Chapter 12 Ronan
RONAN
My phone goes off at four in the morning, jolting me from the first real sleep I've had in days. Finn's voice is tense and urgent, waking me fully within the first few words he says.
"We have a problem, boss."
I'm already sitting up, the covers thrown aside as I rub one hand over my face. "What is it?”
“There’s a rumor De Luca is planning to make a move on the estate. Try to pinch Leila and take her back. One of our men spotted someone taking photos of the garden. He might have snuck in through the woods. We chased him, but he got away. Word is, De Luca is getting together a team for an attack.”
I’m already halfway dressed before he finishes speaking. "Double the perimeter security. I want regular patrols and additional ones in the woods and the roads leading here. No one gets within five miles of this house without my knowing about it."
"Already done. But boss, there's more. Sorokov wants a meeting. Today."
Ilya Sorokov is the pakhan of the Boston Bratva. Our alliance with the Russians has always been tenuous, but it exists. Sorokov is no great friend of my father’s or mine, but he recognizes that we’re stronger together, especially since the Italians hate us both.
But he also rarely wants to talk outside of specific business deals. If Sorokov is calling for a meeting now, it means the pressure is mounting.
“Set it up. I assume he’s called my father as well?”
“Yes.” Finn pauses. "He's not going to like flying up from Miami in December."
“You’re not wrong about that.” I let out a heavy breath. “Especially when he was just here for Siobhan’s funeral.”
My father’s irritation is one more thing I don’t need right now, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
Instead, I get up, focusing on what’s ahead of me today—a meeting I’m not prepared for and a situation that I’m going into mostly blind.
I’m sure Rocco De Luca is going to be the topic of conversation, but I have no idea what Ilya will have to say about it all.
Two hours later, I’m sitting across from Ilya Sorokov in the back room of one of his restaurants.
He’s flanked by four men at the back of the room, all thick, heavily muscled Russians who could snap me like a twig.
My father is sitting next to me, his jaw tight, and I feel every muscle in my body wound tight with anxiety.
Ilya is my age, the pakhan for two years now, since his father’s death.
He’s coldly handsome, with light blond hair and ice blue eyes, his demeanor hard and unflappable.
He surveys me without a shred of emotion on his face, although there’s a hint of disapproval in his eyes.
It’s a reaction I’m seeing more often lately than I’d like.
I’ve worked tirelessly since I was old enough to begin to learn from my father, to earn my place.
I’ve striven all my life to be worthy of what I’ve inherited.
To be everything his heir should be. I’ve sacrificed and obeyed, over and over again.
And it feels like, despite all of it, it’s still not enough.
"Ronan," Sorokov says, his accent clear despite being raised here in Boston. "You look like shit."
I don’t let my expression change. "It's been a long week."
"I can imagine. This business with De Luca is becoming a problem for all of us." Sorokov leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. "The Italians are putting pressure on my operations, thinking we will side with you in this… disagreement."
“They killed my wife and child.” My jaw tightens. “We have an alliance, Sorokov. I assumed you would.”
Ilya’s expression hardens at my intentional use of his last name. “If it were only about the murder of your family, O’Malley, of course, I would. The murder of a wife and child is unconscionable. A personal attack instead of business. He escalated too quickly. But it’s not only that, is it?”
I feel my father turn toward me as I tense. “What is he talking about, Ronan?”
I breathe out slowly. “This is about De Luca’s attack on my family. Nothing more.”
“But that’s not true.” Ilya’s eyes are cold. “I hear you have something that belongs to them."
“Ronan.” My father bites out my name, and Ilya raises his brows.
“Hmm. So you’ve kept it a secret. Interesting.”
I turn to look at my father, whose expression is as icy as the Russian’s. “There was a girl at the warehouse,” I say briefly. “Caged. I freed her and gave her my protection.” I look at Ilya. “That’s different. Nothing was stolen from a man who takes what shouldn’t be his.”
"Is it?" Ilya tilts his head. "From what we hear, this girl is nothing to you. Just some debtor who got caught in crossfire."
My father's hand tightens almost imperceptibly on his glass of vodka. I can feel his anger radiating from him like heat.
"What she is to me isn't your concern," I say carefully.
"But it is my concern when your personal attachments threaten my business.
