CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Marco
THE EAST WING is still smoldering, thick black smoke curling into the pale morning sky. The immaculate grounds are now a battlefield—bullet casings scattered across blood-stained grass, vehicles reduced to burning husks, bodies covered with tarps, awaiting discreet removal.
I stand on the terrace, surveying the damage. Seven of my men dead. Twelve wounded, three critically. The O'Reillys fared worse—twenty-one confirmed casualties, including Patrick O'Reilly's younger brother Kevin, a significant blow to their command structure.
Not a decisive victory, but enough to buy us breathing room. Time to regroup. To plan our counterattack.
"Clean-up crews are twenty minutes out," Tony reports, joining me at the railing. His face is streaked with soot, a hastily bandaged cut above his eye still seeping blood. "Medical team's finishing with the last of our wounded. Damien's men are sweeping the perimeter, making sure none of O'Reilly's people have lingered behind."
I nod, acknowledging the update without shifting my gaze from the destruction below. "And our guests?"
"The Gillespies are settled in the west wing, as you instructed. The girl—Lily—finally fell asleep about an hour ago. Ms. Gillespie and Sasha are with her."
"Good," I murmur, relief mixing with the bone-deep exhaustion I've been fighting since the attack began. "Double the security on that section of the house. The O'Reillys may have retreated, but they're not defeated."
Tony hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. "Some of the men are asking questions about Gerald, and about what happened with Michael. They need to know who to trust."
He's right, of course. In our world, uncertainty breeds fear, and fear leads to mistakes we can't afford right now. My men deserve to know why blood was spilled on our own ground, why trusted lieutenants suddenly became enemies.
"Call a meeting," I decide. "Everyone who's not on essential security duty. One hour in the dining room."
Tony nods and starts to leave, but I stop him with a question that's been gnawing at me since the attack began: "Any word from my father?"
His expression tells me everything before he speaks. "Nothing, Boss. We've tried all the usual channels. The house in Wicklow is empty—staff gone, security disappeared. It's like he knew this was coming and cleared out ahead of time."
The confirmation lands like a physical blow, though I've been bracing for it since Michael's betrayal. My own father, complicit in an attack that nearly killed me, killed Sasha, killed Lily. The family bond I've spent my entire life defending has been shattered beyond repair.
"Keep trying," I instruct, masking the pain beneath professional detachment. "And put resources into locating Gerald. He's the key to understanding how deep this betrayal goes."
After Tony leaves, I remain on the terrace, allowing myself a rare moment of unguarded reflection. The Walsh estate—my home since childhood, the symbolic seat of our family's power—now bears the scars of civil war. Brother against brother. Father against son. The biblical parallels aren't lost on me, though I find little comfort in ancient precedents for familial betrayal.
A sound behind me breaks my reverie—soft footsteps approaching with deliberate care. I don't need to turn to know it's Sasha. Her presence registers on some primal level, a certainty beyond rational explanation.
"You should be resting," she says, coming to stand beside me at the railing. The morning light catches in her hair, gleaming against the dark strands despite the ash and smoke clinging to them.
"So should you," I counter, taking in her exhausted features, the shadows beneath her eyes.
"I tried. Couldn't shut my brain off." She gestures toward the damaged grounds. "It's worse in the daylight, isn't it?"
"More visible," I agree. "Not worse."
She nods. The true damage occurred last night—the deaths, the betrayals, the breaking of bonds once thought unbreakable. Daylight merely illuminates the aftermath.
"My father knew the attack was coming, his house in Wicklow is empty. He helped orchestrate this."
Sasha slips her hand into mine, a simple gesture of connection that somehow steadies me more than anything else could. "I'm sorry, Marco."
"Don't be. Family is complicated." The understatement almost makes me laugh, the gallows humor of a man who has lost everything he once thought defined him. "How's Lily?"
"Finally sleeping. Karen, too." She leans against my shoulder, fatigue evident in the way she allows me to support her weight. "Lily keeps asking when we can help clean up 'Marco's castle.' I think she sees this whole thing as some kind of adventure story."
"The resilience of children," I observe, oddly comforted by Lily's perspective. "Unscarred by context, undamaged by implications."
"For now," Sasha agrees, a shadow crossing her face. "But she can't stay in this environment long-term, Marco. Neither can Karen. Once things stabilize, we need to find them somewhere safe, away from all this."
"I'll make arrangements," I promise. "Once we've dealt with this, we'll find them somewhere secure. With proper security, of course."
She squeezes my hand in silent gratitude.
“I have a meeting soon with my men.”
"You need to clean up before it," she says.
The mundane concern almost makes me smile despite everything. "Is that your professional opinion?"
"It is," she confirms, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Come on. I'll help you."
I allow her to lead me inside through the undamaged portions of the house to our temporary quarters in the west wing.
