Chapter 30
Sorcha
Idon’t look back at the bodies. They’re just punctuation marks at the end of Kavanagh’s pathetic story. My story is just beginning.
The students part for us, most of them are more interested in the destruction than they are in fearing us. They know the score.
I stride towards the main building. Ciar, Cillian, and Axl are a solid wall of menace behind me. My men. My board. My fucking army. The power of it is a heady rush. This is what it feels like to have a family.
We reach the registrar’s office. The door is closed, a flimsy barrier against the new world order I’m about to unleash.
I don’t knock. I shove it open. A balding man in a tweed jacket looks up from his desk, his glasses perched on the end of his nose.
He opens his mouth, probably to ask what the hell I think I’m doing.
“You’re fired,” I say before he can get a word out.
His mouth snaps shut. His face goes from indignant to pale in a heartbeat.
“Get your shit and get out,” I continue, my voice flat, emotionless. “St. Bart’s just got a new owner. The old way is the wrong way.”
He scrambles out of his chair, grabbing his coat, not daring to meet my eyes.
“You can’t fire everyone,” Axl says. “We need people here. We can’t do everything.”
I sigh. “I know. I was making a point. Hey! You! Come back!”
The registrar freezes halfway down the hall, one arm already in his jacket. His face is a comical mask of confusion and terror. He looks like a startled rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.
“Sit,” I command, gesturing to the chair he just vacated.
He sits. So quickly, he almost misses the seat. His eyes dart between me and the three solid walls of muscle and death standing behind me. He’s sweating.
“Calm down,” I say. “We aren’t going to kill you. We need you.”
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He nods and tries to look relaxed.
“Good. Now, I want a list of every staff member, their position, and who they report to. I also want a list of every student, their family affiliation, and any extracurricular activities they might be involved in.”
He leans over and grabs a massive folder filled neatly with paper and holds it out to me.
I blink at it as Axl snickers and takes it.
“I’m very good at my job,” the registrar says.
“Aren’t you just,” I say with a smile and check his name plaque. “Arthur Collins. Do you know who paid my tuition fees?”
He nods, scribbling a note on a pad and handing it to me.
This guy is good.
I glance at the name and with a blank expression, shove it into my bra.
“Second, arrange an all-student assembly in the great hall. One hour.”
“What’s the topic?” he asks, his pen poised.
“A change in management,” I say.
He nods and gets to work.
“Oh, and get someone to clean up the quad,” I add.
“Already on it,” he murmurs and gestures to the CCTV feed on his desk.
“You are impressive, Arthur.”
“That’s why I have this job,” he says with a smile.
Turning from him, we walk back towards the Vice-Chancellor’s office, the heavy folder of student files tucked under Axl’s arm. The adrenaline from the shootout is fading, replaced by the cold, hard reality of what I’ve just done. I own a fucking college. I’m responsible for this mess.
“What are you going to say to them?” Ciar asks, his voice a low rumble beside me.
“I’m going to tell them the truth,” I say, my gaze fixed on the double doors of the VC’s office. “That this place is my legacy and they can like it or let the door hit their arses on the way out.”
“Are we going in?” Axl asks as we just stand there, staring at the door with Emma tapping away at her desk, not slowing down for even a second.
“I don’t want this,” I say, suddenly. “This isn’t my responsibility, and I don’t want it.”
Axl frowns. “St. Bart’s or the VC job.”
“The VC job. Who the fuck has time for that? And who the fuck cares? Seriously? Not me.”
“So who do we give it to?”
I shrug, shaking my head. “Fucked if I know. Emma? Can you open this up for appointment?”
She stops typing and looks at me. “Sure. Any specific requirements?”
“Just that they know who I am and what my guys will do to them if they cross me.”
Emma gives a single, decisive nod, her fingers already flying across the keyboard. “Consider it done. I’ll have a list for you in a couple of days.”
“Good,” I say, feeling a weight lift. I’ll own this place, have my name on it, even appoint myself as Chancellor who does fuck all but swan around, but VC is not what I signed up for. Hell, I didn’t sign up for any of this, but least of all a job I don’t know how to do and don’t want.
“The Great Hall,” Axl prompts, gesturing down the corridor. “Your adoring public awaits.”
I snort. “Adoring is a strong word.”
“They will be,” Ciar says, his hand a warm, solid presence on my lower back as we walk. “Or they’ll be gone.”
The Great Hall is a cavern of stone and history, packed with the future criminals and power brokers of the world. A sea of curious, wary faces turns towards us as we enter. The silence is absolute. I walk to the front, my guys fanning out behind me, a fucking wall of death and designer clothes.
Axl sorts me out a microphone, and I gulp before I start talking. “My name is Sorcha Gannon-Rhodes. As of this morning, I own this college. My rules are simple. Don’t fuck with me, don’t fuck with my people, and don’t be a fucking liability. Any questions?”
No one moves. No one speaks.
