decide. "Neutral ground, tomorrow morning."
"Is that wise? With the O'Reilly situation escalating—"
"We need all hands on deck, Damien. Family first." The irony of invoking this mantra after killing Lucas isn't lost on me, but some principles must stand, even when tested by betrayal.
Damien accepts the instruction with a nod. "What about the girl and her family? Bringing them here paints a target on your back. On all our backs."
The criticism is implicit but clear: my personal attachment to Sasha is complicating an already volatile situation.
"They're under my protection," I say flatly, brooking no argument. "Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me directly."
Damien studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You really care for her."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."
"Enough to risk everything? Our business, our territories, our lives?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "Yes."
He sighs, running a hand over his face in a rare display of fatigue. "Then I hope she's worth it, brother. For all our sakes."
After Damien leaves, I return to the window, watching as Tony's convoy approaches the gate. Two black SUVs, flanked by motorcycle escorts—the full protection detail I ordered. From this distance, I can just make out small figures in the back seat of the second vehicle. Lily and Karen, coming into my world.
Into danger because of me.
The weight of responsibility settles heavier on my shoulders. I'm not just protecting Sasha anymore; I'm responsible for a child, an innocent, completely foreign to the violence that defines my existence. The stakes have never been higher, the margin for error never slimmer.
My phone buzzes with a message from one of my informants: O'Reilly calling meeting of all major players. Tomorrow night. Neutral ground.
Interesting timing. Deckie O'Reilly making his move in the open, declaring his intentions. Either a show of confidence or a strategic error—I'll determine which soon enough.
I text back a simple acknowledgment and pocket my phone as I head downstairs to meet the new arrivals. In the grand foyer, I find Sasha already waiting, anxiety evident in her posture despite her attempt at composure. When she spots me, relief flashes across her face.
"Are they here?" she asks, moving to my side instinctively.
I nod, placing a steadying hand at the small of her back. "Just pulling up now."
We step outside together as the vehicles come to a stop. Tony emerges first, scanning the surroundings with professional vigilance before opening the rear door. A small figure bursts out immediately—Lily, Sasha's nine-year-old sister, her eyes wide as she takes in the imposing estate.
"Sasha!" she cries, spotting her sister and breaking into a run.
Sasha drops to her knees, catching Lily in a fierce embrace. "I've missed you so much," she murmurs into the girl's hair, holding her as if afraid she might disappear.
I watch their reunion with a strange ache in my chest. This is what I'm fighting for now, I realize. Not just territory or power or the Walsh legacy, but this—Sasha's happiness, her family's safety. Somehow, without intention or permission, their wellbeing has become linked to my own.
Karen emerges from the car more hesitantly, her expression wary as she takes in the armed guards and imposing mansion. I can read the questions in her eyes, the fear and suspicion. She's piecing together the reality of who I am, of what Sasha has become entangled with.
I approach her, offering my hand. "Ms. Gillespie. I'm Marco Walsh. Thank you for trusting us with your safety."
She takes my hand reluctantly, her grip tentative. "I don't believe I had much choice in the matter."
Fair enough. I incline my head in acknowledgment of her honesty. "Nevertheless, you and Lily will be well protected here. You have my word."
"Your word," she repeats, something like bitter amusement in her tone. "And what exactly is that worth, Mr. Walsh?"
Before I can respond, Sasha joins us, one arm still around Lily's shoulders. "Karen, please. Marco is helping us."
Karen's eyes dart between us, clearly noting the familiar way Sasha says my name, the comfortable proximity we maintain. "I see," she says, her disapproval evident. "Perhaps someone will eventually explain to me exactly what kind of trouble my brother has gotten us into this time."
"It's complicated," Sasha begins, but I cut in smoothly.
"You must be tired from the journey. Tony will show you to your rooms—we've prepared an entire wing for your comfort and privacy." I signal to Tony, who steps forward obligingly. "Once you've settled in, we can discuss the situation in full."
Karen seems about to object, but a tug from Lily distracts her. "Aunt Karen, look at how big this place is! It's like a castle!"
The childish wonder in Lily's voice softens Karen's expression. "Yes, it is rather…impressive."
"You have your own bathroom, and a TV, and everything," Sasha tells Lily, her smile warm despite the tension. "And wait until you see Buddy—he's missed you so much."
At the mention of the dog, Lily's face lights up. "Buddy's here? Where is he?"
"Probably napping in my room. We'll find him after you're settled, okay?"
As Tony leads Karen and Lily inside, Sasha turns to me, gratitude shining in her eyes. "Thank you," she says softly. "For bringing them here, for keeping them safe."
I brush a strand of hair from her face, allowing myself a moment of tenderness despite the watching eyes of my security team. "They're your family. That makes them mine too now."
She leans into my touch, a subtle acknowledgment of the shift in our relationship. "Karen will have questions. A lot of them."
"She deserves answers," I agree. "But how much to tell her is your decision."
Sasha sighs, conflict evident in her expression. "How do I explain any of this? 'Sorry about the armed guards, Karen, but I've fallen for a mafia boss whose enemies might try to kidnap us'?"
Despite the gravity of the situation, I find myself smiling at her blunt summary. "Maybe not quite like that.”
She shakes her head, but there's a glimmer of humor in her eyes. "This is insane, you know that, right? All of it—you, me, whatever this is between us."
"Completely," I agree, taking her hand and leading her back toward the house. "But then, nothing about us has ever been conventional."
Inside, we find Lily already racing through the grand hallway, Buddy bounding at her heels, having somehow located her within minutes of her arrival. The dog's excited barking echoes through the usually somber house, bringing life to spaces long accustomed to silence and secrets.
Tony approaches, his expression professionally neutral despite the unusual domestic scene unfolding in the heart of Walsh territory. "The east wing is secured, Boss. Additional guards posted at all access points."
"Good. Any updates on our other situation?"
"Target is still at the Shelbourne. No movement since this morning."
Deckie O'Reilly, staying at Dublin's most prestigious hotel—a bold statement in itself. The man isn't bothering to hide his presence, suggesting either arrogance or a level of confidence in his position that concerns me.
"Double the surveillance," I instruct. "I want to know if he so much as orders room service."
Tony nods and withdraws, leaving Sasha and me watching as Lily examines the antique grandfather clock in the foyer. Her childish curiosity a stark contrast to the somber artifacts of Walsh history surrounding her.
"She seems to be taking this well," I observe.
Sasha's expression softens as she watches her sister. "Lily's resilient. Always has been, even after Mom died." She glances at me, hesitation in her eyes. "But this isn't a permanent solution, Marco. She needs stability, normalcy. A home where she doesn't have to walk past armed guards every morning."
The comment stings more than it should, a reminder of how different our worlds are. "What are you saying?"
"I don't know yet," she admits quietly. "I just know that whatever happens between us, Lily's well-being has to come first."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with an incoming call—Father's private line. "I need to take this," I tell Sasha, already moving toward my office. "Will you be alright getting them settled?"
She nods, understanding the dismissal. "Go. We'll be fine."
I answer the call as I climb the stairs. "Father."