The domestic intimacy of her drawing a bath, helping me out of clothes stiff with dried blood and smoke, feels surreal against the backdrop of last night's violence.
I can’t stop the erection that grows at her closeness. The room fills with steam, as the bath runs.
As I sink into the steaming water, but not before I catch Sasha glancing at my cock, I smirk but groan as my muscles protesting every movement, Sasha kneels beside the tub and carefully cleans the cut on my face. Her touch is gentle but firm.
"This will need stitches," she murmurs, examining the wound with clinical detachment.
"Later," I dismiss. "It can wait."
Sasha continues to asses my wounds, my side and as her hands dip under the water, I spring out and grip her wrists.
“Join me now, or I’ll drag you in for teasing me,” I growl.
She laughs and it makes my cock twitch. “I’m not teasing; I’m trying to see your bruising.”
“So, you didn’t glance at my erection?” I ask.
Her face heats. “It’s hard not to notice.” She pulls her wrists out of my grasp and stands, stripping off before getting into the bath.
The water ripples gently around us, silky and heated, wrapping around our bodies as I settle back against the cool porcelain edge of the bathtub. Sasha nestles perfectly between my legs, her smooth back pressing firmly against my chest, her head tilting to rest lightly against my shoulder, exposing the elegant length of her neck.
My hands move with deliberate slowness over her slender shoulders, fingertips tracing the delicate curve of her collarbone. I let them wander lower, savoring the softness and warmth of her skin until they gently cup the fullness of her breasts. Her breath catches audibly when my thumbs sweep across her nipples, teasing and coaxing them into hardened, sensitive peaks. Sasha’s body responds instantly, arching into my touch, her hips moving subtly, restlessly beneath the surface, heightening the friction against my swelling erection.
"Marco," she whispers breathily, her voice low and throaty.
I respond by pressing my lips hungrily to her throat, tasting her skin, warm and slightly salty from the steam. My tongue traces delicate patterns along her pulse, feeling its rapid beat quicken beneath my caress. She moans softly, the sound vibrating through me, igniting a primal need. One hand slips slowly downward, skimming the gentle curve of her abdomen, fingertips trailing lower still until they brush against the silky folds between her parted thighs.
Her thighs widen instinctively, inviting me closer as water sloshes around us. My fingers explore the slick heat of her entrance, teasing the sensitive flesh, circling her swollen clit with agonizing patience. Sasha’s hips shift urgently, seeking more direct contact, craving deeper pleasure.
"Please," she gasps, her voice desperate, raw with need. She tilts her head further back, exposing more of her delicate neck, a silent plea for my lips.
"Tell me exactly what you want," I murmur, my voice thick with lust as I nip at her earlobe, savoring the small shudder that ripples through her.
"I want you inside me," she pleads breathlessly, her voice quivering with desire, making every nerve in my body flare with heat.
I grip her hips firmly, guiding her upward and positioning her above my aching length. The head of my cock nudges against her slick entrance, teasing her. Sasha, impatient with need, pushes down slowly, enveloping me inch by torturous inch in her tight pussy. A deep groan rumbles in my chest as she fully takes me, encasing me in the perfect warmth of her body.
We move slowly at first, savoring each deep thrust, the rhythm leisurely yet incredibly intense. The water enhances each sensation, slicking our bodies and amplifying every subtle shift. My hands roam freely over her curves, gripping, squeezing, exploring, memorizing every inch of her beautiful form as she rides me with increasing urgency. Her breath comes in quick, uneven pants, mingling with the sound of the gently splashing water, echoing around the tiled room.
Water spills over the edge of the tub as Sasha’s hips rock faster, grinding her body desperately against mine, her inner walls tightening deliciously around me with each frantic motion. I bury my face in her shoulder, my teeth grazing her skin, barely holding onto control as her cries grow louder and more frantic.
"Marco, I'm close," she cries, her voice tight with pleasure, fingers gripping my thighs, nails biting into my skin.
I swiftly move my hand back to her clit, pressing and circling insistently, matching the rhythm of her movements. Her body stiffens suddenly, every muscle tightening as her climax crashes over her in waves. She cries out sharply, her muscles spasming around me, pulling me over the edge with her. My thrusts deepen, desperate and uncontrolled as I spill inside her with a guttural groan, my body trembling from the overwhelming force of my release.
We remain entwined in silence for several long moments, bodies pressed tightly together, chests heaving. Soft kisses trail lazily along her shoulder and neck as I hold her close.
"You could have died last night," she says suddenly.
"But I didn't," I remind her, covering her hands with mine. "We survived, Sasha. All of us."
She tilts her head back so I can see her. “They won't just give up."
"No," I agree, seeing no point in false reassurances. "They won't, which is why we need to be proactive rather than reactive. Take the fight to them before they can regroup."
She nods, lying against me, and I take this brief moment to have time with her before I have to go again.