“Well, that was easy. Crack on.”
The students shrug and move out, talking and pulling out their phones to doom scroll.
Just another normal day at St. Bartholomew’s.
“Oh, hang on!” I shout into the microphone, practically deafening everyone. “The cross country is in two days. We are going to kick some serious arse, right?”
The students let out whoops and battle cries, and I smile.
I drop the microphone onto the lectern with a clatter that echoes in the emptying hall.
The roar of the students fades as they spill back out into the quad, leaving a strange, buzzing silence in their wake.
My hands are steady, but there’s a tremor deep inside me, a combination of adrenaline and the sheer, terrifying weight of what I’ve just done.
“I need to train,” I murmur. “I have two days to get fit enough to run that fucking route and not pass out.” I turn to look at the guys. “Ciar, you’re out. Cillian. Let’s go.”
Cillian gives a single, sharp nod, his expression unreadable as ever. He’s all brutal efficiency, ready to switch from killer to personal trainer without missing a beat.
“Don’t fucking break her,” Ciar growls from behind us, and I can hear the frustration in his voice, the raw anger of being sidelined.
“Jealous?” Axl’s voice is pure, goading silk.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to see the look on Ciar’s face. I can feel his glare burning into my back. “He’s not jealous,” I say, my voice carrying back into the hall. “He’s worried I’ll beat his time.”
A low chuckle from Axl is the only answer.
Cillian and I walk out of the Great Hall and into the weak afternoon sun. The bodies are gone, the blood washed away. The quad looks almost peaceful, if you ignore the lingering scent of bleach.
“Arthur Collins is an asset,” I say with an approving nod. “I’m surprised the Garda didn’t turn up.”
“They are probably sick of the sight of this place, and probably also sick of the sight of Alex Rhodes.”
I snort as he is probably right. It pays to have friends, no family, in high places. “Let’s get changed and then we’ll run the course.”
He nods, and we head off to the changing rooms, where it seems most of the student body has also appeared. Matron Ironpants, whose name tag actually says Maggie Collins on it, hands me a kit with a smirk. I guess her husband, good old Arthur, has filled her in already.
The changing room is a cacophony of slamming lockers and nervous chatter. I strip off my jeans and jacket, ignoring the sideways glances.
When I step back out into the cool air, Cillian is waiting for me, already changed, looking like a fucking machine built for endurance.
Axl is with him, ready to run. Cillian doesn’t speak, just assesses me with that unnervingly calm gaze of his.
Ciar is nearby, a study in bored menace, his eyes locked on me with pride and pure, undiluted frustration at being benched.
I give him a small, almost imperceptible nod. I’m running for him, too.
“Ready?” Cillian asks. His voice is a low rumble, no room for excuses.
“Born ready,” I shoot back, stretching my legs. This isn’t just a run. It’s a statement.
He turns and starts a slow jog towards the beginning of the trail that snakes through the woods bordering the campus. I fall into step beside him, our feet hitting the grassy path in a steady rhythm with Axl right behind.
The initial pace is steady, a rhythm that eats up the ground.
The air is cool in my lungs, a clean burn that feels like a purge.
We leave the manicured lawns behind, plunging into the woods.
The path narrows, a winding dirt track flanked by ancient, moss-covered trees.
Their branches knit together overhead, dappling the ground in shifting patterns of light and shadow.
Cillian runs with an effortless, metronomic grace. He doesn’t speak, just sets a pace, a silent challenge for me to keep up. Axl is a different kind of runner, looser, more relaxed, but just as capable.
My muscles burn, a familiar ache that I push through.
This is what I know. Pain. Endurance. Pushing my body to its absolute limit because giving up isn’t an option.
It never has been. Every step is a fuck you to my Mum, to her loser boyfriends, to Oisin, to Kavanagh, to Brady, to every bastard who ever thought I was just some gutter rat they could kick aside.
I own this ground now. I own every fucking tree and every blade of grass.
I will not be beaten on my own turf. The thought fuels me, a fresh surge of adrenaline that makes me push harder, faster.
The burn in my calves intensifies, a familiar enemy I’ve learned to ignore.
I grit my teeth and push on, my breath coming in ragged pants that tear at my throat.
Cillian glances over, his expression unreadable as ever, but I see a flicker of something in his blue eyes.
Respect. Maybe. He picks up the pace, a silent dare.
I match him, stride for stride, my trainers pounding a defiant rhythm against the packed earth.
The pain sharpens my focus. This is real.
The ground beneath my feet, the ache in my lungs, the solid presence of two of my guys running beside me.
We break out of the woods and onto the open fields that mark the final stretch.
The wind hits me, a cold slap to my sweaty face.
I can see the college in the distance, my college, a fortress of stone and secrets that is now mine to command.
I lengthen my stride, pulling ahead of Cillian in a final, defiant burst of speed.
I’m not just running a race. I’m running my kingdom. And I will not fucking lose.