" Sorokov leans forward. "De Luca has offered to restore our old arrangements if I convince you to return the girl to him. He doesn’t ask that I promise not to side with you in any other conflict.
Only that I do not side with you in a conflict which involves his stolen goods. "
"Your old arrangements." I let the contempt show in my voice. "You know he trafficks women? Sells them overseas? Eighteen- nineteen-year-old girls?”
"Business is business, Ronan. I don’t involve myself in those dealings. But we have business, all the same."
"No." I stand, my chair scraping against the floor. "Some things aren't business. And I won't give a woman back to a man who intends to sell her to the filth that he does business with."
Ilya’s expression is still cold, impassive. "Even if it means war?"
"Yes." I meet Sorokov's pale stare directly. "I’m not going to make a peace offering to a man who killed my wife and child. I’m not going to give a fucking inch. He doesn’t deserve shit from me, and he never should have had her. He can have handed over as much money as he wants for her, that doesn’t make her his. ”
The room goes dead quiet. Sorokov's expression doesn't change, but I can see the calculation in his eyes. He's weighing the costs, trying to decide if our alliance is worth more than De Luca's money.
"You are making this very difficult for me, old friend," he says finally.
"Then don't make it difficult for yourself. We’re allies. On your own, you’re weaker, as are we. Our relationship is mutual power. Don’t change that over a few business dealings with a man who will be dead soon.”
Sorokov pauses for a long moment. “Then this needs to be resolved before it turns into war,” he says harshly.
“If this spills over into my territory, if my people are hurt because of your… attachment to this girl, our relationship will change. I will not stand by your decision to keep her. It is my opinion that you should give her back.”
“Heard and understood,” my father interrupts. “I will talk with my son.”
Ilya’s mouth twitches. “Good.”
As we leave the building, my father striding just ahead of me, I can feel the storm building in him, the way it used to when I was a boy and had disappointed him in some spectacular fashion.
He waits to speak until we’re in the car, headed home. Then he turns to me, his expression stormy. "A girl, Ronan?" His voice is flat and hard. "You're risking everything we've built for a girl? Some nobody who got herself into trouble?"
"She's under my protection."
Padraigh looks at me like I’m a stranger instead of his son. “She’s a liability. A debtor? Someone Rocco bought? Christ, son, I don’t agree with his business either, but that doesn’t mean we involve ourselves in it.” He pauses. “How old is she? Young, I’d guess.”
"Her age is irrelevant."
"Is it?" My father’s jaw tightens. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like my son is making the same mistakes he made a few weeks ago. Ignoring his responsibilities to satisfy his own feelings.” He snorts contemptuously. “We don’t have feelings, Ronan. We don’t follow our desires. We do what is necessary. We do our duty. This girl should have been left where you found her.”
I feel my teeth grit together. "This is nothing like that."
"Isn't it? You neglected your wife, ignored the signs that she was unhappy, let her wander around unprotected until De Luca's men put her in the ground. And now you're obsessing over another woman who's going to get herself killed because you can't think straight."
The words are designed to wound, and they succeed. My father has always known exactly where to strike to cause maximum damage.
I want to say that Siobhan’s death wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t entirely. But I had a hand in it. My father is right—my neglect contributed to what happened.
He can’t understand how that makes me feel. How it makes me want to protect Leila, to do right by her this time. How much I’ve struggled to keep a rein on my desires for precisely that reason.
Padraigh continues speaking, his words cutting. “You didn't notice your own wife was having an affair. Didn't notice she was sneaking around, taking risks, putting herself in danger. You failed as a husband, Ronan. Don't fail as a leader, too."
I want to argue, want to defend myself, but the words stick in my throat. "This is different," I say finally.
"How?"
I let out a heavy breath. "Because I'm not going to make the same mistakes."
Padraigh snorts. "Then prove it. Get rid of the girl. Give her back to Rocco. Let him think you’ve conceded so you can make your plans to end him on your own terms. She’s nothing. Use her as a chess piece instead of an albatross around your neck.”
I shake my head. "I can't do that."
"Can't or won't?"
I meet his eyes, seeing the disappointment there, the frustration of a father who expected better from his eldest son. "Won't."
Padraigh lets out a heavy sigh. “I expect better from you. I expect you to think this over, Ronan. To come to a better decision. To put your family—this family—ahead of everything else, as it should be.”