2. Lorcan
Lorcan
Three heads turn as I enter my eldest brother’s home office.
Cillian's seated behind his desk. Declan is against the wall, arms folded. Ronan sits in a chair with his ankle on his knee.
All wear serious expressions.
“We’ve been waiting,” Cillian says as I drop into the remaining chair.
I don’t know why they couldn’t start without me. It’s not like they need me—ever.
I flash him my best grin. "Got caught up with baby Sean downstairs. Your son’s got a grip like a vice. Future enforcer material, Cill."
Cillian’s expression softens a bit. “He’s only three weeks old."
"Never too early to start training." I throw punches at the air comically, but their faces remain somber.
“Okay,” I drop into the empty seat. “Who died?"
"No one. Yet." Cillian taps the desk with his middle finger. A nervous tic. "We have a situation.”
I spread my hands. "Don't we always?"
"This one's federal."
That gets my attention. I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "How bad?"
"Bad enough that if we don't get ahead of it, some of us spend the back half of our lives in a federal cell."
Cillian's finger taps the desk a few more times before he continues. “There's a former FBI agent. Kevin Shaughnessy. Currently residing in Marion Federal. He was on the Chicago organized crime task force for twelve years before he went down for corruption."
"Sounds like a gem,” I say.
"He recruited most of the informant network that's feeding the current federal case against us. He knows names. Details.”
I whistle low. "And let me guess—he wants to make a deal."
"He's willing to give us everything he knows." Ronan shifts in his chair. "It would give us ammo to effectively gut their case."
"That's..." I pause. "That's huge."
"It is," Cillian agrees.
"He wants something in return.” Declan’s voice is monotone, but I catch the edge underneath.
“How much?”
Cillian glances at Declan, then Ronan. Some silent communication passes between them—the kind that comes from years of running things together, making the decisions that matter.
“We’re not talking dollars.” Cillian's nose wrinkles slightly, like the words he’s about to say smell bad. "He has a daughter. He wants her to marry an O’Rourke. That's his price. His daughter's hand, and we get to cover our asses.”
Marry an O’Rourke. My jaw drops now, because my brothers, the only other O’Rourkes, are already married.
“Don’t suppose any of you three will be getting a divorce any time soon?” I joke.
No one laughs.
The room goes very still as Cillian’s eyes lock with mine. "This isn't an order, Lorcan. It's a choice."
We all know it's not. Not really.
I think about Ma's parade of "suitable matches" over the years. A Senator's daughter, a real estate heiress, daughter of a North Shore investment banker—all with the right last names and the right pedigrees.
I’ve always wanted a family—the kind my brothers are building with their wives. Someday.
I just didn't think it would start like this.
"What's her name?" I ask.
"Maeve." Ronan sits up straighter. "Maeve Shaughnessy. She’s nineteen."
Nineteen. Christ.
Cillian's expression doesn't change. "We don't know much about her except she's clean—no record.”
The silence settles again. Heavier this time.
They're waiting for my answer.
According to Cillain, I could say no.
I won’t.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I’ll do it.”
Declan unfolds his arms. "You sure?"
I know what he's really asking: do you understand what you're getting into?
No. Not really. But I know what I am to this family—the youngest brother who’s never taken seriously.
While the three of them operate an entire criminal organization, I’m tasked with running the family pub.
It’s about time for me to contribute to the business in a way that matters. It’s about time I’m asked.
“I've been told," I spread my hands wide and grin, "I'm extremely marriageable."
Again, nobody laughs.
"When's the wedding?" I ask.
Relief flashes across Cillian's face, before the mask slides back into place. "Saturday."
"Well then." I stand and maintain my signature easy grin. “You three better throw me a hell of a bachelor party tonight.”
"Lorcan," Cillian calls as I head for the door.
I turn back.
"Thank you."
I give him a two-finger salute on the way out.
But as I step into the hallway and close the door behind me, what I just agreed to hits hard.
I’m about to become a married man—a husband to a nineteen-year-old daughter of a disgraced Fed.
No prob. I’ve got this under control.
I head back to the pub, already mentally rearranging my week.
How hard can one small wife be?