Chapter 18
Axl
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, rising swiftly as it is set to this particular vibration for one man only.
“Dad,” I murmur as I leave the others in the bathroom and head for the stairs.
“Knock, knock,” he replies.
“Are you joking?” I hiss and take the stairs quickly, crossing the entrance hall and yanking the door open to see the very distinguished figure of my father standing on the doorstep. “What are you doing here?”
Dad hangs up the phone with a beam that could only be described as gleeful to be dropping in on his only son to do… whatever the hell it is he is here to do. “Can’t I come over and see my son without needing an ulterior motive?”
“No,” I say, giving him the stink eye, but stepping aside. “A bit of notice might’ve been nice.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Marquess Alexander Edward Rhodes IV steps past me and kicks the door shut behind him. “It seems you’ve been having quite a bit of fun this year already. A sniper and an explosion all in one week. How exciting.”
I don’t rise to the bait. “It was handled.”
“So I see.” He walks further into the hall.
His presence here is a move on the chessboard, and I need to figure out his game before he corners my queen.
“The criminal underworld is talking,” he continues, his back to me.
“This alliance of yours has stirred the pot quite effectively. Some are impressed. Others see it as a threat.”
“And which side are you on?”
“The side of my son, of course,” he says, turning back to me. “This blood-binding thing was clever, but not enough to make her a Rhodes.”
“Who said it was?”
“So you intend to do the right thing?”
The penny drops. “And by the right thing, you mean propose to her and marry her in a lavish wedding in the Home Counties?”
He throws me a look that I resist the urge to snicker at. “It doesn’t have to be the Home Counties. In fact, I’d rather it wasn’t. Your mother can be so… be so…”
“Over the top?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“You want me to marry Sorcha Gannon here, in a small ceremony with no fanfare? Can’t say she’d go for it. She is very anti.”
“And that’s fair,” he says. “But legally speaking, I need you to make an honest woman out of her.”
I narrow my eyes and move closer. Something is going down here, and it’s not simply having a claim on Sorcha. That’s already been achieved. This has to do with something else entirely. “Why?”
“Call it estate matters. I need a piece of paper.”
“Estate matters. That involves Sorcha.”
“That involves my son and his wife.”
“You making a will, there, Dad?”
He snorts. “Please. I had a will when I was sixteen. This is about family. Legacy.”
“Something you want to hide, perhaps?”
His eyes flash. I know him too well.
“What is it?” I ask with a sigh. “Why are you so hellbent on making Sorcha a Rhodes by marriage?”
He sighs, a theatrical sound of a man burdened by the foolishness of his offspring, and walks over to the grand staircase, running a hand over the polished oak bannister. “It’s about what Ardal Gannon left behind.”
“I don’t follow. Who is Ardal Gannon?” Damn my father for intriguing me. He knows me as well as I know him.
I notice the movement at the top of the stairs. Cillian and Ciar have joined us. Sorcha is still in the bath or in bed. Probably for the best right now.
Dad glances up and nods briefly before turning his gaze back to me. “Ardal Gannon was the bankroller for the founding of St. Bartholomew’s. It’s a little-known fact. He didn’t want the credit or any part of the construction of this institution.”
“Okay, so that makes Sorcha St. Bart’s royalty? Was Ardal a direct ancestor to Sorcha?”
Dad nods. “He was Oisin’s great-great-great-grandfather.”
“So what does this mean?” Ciar asks, his footfalls heavy as he descends the stairs. “What’s it got to do with Sorcha?”
My father turns, his eyes sharp, all traces of his earlier amusement gone.
“He left a clause. An old pact, tied to the Gannon family charter. The first of his bloodline to legally bind themselves to one of the other founding families—by marriage, Axl, not some pagan ritual in a quad—inherits something of great worth.”
“Which is what?” Cillian asks, following Ciar down the stairs.
Dad turns on his heel and marches across the entrance hall into the study.
He sits in the large, black leather chair, looking like a ruler about to bestow some great wisdom to his followers.
In all honesty, the three of us are riveted.
History is my passion, and somewhere along the line, this passed by me.
Ardal Gannon truly didn’t want anyone to know he bankrolled this endeavour, but somehow, Dad knows, and probably Grandad, etcetera.
“What is this thing of great worth?” I ask.
“Ardal’s estate. The hidden one.”
I blink. “Hidden estate? As in hidden from the Gannons?”
“From the legitimate line, yes,” my father confirms, steepling his fingers.
“Ardal Gannon was a pragmatist. He knew his descendants were likely to squander his fortune on feuds and petty wars. He tied the bulk of it to this place, to this pact. A way to ensure his legacy wasn’t just one of bloodshed, but of power brokering. The ultimate dowry, if you will.”
“So, what you’re saying,” Ciar cuts in, “is that Sorcha is now the key to a fucking kingdom she didn’t even know existed.”
“Precisely,” my father says, looking pleased as punch. He is enjoying this way too much. “And every family with a shred of legacy attached to this place is coming for her, and then some.”
This is a power grab of epic proportions.
A hidden empire, waiting for its queen. My father didn’t come here to warn us.
He came to give us the ammunition for a coronation.
A wedding ring isn’t a chain. It’s a fucking crown.
I almost laugh at the sheer, beautiful presumptuousness of it all.
“So, the blood binding just put her on the throne,” I say.
“And a marriage puts the crown on her head.”
“The blood binding gave you time. No one will touch her, but that doesn’t mean any of you are safe.”
“So how come this is now suddenly coming to light?” I ask. “I’ve researched this place for years, and this has never come up.”
“It was never made public record. It was kept between the founding members.”
“And no one ever managed to seal the deal?” I ask sceptically. “It sounds a bit far-fetched if this inheritance is so great.”
Dad smiles, and it’s not the amused kind. It’s the kind that he gives before he carves up traitors and keeps their livers for souvenirs. A hand-me-down, I’ll gladly wear.
I shake my head and snort. “Oh, okay. Our family had the others killed before they could do anything about it, right? Before they could pass down this information or wed a Gannon girl. Our family silenced them.”
“Correct,” Dad says, reaching into his inside jacket pocket. He pulls out a stack of yellowing papers tied with a red ribbon and wrapped in protective plastic. “Five families. Five pacts. One left standing.”
Ciar and Cillian exchange a glance before they both turn their gazes to me.
“You are diabolical,” I mutter.
Dad shrugs. “Wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with it. I’m merely a messenger.”
“Why not go after it yourself?”
“I didn’t have the opportunity. Gannon females are rare. Those who make it are protected. Oisin’s little dalliance with Bridie Mullen was a well-kept secret. Until now.”
“Jesus,” I mutter and pour myself a large whiskey. I don’t bother offering one to anyone else. Let them get their own fucking drinks. I need a minute to process how unbelievably machiavellian my family is.
I down the whiskey in one go, the burn a welcome anchor in the spinning chaos of what he’s just revealed. My family didn’t just play the game; they fucking invented it, then killed all the other players so only they knew the rules. It’s monstrous. It’s beautiful.
“A well-kept secret that came out and had everyone scrambling for her, only they didn’t know who they were fighting or what they were really fighting for,” I mutter.
“Precisely,” Dad says. “Never play against a Rhodes. You won’t win.”
“The family motto. So, they’re fighting for a name, but we know the prize is so much bigger.”
“How big is bigger?” Cillian asks.
“Millions,” Dad says. “Tens of millions, even.”
“And?” I press. “Money isn’t everything when you’ve already got a shit ton of it.”
“Isn’t that the truth? But your question has no answer. No one knows.”
“So how the fuck are we supposed to protect this mysterious dowry if we don’t even know what it is?” Ciar asks a rather damn good question.
“The executor will let you know.”
“Executor?” I frown. “Who is that?”
Dad shrugs. “No one knows. Appointed by Ardal and passed down by blood in a pact of their own making. Paid handsomely to never reveal or be revealed.”
“And someone actually stuck to that? For all these centuries?” Ciar snorts in amusement. “Christ. Some people.”
“Some people have honour,” Dad says with a sly smile. “The rest of us are simply thieves.”
“And we have no idea who this is? Not even an inkling?” I ask.
Dad shakes his head. “There have been rumours, of course, but all of them quashed. There is literally no one who knows except them.”
“And they are going to magically pop up as soon as Sorcha says ‘I do’?”
“You can bet your last penny that they’re watching her and have been since this secret leaked, ready to make their move if needs be.”
“This sounds so far-fetched,” Cillian mutters. “How do we know it’s even true?”
Dad shoves the papers across the desk. “See for yourself. Although I would advise against getting anyone to verify it outside of this room.”
Cillian glares at the papers but doesn’t pick them up. He knows, we all know, my dad wouldn’t be here spinning us a massive yarn unless he has facts, upon facts, upon facts.
The question is, what the fuck do we do now? What do we do with these facts?